“What’s up?” you said.
“I miss Paris,” I said. I kind of blurted it out. Always smooth, me.
You put your arm around me. “I know,” you said. “I know and—”
“No, you don’t,” I said, pulling away. “I want her back. I never had a friend like her. What if I never have a friend like her again?”
You looked slightly hurt by that. “You will,” you said.
I shrugged. “Anyway … so I met this cop, Brian, and he said that they think it’s Paris’s dad. Well, he didn’t say that exactly. But it’s obvious that—”
“Wait,” you said. “You met a cop? Where?”
“Julie’s. But I also took a look at the case file, the other day. See, I kind of know this other policeman named Dwight, he’s a … um … a friend of my dad’s, and I—”
You held up a hand. “Whoa, slow down,” you said. “You’re talking to cops now?”
“Yes. No. I mean, he was just at Julie’s place. The second cop. But what he said … about Paris’s dad. I wondered …” I paused, looked into your eyes. “I wondered if you would drive me to New York. To see Paris’s dad.”
“Jesus, Cass.” You shook your head. “That would be a very stupid thing to do.”
“Excuse me?” I was glaring at you.
You swallowed. “That came out wrong. But … that’s a super dangerous idea, Cass. What if … I mean … what if he did kill her, and you just go and confront him? What if he gets violent?”
I hadn’t really thought of that possibility.
“Um,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“You have to be more careful,” you said. I could see from your gestures and your face that you were really worried; even though I was pissed with you at that moment, there was a warm feeling right inside me about that. “I mean, Cass, I can see why your dad worries about you so much.”
The warm feeling turned cold—hard-pack snow, balling in my chest.
I stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“What? What?”
“You talk to my dad about me?”
You raised your hands. “No! Well, he spoke to me once. Said you were vulnerable. I think it was supposed to be a warning, that kind of thing.”
“I can’t believe you’re chatting to my dad about how weak I am.”
“That’s not—”
“And now!” I shouted. “And now, to make things worse, you’re taking his side? ********. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Whoa, Cass. There are no sides.”
“There are sides. And I want you on mine. On Paris’s.”
You moved your hands in a placating gesture. “You’ve got me, Cass,” you said. “I’m totally here. On your side.” You moved toward me, put those same hands on my hips. “One hundred percent. Always. But I am not driving you to New York to see Paris’s dad.”
I felt the ice core melt a little. I felt the heat of your fingers, that electric power again, like I could charge myself just from contact with you, like energy would surge into my every nerve ending just from your touch.
“You’re really on my side?” I said.
“Yep.”
I sighed. “Well, okay, then.”
“And no trip to New York? At least till we know more?”
I loved that “we.” “Yeah, okay.”
You kissed my forehead. Fireworks went off in my head; Roman candles spun, throwing off sparks, hissing, blazing stars into the blackness behind my eyelids, my closed eyes, waiting for— You pulled away.
Oh, okay. We were in the yard. That was why. I remembered; I saw the trees, the flowers, the thrush landing on the thin branch of a bush. You weren’t going to kiss me where my dad might come home and see. I got it. I got it, but I still wanted you to.
But then you smiled and handed me a beer. Our fingers touched—blazing sparks flew, invisibly.
“I don’t drink,” I said. I knew the voice would punish me if I drank the beer, even with the progress I’d made. I handed back the can.
“Oh,” you said. “That’s cool. Straight edge, huh?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“You want to come up to the apartment?” you said.
“What, now?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“My dad might come back,” I said.
“He’s on a late night, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you said he hasn’t come back early on a late night for, what, a year?”
“Yes.”
“So I think you’re safe.”
“Okay,” I said. “We can talk about what to do. About finding Paris.”
“Sure,” you said.
But we both knew that wasn’t going to happen.
I followed you up the steps and into the apartment. The place was still a dump—still the empty pizza cartons, the takeout boxes, the bottles of Coke. Still clothes hanging from every available surface, discarded menus, dust.
“You should fire your housekeeper,” I said.
“You’re our housekeeper, in theory anyway.”