I think about what she said earlier about her mother wanting to call my father for “support,” and I bristle. “We’re not six years old, Ro.”
We’re back in her driveway now, and she pulls her keys out of her pocket and clicks the button to unlock her doors. “I don’t want to end up on the evening news.”
I don’t, either. It’s probably a lucky thing that my car battery is dead, or Declan Murphy could be five miles away by now, adding grand theft auto to his rap sheet. I’m glad I grabbed my purse before getting out of the car.
Rowan has to turn around in a driveway to make her car face mine. Her headlights illuminate Declan and Rev. It would make a great photograph, all overexposed and full of harsh contrast.
She kills the engine and the lights, and we start to get out of the car.
Declan waves a hand and takes a drag on his cigarette. “Leave the car on,” he calls. “Headlights, too.”
She does, and ten seconds later, we’re on the sidewalk, looking at cables connecting our vehicles. He slides into my car’s driver’s seat and starts the engine. It fires right up.
“Is that it?” I say.
“That’s it.” I expect him to get out of the car, but he takes a drag on his cigarette and starts flicking dials.
“What are you doing?”
He doesn’t glance at me, and he doesn’t answer my question. “Where do you live?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
That gets his attention. He shoves himself out of the car and looms over me. Everything about his posture screams, Don’t mess with me. I take a quick step back before I can stop myself.
“Declan!”
I jump. The male voice is loud and to my left. A middle-aged man with a receding hairline is striding across the road, fury in his voice. “What are you doing? Leave those girls alone.”
His tone implies that I might have been right to be cautious.
Declan hasn’t moved away from me. “Her car wouldn’t start.” His voice grates with irritation. “I was helping.”
“Yeah, it looks like you’re helping.”
Declan whirls and unclips the jumper cables from my car battery. They click together and sparks fly. “What the hell do you think these are, Alan?”
Rev moves close to him. His voice is low. “Easy, Dec.”
Alan is braver than I am. He doesn’t back away. “You’re not allowed to walk out of the house whenever you want. You have a curfew. Do you understand what that means?”
A curfew? Declan Murphy has a curfew?
He jerks the cables free from Rowan’s car and slams her hood. “I’m not breaking curfew. I was helping—”
“Get back in the house. I can’t believe you keep putting your mother through this.”
Declan’s entire expression darkens. He drops the cables on the asphalt and starts forward.
Rev is quick. He’s in front of Declan, a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Hey. Think it through.”
Declan stops. He’s glaring at Alan, and his jaw is set. Both hands form fists.
Alan is glaring right back at him. His expression says, Bring it, punk.
Rowan is by my side now, and her breathing is loud in the night air. Her sudden anxiety wants to pull me into its grasp. She doesn’t like conflict, and this is worse than the confrontation in the hallway. There’s no teacher to come play referee.
Part of me wants to hide. Part of me wishes we had called Rowan’s mom.
One of them is going to move, and it’s going to spark a fight. The promise of violence weighs heavy in the air. Neither looks ready to back down. The tension is coiled so tightly that I don’t think either of them will be able to unravel it.
My mother once wrote to me about a close call in West Africa. She’d been shooting the effects of an extremist group that had been leveling small towns. According to her letter, she’d been following her guides through the jungle, and they literally stumbled right into an extremist camp. She’d thought they’d be killed. I could feel her fear between the words. They grabbed her equipment and began destroying her cameras—until she told them that she was documenting their military victories. Not only did they let her live, but they also allowed her to travel with them for a day. Her photos had made their way into the New York Times, but her letter, the words meant for me, had been more powerful. She had painted a picture of sweat and guns and terror, but then she’d made me laugh.
Men can be like toddlers, Juliet. Sometimes all they need is something shiny to distract them.
I stoop to snatch the jumper cables from the pavement. I hold them out to Declan and do my best to lace my voice with sugar. “Thanks so much for coming out. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.” I give an apologetic glance at Alan, though inside I’m shaking like a leaf. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know he had a curfew. My car wouldn’t start, and I was so worried about getting home . . .”
Alan blinks, almost as if he forgot I was there. He glances at Declan, then at the cars, and finally back to me. “No harm done, I suppose.” His eyes flick back to Declan. “Next time you want to help someone, you say something before leaving the house. Sneak out again, and I’m calling the cops. Then you can try sneaking out of Cheltenham. You hear me?”
A muscle twitches in Declan’s jaw, and I can tell he’s going to fire back. I thrust the jumper cables at him. “Do you think I need a new battery? Or should I be okay?”
It takes him a second, but he breaks the lethal eye contact and takes the cables from my hand. “It looks pretty old.” His voice is rough, but under the aggression, there are notes of something else I can’t identify. “You never answered my question about how far you have to go.”
His question? I don’t remember him asking a question.
Is that why he asked where I live?
Shame heats my face. “Oh. Just a few miles.”
He nods. “Let it run for a bit before you turn it off. I’d get a new battery when you can.”
I nod.
Declan turns and heads down the street.