She sits opposite me at the kitchen table with a mischievous look. “Your cell rang four times last night, so I picked up,” she says in a singsong voice.
“Oh God, was it Eric?” If he has ruined another protein batch, I will castrate him.
“Nope.” She takes a deep breath for dramatic effect. “Aiden Hale.”
A long moment of silence follows this announcement in my head. Slowly, I muster all my strength to form an articulate response.
“Huh?”
Reagan laughs again. “Yep. Five minutes after you passed out. He wanted to see if we made it home all right. He said your phone and address were in your presentation materials.”
My pulse starts a jagged rhythm. “Did he say anything else?”
“No. Just thank you and hung up.”
I can’t understand the dejection that grips me. What was I hoping he would say to Reagan? I am completely mental.
“Isa, I think he likes you. Granted, he has weird ways of showing it, but why would he give a damn otherwise?” Reagan says with certainty.
Every hungover brain cell wants to believe it. Except, there is one small problem. Reality. And I didn’t have a chance to tell Reagan yesterday about my new modeling job. The more I tell her, the more her eyebrows disappear into her red curls.
“Well, that may explain why he called to check if you made it safe and scratch-free, but it doesn’t explain why he was so pissed. It seemed out of proportion for whatever it was.”
“I don’t know. He’s a rather intense bloke. Every reaction seems magnified in his case but I have no idea why.” Take when he enters a place. We all look around, but he is hypervigilant. Personal space: we all need it, but not with his radius. Privacy: he seems to raise it to isolation.
“I wonder if he’s that intense with all the good things too.” Reagan snickers and wiggles her eyebrows.
I remember the heat of his gaze at Paradox and suppress a shiver. I’m not ready to tell Reagan about that. In fact, I shouldn’t be thinking about it at all. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. What can I do with thirty-one days?”
“I can think of plenty of things to do with a man like Hale for thirty-one days.” Reagan giggles again.
I press the cold Corona bottle to my cheek.
“Thinking about your period works too.” Reagan winks. “Or you can practice your speech with me.”
“My speech? What speech?”
Reagan’s mouth pops open. “Isa, when was the last time you checked your email?”
“Before my stereochem final. Why?”
She gasps. “Holy shit, you don’t know. You’re valedictorian. Number one in our class. I think it’s customary that you speak at graduation.”
I’m surprised by how unconcerned I am with this information. Yes, I have strong grades, but I have no intention of giving a speech in front of proud parents when mine are… Someone else should do it, with parents there who will glow and remember.
“I better check my email, then. I’ll figure something out.”
Reagan eyes me suspiciously. I put on what I hope to be a solid, albeit hungover, poker face. She pats my hand and pushes away from the table.
“Best of British luck, then. Pip-pip.” She laughs and heads out for a run.
I stumble to T. rex and open my inbox. Sure enough, there is the valedictorian announcement from President Campbell. I write back.
Dear President Campbell,
Thank you for the honor accorded to me by Reed College. Unfortunately, I will be unable to speak at graduation. If it is a requirement that I do so in order to obtain my accolade, I hereby relinquish it.
Sincerely,
Elisa Snow
I shut down my computer and grab my ancient camera. My mission today is simple: take as many pictures of my life here as possible.
Chapter Thirteen
Hale Storm
It finally gets dark, and I can’t take any more pictures. At least I’ve documented Powell’s City of Books even if I won’t be here to read its one million volumes. I head back home for Sunday RED night—Reagan and Elisa Dinner night. Reagan’s Rule Number One: break the streak for no bloke. Obviously, she’s the only one restrained by that rule.
As I turn the corner to our apartment building, the first thing I see is a black, presidential-looking Range Rover SUV parked not on the street but over the sidewalk and flush with the stairs. It’s practically a barricade. Calico, my neighbor’s rescue cat who is not actually a calico, is eyeing someone inside the car with wrathful eyes. I go to scratch his ears but the SUV door opens. I freeze. My knees lock, and my heart claws in my chest. Because out of the SUV, uncoiling gracefully, comes my Mr. Hale. But not my Mr. Hale.
He looks forbidding. His eyes are glacial blue, paler than usual. He stands taller, tenser, more angular—as though every cell in his body is straining to contain a force within. This is not the dragon. This is whatever dragons are afraid of.
“Elisa.” He does not give me his customary nod, and his voice is Kasia-cold. Thinking of Kasia, I realize why he is livid. Feign must have torpedoed the painting.
“Mr. Hale. This is a nice surprise. Have you been waiting long?”