No kidding, you’re rich, Burnham, I think.
Behind the mansion, the car pulls up before a carriage house with four garage doors. An apartment that spans the upper floor is easily ten times larger than the boxcar I grew up in. The car voice announces that we have arrived. Warm, honeysuckle sweetness greets me as I step out, and I’m filling my lungs when Burnham appears on the upper landing of the carriage house.
“You made it,” he says, smiling down.
“Yes,” I say.
And that’s all that comes out, because Burnham looks unbelievably wonderful to me. He’s thinner, and his fabulous long hair is gone, but he’s nodding like he just scored a major win, and I love that he’s so happy to see me.
“What should I do about the car?” I ask.
“Leave it. I’ll send it back. Get on up here already,” he says to me.
I grab the railing and mount two quick flights, and it’s only then that I see Burnham’s leg brace and the tight, unnatural curling of his left wrist and hand. I hesitate before I move in for a hug. It’s only a little awkward.
“I’m so glad to see you,” I say. “This is amazing.”
“Pretty incredible,” he says. “Let me see you.”
When I draw back, he nudges his glasses and takes me in. I do the same to him. A red shirt like he always used to wear sets off his dark skin, and he’s still wearing his St. Christopher medal around his neck. With his hair short, his face looks different, more square, and I like it. His baggy shorts sag in a relaxed way, and he’s barefoot on the landing planks. Already I avoid staring at his wrist.
“You’ve been through it, huh?” he says.
“No worse than you.”
“I want to hear all about it. Hungry?”
“I’m starving.”
He brings me in. Before I can look around, a yip makes me turn to the kitchen where a small brown dog is standing on alert.
“That’s my parents’ dog,” Burnham says. “They’ve gone up to DC to help my sister move into a new apartment, and they asked me to watch him for a couple days. Here, Waffles. Say hi to Rosie.”
The dog sits instead and licks its tiny chops.
“He’s not a very smart dog,” Burnham says mournfully.
I have to laugh. “Do your parents know I’m here?” I ask.
“I didn’t tell them yet, but I’m sure our guy at the gate has told them I had a girl delivered.”
“Nice way to put it. Can you not tell your mother I’m here?” I ask.
“She’s still one of your biggest fans,” he says. “She’ll be glad you’re visiting.”
I find it hard to believe she doesn’t blame me even a little for the accident. “Even so.”
He looks at me closely, and his eyebrows lift. “Not a problem,” he says. “Do you like lasagna?”
“Sure.”
He stops by a corner where a couple of computers are running and taps a few keys before he heads into the kitchen area. A smooth black stone sits on top of one computer, and a Ping-Pong ball rests on a paper clip, like the one back at Forge. I can’t help taking the ball and giving it a toss. The place doesn’t have a Ping-Pong table, though. No cameras, either, I notice.
A stone fireplace anchors one wall of the living room, and another wall is bright with large sliding-glass doors that lead to a deck. An elevator takes up another corner. I glimpse a couple of bedrooms and a workout room down the hall. Framed photos show three generations of his family, and he has tons of books and comics.
“I could like this place,” I say, and absently give the ball another toss.
“Henrik sent me that,” he says from behind the kitchen counter. “I had the weirdest gaps in my vocabulary when I was first recovering, and for the life of me I couldn’t remember ‘Ping-Pong.’ Do you want fresh Parmesan? I can call over to the house for it.”
“No, I’m good,” I say. “Whatever happened with your Forge School computer game?”
“I put it on hold.”
“What have you been doing?” I ask.
“When I’m not in P.T.? School stuff and some data analysis for my parents,” he says. “I’ve decided to become a doctor after all.”
The oven beeps as he sets a temperature.
“Your parents must be psyched,” I say. “What are you doing for high school?”
“I have this tutor. He’s a bear. I’m going to take my GED early and apply to college next year.” He waves his fingers at the oven. “This will take a few minutes to warm up,” he says. “Do you want to clean up before we eat?”
“Do I smell that bad?”
He laughs. “No.”
“I’m kidding. I’d love a shower.”
He guides me to a guest bathroom, and I have never seen so many clean white towels in my whole life. The inside of the marble sink is ribbed like a giant shell, and the creamy paneling reminds me of those pictures in fancy architecture magazines. There’s even a skylight over the Jacuzzi.
A pile of clean clothes has been set on a chair. I touch the soft pink of a shirt and look up at him.
“My sister left some stuff here,” Burnham says. His voice is quiet in the cool, echoey space. “She won’t mind if you use it.”
He’s just incredibly thoughtful. I hardly know what to say.
“This is an amazing place,” I say.
He’s looking up toward the skylight, not at me.
“Yeah, I’m lucky,” he says, but his voice is oddly flat. “Take your time.”
He softly closes the door, and a full-length mirror on the back of it gives me a sudden, unexpected view of myself. I’m skinny and dirty, in scuzzy boots and a sagging coat. My hair, I don’t even know what shape it’s in, and under my low, dark eyebrows, my eyes have a furtiveness that I’ve never seen in myself before. This dodgy girl in the mirror—frankly, she’s scary.
Why Burnham should like a girl like me, I don’t know. But he does. I can tell. And that makes me nervous. I hope coming here wasn’t a mistake.
*
After my shower, I brush out my wet, wavy hair and leave it to dry on my shoulders. The clothes Burnham set out include a new three-pack of undies and a black, spaghetti-strap camisole. No bra. The leggings are gray with George Washington University printed on the thigh. The pink shirt has a sweetheart neckline that dips a bit low on me, but it’s soft and I like it, even though I haven’t worn pink since I was five.
I take a stool at the counter while Burnham limps around on the other side, cutting a loaf of French bread and setting out plates. He pulls a bubbling dish out of the oven and serves up two huge slices of lasagna. He’s adept with his right hand, and he uses his stiffly curled left hand to brace things. Once a splash of red sauce lands on his dark skin, and he rinses it clean.
“What can I help with?” I ask.
“You could take these over to the couch,” he says, nodding at the dishes.