The two men clasped hands, shaking fiercely.
Poe turned to go then. But Reynolds, pausing, glanced back at Isobel.
He touched the brim of his own hat, giving her the signal.
The salute of the one true Poe Toaster.
The real deal indeed.
49
Only This and Nothing More
Isobel’s eyes opened on their own. Above, her bedroom light blazed bright, stinging her eyes.
She breathed in fast and deep, her chest rising quickly as the final images of her dream flipped through her head. Desperately, her mind groped for them before they could turn to vapor, sorting them and storing them in an effort to preserve every last detail, every shared word. Poe standing beyond the gate, nodding to her as if she were an old acquaintance. As if she and he had somehow known each other the whole time . . .
Isobel shifted to get out of bed but stopped when she saw her father.
Seated in a chair at her bedside, Isobel’s dad watched her with folded arms, his gaze steady. His eyes red-rimmed and tired.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” Isobel replied, her voice raspy with sleep. She started to sit up but paused again when she heard a soft clink and felt something hard in her palm.
Glancing down, Isobel opened her hand to find Reynolds’s watch.
“Oh,” she said, sitting up quickly.
“You . . . you were talking in your sleep,” her dad said.
“Um.” Isobel wrapped the watch tight in her fist again. “Just . . . weird dreams.”
“Bad?” he asked, eyebrows arching.
Isobel shook her head. “Good.”
He nodded. Then, after a beat, he gestured to the watch. “What’s that?”
“Uh . . . it’s a pocket watch . . . thingie.”
“Oh yeah?” her dad said through a small chuckle. “Mind if I have a look?”
“Sure,” she said, offering him the timepiece.
“Humph,” her dad murmured as he turned the watch over and over between his fingers. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one like this. Where’d you get it?”
“Friend gave it to me,” Isobel murmured, scooting back to prop herself against her headboard in a movement that felt eerily like déjà vu.
Her dad clicked open the watch’s little door. “Who’s Augustus?” he asked.
“I’m . . . still not sure.”
“Well, this is nice, but it looks ancient,” her dad observed. “Hard to believe it still works.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Isobel checked her digital clock.
The numbers 6:45 blared in neon blue. But the strong smell of garlic and simmering tomato sauce wafting from the hall, combined with her father’s presence in her room and his mostly calm demeanor, told Isobel it wasn’t morning and she wasn’t running late for school.
Then she remembered that after getting home from her first day back at cheer practice, she’d come upstairs and, thinking she would just rest her eyes for a moment, curled up in bed.
Something about going back into that gym, about rejoining the ranks of the squad and reconnecting with Nikki and Stevie—not to mention picking up the slack after her short hiatus—had sapped Isobel’s energy far more than she’d anticipated. And maybe she’d fallen asleep so easily because, for the first time in a long time, she’d felt safe in letting go, in allowing herself to fall under and dream. . . .
“Dinner’s just about ready,” her dad said, interrupting her thoughts. “Spaghetti and garlic bread.”
She nodded. “That sounds good.”
“Dooo . . . you wanna go out for ice cream afterward?” he asked.
Isobel pursed her lips. “Depends,” she said as she drew her knees to her chest. Resting her chin on them, she wrapped her arms around her legs. “Is . . . Mom coming?”
Her dad’s smile came tight, but genuine. He nodded. “Danny, too.”
“Then . . . yeah,” Isobel said. “Count me in.”
“Great.” Isobel’s dad stood and set her pocket watch gently on the open Poe book.
“Doing some light reading?” he asked, tilting his head at its pages.
Isobel shrugged. “Just flipping through.”
“Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll see you downstairs in about five?”
“Yeah, I’ll . . . be right there.”
Isobel’s dad tucked his hands into his pockets. Without saying anything else, he went to the door. He paused there, though, and after several seconds turned to face her again.