I did my business, washed my hands, and ran a hand through my hair, which, considering I’d not yet slept, was sporting a serious case of bedhead. Then I opened the door as loudly as I could, announcing myself. I wanted them to know I was coming.
The infomercial was still on—“BUT THERE’S MORE!”—and Mac continued to give it his full attention. Lucy, however, had moved closer to him, and was now resting her head on his shoulder. This time, she didn’t look at me.
“Good night,” I said to Mac, then pushed the bedroom door open. I was just about to slip inside when he spoke.
“Is that bothering you?”
I turned around. “What?”
“The clock,” he said, nodding toward the room. “It’s kind of bright. I can turn it off, if you want.”
Lucy shifted, pressing herself against him. On the TV, a woman was entirely too excited about the prospect of making star-shaped watermelon pieces. I looked at Mac, who was holding my gaze in such a way that I knew, somehow, I should say yes.
“Actually,” I told him, “I was kind of wondering how to—”
Before I could even finish, he was on his feet, startling Lucy, who now did turn, clearly irritated. I stepped back as Mac came into the bedroom. Then, with her still watching me, I slowly shut the door.
It felt very dark, and I stood still for a moment, letting my eyes adjust. Mac, however, walked right over to sit on the bed, pulling the clock toward him. As he hit a button, turning off the projected time, he said, “Thanks. For the save.”
“She’s pretty . . .” I trailed off, not sure what adjective I was going for. “Intense.”
“That’s one word for it.” He put the clock back down, then got to his feet. “You have everything you need?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”
He nodded, stepping carefully over Layla, who was now snoring slightly. As he put his hand on the knob, I heard myself say, “You can stay, if you want. Until she goes to bed. It is your room, after all. I’m fine on the floor.”
I realized, too late, how this might sound: now I was the girl making the strong move. When Mac turned, though, he looked relieved. “I’ll take the floor.”
As he grabbed a blanket from the closet and spread it out on the carpet, I got back into the bed, pulling up the covers. With Layla smack in the middle of the room, there was no real space other than parallel to where I was. Still, he left as big a gap as he could, even though it meant basically resting his head against the desk.
“You want this pillow?” I asked him as he shifted, trying to get some headroom.
“No, you keep it.”
“I don’t need it. And you are on the floor.”
“I’m fine.” He shifted again, and I heard a clunk. “Ouch.”
I snorted, and then laughed outright.
“Oh, that’s nice,” he said. “Mock my pain.”
“I’m trying to give you your pillow.”
“I don’t need it.” Another clunk. “Crap.”
I sat up, grabbing his pillow and launching it at him. It hit him right in the face. Whoops. “Sorry,” I said. “I—”
Before I could finish, it was coming right at me, at twice the speed I’d thrown it. I ducked, and it bounced off the wall, hitting the clock, which immediately projected the time back on the ceiling, bright as day.
“See what you did?” he said.
“It’s two fifteen a.m.,” I replied, launching it back at his head. “Time to take your pillow.”
Suddenly, there was a soft knock on the door, and we both went silent. A moment later, it opened, a slant of light spilling in. “Mac?” a voice said. Lucy. “Hello?”
I closed my eyes. For a moment, all I could hear was Layla breathing. Then the door shut with a click.
Still, we were silent for a full two minutes, according to the clock. I was beginning to think that maybe he was asleep, somehow, when the pillow hit me square in the face.
“I’m not throwing it back,” I whispered. “You’ve officially forfeited it now.”
“I never wanted it in the first place.”
“Just go to sleep before she comes back,” I told him.
“You’re the one talking.”
I felt myself smile widely in the dark. It was 2:22 a.m. “Good night, Mac.”
“Good night, Sydney. Sleep well.”
This, however, seemed impossible at that moment, with him only an arm’s length or so away. So I was surprised when I jerked awake at 4:32 from a deep, thick dream, the details of which disappeared the moment I opened my eyes. I blinked, then rolled over, taking in Layla, still curled up, and then Mac, who’d shifted away from the desk and now lay on his side, one hand stretched in my direction. He was sound asleep, I knew, and not at all aware of this. What you do in your dreams is never your choice. But it made me happy anyway.
CHAPTER
13
I THOUGHT I’d dodged the bullet of Family Day at Lincoln. A couple of weeks later, however, another issue arose. Just my luck.
“I have great news,” my mother announced at dinner one evening. Suddenly, it all made sense: the way she’d been humming to herself while she set the table, the extra cheerful manner in which she questioned me about my day at school. “We’re going to get to see Peyton. All of us, together.”