Pearl looked around the kitchen, but Reese wasn’t among the last of the kitchen help stripping off aprons or punching their time cards. She made it outside in time to see the passenger door of the Skylark closing, and the red flash of brake lights as Indigo headed off down the drive.
It was nine thirty when Pearl got home. Dad wasn’t there, although this time he’d left a lamp on for her and a tinfoil-covered dinner plate in the fridge. After their talk this morning, she’d seen him off to work, shaky but fueled up on triple-strength coffee and what little breakfast she’d been able to push on him. There’d been no further discussion of laying off the drinking or steering clear of the Tavern; they were beyond that now. She was scared for him, and he didn’t know how to stop. At least they knew where they stood.
Her body was restless, and she picked at her food, glancing over at her phone. Who knew what was really waiting for her on Ocean—another hazing, another test to see how far she’d go? She’d be crazy to show up. But he’d challenged her. And she had to know what he had planned.
She dressed in mesh shorts and a white T-shirt, hoping for some visibility in the headlights, then drove to Ocean. It was nearly ten o’clock, and the streets had quieted considerably. She was so busy looking for his car that she hardly registered the shape that ran by, dressed in dark clothing, unconcerned with being seen. Pearl parked and got out, watching as Tristan slowed and turned, jogging back to where she stood. “You ran here?” she said.
“It’s not that far.” He took a few backward steps. “Are you coming?”
“I don’t know. Is this when Akil and Bridges throw a bag over my head and push me into traffic or something?”
“They’re not here. I don’t run with them.”
“But you’ll run with me. Why should I go anywhere with you? You put Hadley and me through hell Friday night.”
“But you’re here now. You came. Why not run?”
He was leaving now, and she followed, slowly at first, then picking up speed when she saw that he’d be gone in a minute if she didn’t. Pearl rarely exercised on purpose, and her body was unaccustomed to the staccato pounding of her sneakers on pavement, the shock each step sent through her frame.
Tristan could’ve left her behind easily, but instead, he slowed his stride enough so that she could stay with him, while still having to push herself harder than she had in a long time. They crossed the street to Forest Drive and continued uphill, breathing together, running through pools of orange arc sodium streetlight glow.
Soon, she could focus on nothing but the fight to fill her lungs. As they reached Route 3 and left the sidewalk, her thighs burned. They ran in the breakdown lane with the guardrail to their right, cars passing close enough to whip their clothes with hot, forced air. The test was not to give in, not to beg for a break or even ask where they were going. To follow on faith.
Between passing cars, the darkness was almost complete. Only Tristan’s footsteps and measured breathing assured her that she hadn’t strayed into the northbound lane. A bank of streetlights appeared ahead: the scenic turnoff, where tourists could pull in and take pictures of Tenney’s Harbor embroidering the edge of the bay below. Tristan jogged in. As soon as Pearl saw that he was really stopping, she dropped heavily onto one of the granite boulders lined up along the ledge.
He watched her gasp for a bit, said, “You shouldn’t double over. You’ll get cramps.”
She leaned back, bracing herself on the heels of her palms. “At least . . . pretend to be tired.”
Eventually, he sat on the rock beside her, waiting as she slowly got her breath back. “So, this is what you do,” she said, looking at him. “Run up here. Even in the middle of the night.”
“Sometimes. I have other places I go.”
“It’s got to be dangerous. Somebody could hit you.” Tristan said nothing. “Unless that’s what you’re hoping for.”
He stood, stretching his quads, bouncing on the balls of his feet a few times, as if she’d never spoken. “We can take the shortcut down Pleasant Street on the way back.”
She forced a laugh. “Going easy on me now?” Pearl watched as he took off across the highway without glancing in either direction, blending into the night before she’d even taken her first step.
This time, he didn’t hold back. He put so much distance between them that Pearl lost sight of him completely, running down Pleasant Street alone, wondering how this was a shortcut, until she saw Narragansett Way ahead, the streetlamp globes gleaming whitely up the slope. She slowed to a walk, unsure what the next challenge was—go back to her car, dismissed for having the bad taste to point out his recklessness, or follow him. Ultimately, she followed, making her way to his front walk. She’d chosen well: tonight, the light was burning over the entrance.
She knocked. He opened the door, stepping away without a word. His hair was soaked with sweat, dark stains down the front and back of his T-shirt. Pearl took her sneakers off, aligning them on the mat next to his; it was the kind of place that demanded right angles and exactness. The kitchen had the look of a professionally cleaned space, recessed lighting gleaming off stainless steel and white tile. There was nothing on the walls, no decoration of any kind, only a row of stools along the granite-topped island to provide seating. Their equidistance from each other suggested they were never used.
He leaned into the fridge and tossed her a bottled water, drinking from his own as she looked around.
“I like your place.” She wandered down the hall toward the living room, which was almost empty except for a wall-mounted flat-screen TV and a black leather recliner. She fiddled with the cap on her bottle. “I guess you didn’t have much to move in.”
“There was nothing left.” He followed her at a distance, silhouetted by the kitchen light. “During the fire . . . the attic floor collapsed.”
Pearl bit her lips together, picturing it, bedroom furniture and personal possessions dropping into the flames devouring the second floor, a pit where his loft used to be. She searched for another topic. “Hadley’s doing okay now. In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t. But thanks for the update.”
“What’s your problem with her?”
“I don’t have a problem. She isn’t interesting enough to earn that.” He finished his water and took the bottle to the counter, talking as he went. “Hadley is the kind of person whose entire existence is dependent on other people. She has that symbiotic friendship with Quinn. She was the same way with Bridges when they were together. Attached.”
“Maybe she loved him. Ever think of that?” She watched Tristan return in the distorted reflection of the flat-screen, his likeness stretched and skeletal, hers impossibly wide. “Maybe she and Quinn are close. Haven’t you ever felt that way about anybody?”
After a moment, he said quietly, “Not really.”
“You’ve never had a best friend?” Still he said nothing, and she turned to him. “A girl. One girl you cared about.”
“I’ve managed to avoid it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think I need to explain. I think you already know.” His gaze moved to her face. “Sometimes . . . it’s better not to engage. Cleaner. Isn’t it?”
She swallowed, and her throat still felt dry, like there wasn’t enough water to quench this. “Maybe. But sometimes you can’t help it.”
There was nothing, then, but the faint hum of appliances, the house living around them, and Tristan’s dark eyes, intent, but not as piercing as she’d thought, not cold. Her voice seemed to come from deep down inside her, faint and hoarse. “If you wake up tonight, don’t go for another run. It’s too much. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“I don’t know what else to do.”