Clay no longer looks strange sitting beside me. Inch by inch, I’m letting go of my old life.
Morgan’s life isn’t a good fit either, so I’m in this weird ’tween place, not hers, not mine, either. These thoughts preoccupy me when I pull up outside the Claymore house. The lights are off in the front but when I pull around back, I see that Nathan’s in the kitchen.
“He better be sober,” Clay mutters.
“I’ll let you check on him.” I didn’t intend to stick around, but Clay pauses with his hand on the door.
He turns to me with a searching look. “It’s not that late even for a school night. You really have to take off right now?”
“Maybe not,” I say.
“I’ll get drinks and meet you on the porch.”
I can read between the lines. Going to the kitchen is an excuse to make sure Nathan’s okay. Then he can join me on the swing. Since that was my spot with Nathan, my misgivings increase. Yet I don’t have the heart to refuse. Clay is gentler than I expected, despite a lifetime of being kicked around.
Ears straining for an argument, I perch on the porch swing; a creak and sway coaxes me to sit back. In five minutes he’s back with two glasses of water. Since I didn’t hear any raised voices, I figure Nathan isn’t drinking. That’s a step in the right direction.
To my surprise Clay takes my hands and holds them toward the light. “Are you looking for something?” I wonder aloud.
“Blisters. You aren’t used to hard labor.”
He’s right; I wince when he runs his fingers over the tender, puffy skin. That didn’t even occur to me. But he smiles as he massages my hands, smoothing his thumbs back and forth. By the time he wraps his arm around me, I’m too relaxed to react.
“This is nice.”
“Better since I replaced the chains.”
Come to think of it, that’s right; the swing isn’t squeaking as much as it did, and no rusty flecks are raining down on us. I remember threatening Nathan when I got orange smears all over one of my favorite T-shirts. But as Morgan I wouldn’t know the difference.
I’m about to compliment his handiwork, however, when Clay shifts, drawing me across his leg, and suddenly he’s all around me, arms about my shoulders, my back to his chest. The melting warmth contrasted to the pleasant chill of the evening air feels incredible. At first I’m not sure how to act, but it’s inevitable that my elbows nestle into the pockets of his hips and so my hands end up on his thighs.
“This okay?” he asks.
“For me, yeah. What about you?” The question comes out more layered than I intended.
And from his pause, Clay’s registering it too. “It’s … good. Surprising, but good.” To punctuate the statement, he brushes back my hair and kisses the soft spot behind my ear. “So much that I might be disinclined to let you go home later.”
“My dad would call the state police,” I say, though I’m not sure that’s true.
Rather, I suspect Mrs. Rhodes would conspire to keep the absence from him, permitting me to spend the night wherever I want. The terrible pictures of Morgan and Creepy Jack certainly seem to imply as much. And that fast, I’m back in the morass of worry.
“Point taken. Let me know when you need to go.”
The fact is, I don’t really want to. And that worries me. I mean, I was with Nathan for nine months and sex never seemed right; the timing was always off, we were rushed or sneaking. Yet I’m already contemplating a night in Clay’s bed. That seems way more Morgan than me, and it scares me, like little tendrils of her are weaving through my soul and I really am dying. I tremble hard enough for him to feel it, and his arms tighten around me.
“I’m okay,” I say, because his next question will be Are you cold?
Clay kisses the top of my head. We sit for a while in silence while he kicks us into motion idly. The sway is soothing, as is his heat against my back. Such a restful moment, I could never have imagined it between him and me. But the peace is shattered when Nathan steps onto the front porch. I tense and try to jerk away before I even think about it. Clay doesn’t let go so easily, however, so I’m pinned against his chest. Guilt seeps into the tranquility to the point that I can’t even look at Nathan.
God, I’m a mess.
“Are you staying over?” he asks.
“Like that’s your business.” Clay isn’t having whatever this is.
I can’t get a read on Nathan because the kitchen light is behind him. It crowns his head in light but shadows his features. He taps one foot then sighs.
“Yeah, it is. Because our rooms are connected by a thin wall.”
Yeah, that guarantees I’m not staying. Ironically, it’s also why I never let Nathan talk me into it either. I peel Clay’s hands away from me and stand up.
“It’s fine, I need to take off anyway.”
With a dark look for his brother, he follows me. I hear the front door slam as Nathan stalks back inside. I honestly can’t figure out what’s going on here. Nathan’s almost acting like he’s jealous, but that makes no sense, unless he’s pissed off that Clay isn’t alone. But that’s small, too bitter for me to want to believe it. The romantic in me wants to imagine that he does sense it’s me and it bothers him seeing me with Clay, but considering he’s hooked up with Morgan, it could be that too.
For a moment, I feel her. It’s like she’s here and she’s mad at me for such petty thoughts. I smell the perfume again, not Morgan’s but familiar. Pain spikes through my left temple, making me stumble over the gravel. Clay catches me before I hit the ground, hands steadying on my shoulders. Once I’m stable, he lets go, tipping my chin up as if for a kiss. But instead of lowering his head, he studies my features for a long, intense moment.
“What?”
“I have the weirdest feeling about you,” he says.
I still. “Excuse me?”
“Never mind. It’s crazy. Be careful going home.” But this time he doesn’t call me Morgan or even “sweets,” and he’s still standing in the alley as I pull away.
Questions about Nathan and Clay are way more palatable than figuring out what to do about Creepy Jack or Morgan’s mom, so I linger mentally over their words and expressions. This carries me through town, and I’m turning onto the country road that leads to the Frost estate when a pair of halogen beams on high flash up over the rise. I flick my headlights but the other car doesn’t respond. Shit, I can’t see. The road is only a blur before me; this feels like the night of the accident all over again. Somehow I stay within the lines until the other vehicle passes.
Only now there’s a car angled across the road. It looks like the one Morgan’s mom died in. I slam on the brakes, narrowly avoiding a collision. The VW skids right up to the passenger door, and I climb out. The driver must be sick or injured, so even if I feel shaky enough to throw up, I have to see what’s wrong.
Two steps toward the car, I blink, and it’s gone. What the hell? I did not imagine that. Did I? Now I’m the one blocking the road with more headlights bearing down. Quickly I scramble back into the Beetle and slam it into gear.
Dammit, Morgan. I’m doing the best I can here. That vision or hallucination, whatever, was a reminder from her to me—stay on task. Had to be, because the only alternative is that I really am losing my mind.
It takes all my composure to get to the gates that lead into the Frost estate, but there’s no sanctuary for me here either. I find another car parked just outside, and while I wish this one was imaginary, it doesn’t vanish, no matter how many times I close my eyes. I sense him watching from behind tinted glass, and my fingers tighten on the wheel.
The driver’s-side door opens. Creepy Jack steps out.