Schuyler grinned. Maybe Oliver had a point. “Han says, ‘I know.’”
“Exactly.” Oliver tapped the wheel. “He doesn’t have to say anything so trite as ‘I love you.’ Because that’s already understood. And that’s romantic.”
For once, Schuyler had to admit he was right.
TWENTY-THREE
When Bliss woke up from her nap, Oliver and Schuyler were snapping at each other in the front seat. “What’re you guys arguing about now?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. “Nothing,” they chorused. Bliss accepted their reticence without question. Those two always kept secrets from her, even when they didn’t mean to. “Okay, I guess we can stop for lunch, then,” Schuyler finally said. Ah, so that was what it was about. Those two fought about everything. It had gotten worse since Oliver had become Schuyler’s familiar. They acted more like an old married couple than before. On the surface, at least, they pretended their friendship was exactly the same. Which was just fine with Bliss; she didn’t know if she could really stand any Schuyler-Ollie PDA.
“I’m just saying we’re not going to do Dylan any good by going hungry.” Oliver shrugged.
They pulled into a rest area, joining weary travelers at the vending machines and the food court.
Oliver observed that one of the novelties of growing up as city kids was that they were all addicted to suburban fast-food chains. While none of them would ever even consider going to a McDonald’s in Manhattan—those places were basically ad-hoc homeless shelters—once they were out of city limits, the rules changed, and no one cared to eat expensive panini sandwiches and precious organic green salads. Bring on the supersized meals.
“God, I feel sick,” Bliss said, sipping the last of her milk shake.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Oliver declared, crumpling the wrapper of his greasy hamburger and wiping his hands with several napkins.
“It’s always fun to eat this stuff. But afterward . . .” Schuyler agreed, even though she was still picking at the fries.
“Afterward you always feel like you’re going to hurl. Or that your cholesterol count just skyrocketed,” Bliss said, making a face.
It was quiet when they climbed back into the car and felt the soporific effects of their heavy meal. A half hour later, the GPS blared “EXIT ON THE RIGHT IN FIVE HUNDRED METERS,” and Oliver followed the signs up the ramp and down the road to a parking lot. They had arrived.
The rehabilitation center grounds were immaculate. It looked more like a five-star resort, where celebrities went to hide after a lost weekend, rather than a high-priced treatment facility for floundering vampires. They saw a group practicing tai chi on the lawn, several others performing yoga poses, and clusters of people sitting in the grass in a circle.
“Group therapy,” Bliss whispered as they made their way to the front door of the main building. “I asked Honor what it was like here, and she said there’s a lot of past-lives-regression therapy.”
They were greeted at the entrance by a slim, tanned woman in a white T-shirt and white pants. The effect was less clinical and more fashionable—like a New Age ashram.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked in a friendly manner.
“We’re here to visit a friend,” Bliss said, who had become the de facto spokesman for the trio.
“Name?”
“Dylan Ward.”
The counselor checked the computer and nodded. “Do you have permission from the senator to visit this patient?”
“I’m, uh, his daughter,” Bliss said, showing the woman her ID.
“Great. He’s in the north campus, in a private cottage. Follow the path out the door, you’ll see signs.” She handed them visitor stickers. “Visiting hours are until four. The café is in the main building. It’s International Day—I think it’s Vietnamese. You guys like pho?”
“We already ate,” Oliver said, and Bliss thought she sensed a hint of a smile in Oliver’s words. “But thanks.”
“It seems nice here,” Schuyler said as they walked through the greenery.
“The Committee does do a good job, I’ll give them that. Nothing but the best for the vamps.” Oliver nodded and put on a pair of dark sunglasses.
Bliss couldn’t believe how calm and organized everything was. This was where they put troubled Blue Bloods? Maybe she’d made a mistake in hiding Dylan for so long. Maybe they really could help him here. She began to feel less strained and more optimistic. Several patients waved to them as they passed.
Dylan’s room was one of the nicer cottages, with a white picket fence and rosebushes growing by the windows. A nurse was sitting in an anteroom.
“He’s sleeping. But let me see if he’ll take visitors,” she told them. She disappeared into the main room, and they could hear her talking in a soft, gentle voice to Dylan.