After I hear the faint click of my front door closing as Nate leaves, I let Boo out the back for one last pee break onto the tiny patch of grass my real estate agent called a “hidden city gem” just so he could charge me five grand over the initial asking price. Staring up at the stars while Boo makes a show of sniffing every square millimeter of the property in his quest for the perfect spot, I have half a mind to pull out my cellphone and dial Parker. The rage fraying my nerve endings needs an outlet — screaming at my big brother for giving Nate my brownstone key might just do the trick.
My cell screen glows blue-bright in the darkness as I click it on and look at the time.
Midnight. The witching hour.
Fitting, since I was just visited by a demon in black leather and combat boots.
It’s barely dawn in Europe — Parker won’t bother to answer, this early. My best friend, Lila, is no doubt out on the town at some fabulous party or another — chances of sober conversation at this time on a Friday night are nil. My father’s away on yet another business trip — China or Japan, I think. He’s gone so often, it’s hard to keep his destinations straight.
I sigh deeply.
I’ve got a gorgeous house in Boston’s most desirable neighborhood.
I’ve got more money in my trust fund than I’ll ever know what to do with.
And I’ve got not one single person in my entire phone contact list that I can call, right now.
I wonder fleetingly if it had been an intruder tonight, instead of Nate, if I really had fallen, cracked open my head on a coffee table, and died of an improbable aneurism… how long would it take the people in my life to notice?
A day?
A week?
A month?
Could I just disappear one instant, like a star winking out of existence, without anyone close enough to realize I’d gone?
Poof! Phoebe West evaporates in a puff of stardust and smoke.
One less bright dot on the far-reaching edges of the universe. Already so far removed from everyone peering upward, it could take ages for anyone to recognize my absence.
I shiver in the damp April air, hugging my arms closer around me. It does nothing to warm the lonesome chill inside my chest.
Maybe I should call him. The devil incarnate.
IncarNate.
Dial him up — quite brave, though the safe separation of a phone line — and unleash all the sassy, intelligent retorts I thought of only after the door closed behind him, when they were of no use to me. Tell him he has no business butting into my life. That I don’t care how sexy he is, or that he makes me feel more alive than anyone on earth has ever managed to, or that just his presence in my space is nearly enough to make me combust.
(Okay, not that last part.)
It doesn’t matter — I couldn’t call him, even if I wanted to. I don’t have his number anymore.
Lila convinced me to delete it last spring, asserting it wasn’t remotely healthy to stare at someone’s name in your contact list, willing the phone to ring for years on end. She was probably right.
I climb the stairs, Boo at my heels, seeking the solace of my bed.
I don’t find it.
Instead, I toss and turn for hours, thinking about him. About hate. About lust. About love.
God, the love I have — had! — for that man.
For years it burnt me up, broke me down. Images flash through my mind — I try to block them out, but the memories are too strong.
Nate, passing me a toothbrush after Parker put food coloring in my cereal and turned my teeth bright green.
Nate, knocking the schoolyard bully into the dirt after he called me a nasty name in second grade.
Nate, teaching me to ride a bike in our long, curving driveway, his arms strong and steady as he ran at my side.
Nate, patching my scraped palms and bleeding knees when I toppled onto asphalt.
Nate, making me burned mac ’n’ cheese on the stove when Parker was at soccer practice and Dad was busy working.
Nate, hugging me close after he found me sobbing on the back lawn by the maple tree, a dead bird in my hands.
Nate, holding my hand so tight I thought my fingers would break as we watched my mother’s casket lowered into the earth.
Goddammit! Now I’m crying like a loser at two in the morning, with only Boo to witness my humiliation.
I know there’s about a snowball’s chance in hell that I’m going to fall asleep at this point, so I climb out of bed and pad down the hall to the guest room. When I reach the closet I grab the case, flick open the clasps, and a second later, feel the utter relief of smooth wood beneath my hands.