“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay. I’ve got you now. We can go home.”
I take a step back, away from them. I’m on the outside, looking in. A real family on display right here in front of me. I’m pretty sure her dad isn’t going to get her home and crack open a case of beer—or start telling her that he’s counting the minutes until she ends up behind bars.
I stoop and fetch my gloves from the ground. Frank is going to come around here any minute and start going on about how we’re losing light.
“Wait!” Juliet pulls away from her father, and once again, she’s breathless and looking up at me. “Declan.”
I hold myself at a distance. The spell is broken. “Juliet.”
She closes that distance, though, and then does one better. She grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me forward. For half a second, my brain explodes because I think we’re going to have a movie moment and she’s going to kiss me. And then it’s going to be super awkward because of her father.
But no, she’s only pulling me close to whisper. Her breath is warm on my cheek, sweet and perfect.
“We were wrong,” she says. “You make your own path.”
Then she spins, grabs her father’s hand, and leaves me there in the middle of the cemetery.
Dusk cloaks the streets when I finally leave the cemetery, and the drizzle seems to be keeping people off the roads. My heart can’t find a steady rhythm in my chest and instead seems content to alternate between lighthearted skipping and drunken stumbling. I’m heading for Rev’s, but adrenaline races beneath my skin in short bursts. Everything feels undone, a scattered mess of emotions that keep drifting away when I try to gather them into some kind of order.
You make your own path, she said.
I’ve been thinking about that since she left with her father, winding it up with Rev’s martyr comment, and letting it spin through my thoughts. We were wrong.
A car ahead sits on the shoulder, flashers blazing through the mist. Déjà vu hits me square in the chest—this is right where I helped Juliet.
Then I realize I recognize this car, too. It’s a silver sedan that tries to be pretentious but fails miserably, like the guy wanted a BMW but could only afford a Buick.
I know this because it’s Alan’s car.
He’s standing beside the car, on his cell phone, looking down at the hood.
For a tenth of a second, I think about running him over.
Okay, maybe a full second.
Steam is escaping from beneath the hood. Alan looks up as I approach. His face looks expectant. He must be waiting for a tow truck.
I see him recognize my car. I see him wait to see if I’ll stop.
I see a big target in khaki pants and a button-down shirt.
His words from this morning pelt my skin as if he’s shooting me with a pellet gun.
I think about how I stood on those stairs and apologized, and they said nothing. They did nothing.
I clench suddenly shaking fingers on the steering wheel and keep going.
And then, out of nowhere, a line from that stupid poem pops into my head.
I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul.
I brake and turn around at the next cross street. My heart keeps cranking along in a syncopated rhythm, and I’m not sure if I’m going to help Alan or if I’m going to punch him in his stupid face.
When I pull over and stop behind his car, his eyes register surprise, but he’s good at tamping it down. His phone is still pressed to his ear, and when I step out of my car, he shoos me off with his hand.
“I’m fine,” he calls. “Go ahead.”
He is such a prick.
I head toward him anyway. Steam continues curling from beneath the hood. The idiot hasn’t even turned the car off. “Do you want me to take a look at it?”
“I’m on the phone with the auto club right now.”
“So, what? You’re going to stand out in the rain for two hours? Pop the hood, Alan.”
He puts a hand over the speaker. “Go on home, Declan. I don’t need you.”
“Trust me. I got the memo.” I open the door to his car anyway and pull the lever to pop the hood. Then I turn the keys to kill the engine.
When I straighten, Alan is right there. The phone is gone from his ear.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
“I’m stealing your car,” I tell him. “Call the cops.”
He sets his jaw and glares at me, but I step around him and lift the hood. Steam pours from the engine and we both have to step back, waving it away.
Then we both stand there, staring at the engine.
In a flash, I remember standing like this with my father. He’d quiz me and clap me on the shoulder when I got everything right. Then he’d call to one of his buddies in the shop and tell him to come listen to “the kid” rattle off the engine components of a 1964 Thunderbird. I still remember what it felt like to be a part of something.
I can’t remember the last time I felt that way.
Alan clears his throat. “See anything?”
“Yeah. I see a blown top radiator hose.” I point to where the black rubber has obviously cracked open.
“So I need a tow truck anyway.” He sounds a little smug.
“Sure,” I say. “If you want to pay a mechanic three hundred bucks. All you really need is twenty dollars and an open AutoZone. I could fix it in ten minutes.”
He studies me. His jaw twitches.
This is killing him.
I wish I could say I was loving this. I’m not. I’m exhausted.
“Come on, Alan. I spent the last three hours working at the cemetery. Do you want my help or not?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but some of the apprehension has leaked out of his expression, and he’s evaluating me.
Does he think I’m screwing him somehow? I don’t need to stand here for this. I turn and head for my car. “Fine. Whatever. Wait for Triple-A.” I slide behind the wheel of my Charger and turn the key. She fires right up.