Sleeping in Eden (11 page)

“Shhhh.” Meg knocked knees with her mom in warning. “If you two don't shut up, I'm quitting.”

“Quitting what?”

“This family. I'm done. Seriously. I'll run away or something.”

“We could put a hot tub in her room,” Greg muttered under his breath. Linda had to press her fist to her mouth, apparently to keep herself from laughing out loud.

Meg thought about leaving, but whether or not her dad appreciated Dylan's obvious talents, she did. And she couldn't have moved from her seat even if she wanted to. They had been friends for nearly a year, and in all that time she had learned that Dylan was a man of many talents—and almost as many secrets. When he announced that he was trying out for the play, and then when he was chosen for the lead over a dozen boys who were older and more experienced, Meg didn't know whether to be proud or embarrassed. Dylan, an actor? But somehow, it worked for him.

Watching him onstage, that famous half smile toying with the corner of his mouth, Meg felt like she was catching a glimpse of a familiar stranger—a face she knew, or thought she knew, across a crowded room. And all she wanted to do was soak in each shift and nuance of his every expression.

Afterward, when everyone was waiting in a line to congratulate the actors, Meg was surprised to feel her palms begin to sweat. She wiped them on the silky fabric of her vintage skirt, a flowing, bohemian-looking design that would have made a beautiful sari. Though she had loved it when she found it hanging dejected on a rack at Goodwill, all at once she regretted her careless choice. The woven flip-flops, hemp bracelets, and simple T-shirt the exact color of cornmeal seemed insufficient
somehow. Her hair was soft and long, fresh from the shower, and her face was unadorned but for a dab of lip gloss that her mother had bought specifically for her. Staring at her feet, Meg realized that even her toes were bare. No polish, no tiny rings, nothing to make her feel feminine or attractive. She wished she had done something more. Didn't Dylan deserve more? The thought startled her.

When the reception line finally wound to the end of the queue where Orlando stood with Rosalind, Celia, and Oliver, Meg found that the boy she knew as Dylan was nowhere to be seen. Up close, his skin shimmered orange underneath the stage makeup, and he had one arm draped casually around the girl who played Celia, even though he was supposed to be posing with Rosalind. There was something cavalier and flirty about the way he leaned into the smaller, sweet-faced Celia, and Meg felt a rush of possessiveness surge through her. But before the feeling could translate to hurt on her face, Dylan glimpsed her out of the corner of his eye.

Everything about him lit up, and with no regard for the fact that her rather imposing father had his arm linked through hers, Dylan hopped off the curb where he was standing and slid his arms around Meg's waist. He squeezed her tight, lifted off her feet for a second, and then dropped her as quickly as he had caught her up. In all their hours and days and weeks together, he had never hugged her. The unexpected contact made Meg tingle from head to toe. She wanted to reach for him, to lay just her finger against the stiff leather of his jacket and make the feeling linger.

“Isn't it awesome?” he asked.

She had no idea what he was referring to. The play? The fact that he had three girls like the points of a triangle around him? Or had he felt what she had in the moment he held her fast? That they fit like the pieces of a puzzle, like a bolt sliding home. Her chin belonged in the spot where his shoulder met his neck. And Dylan's arms were made for the narrow line of her waist. For one of the first times in her life, Meg felt
a blush thaw like snow across her hot cheeks. She wanted to put her hands to her face, to feel the dampness there. Was it obvious? Did everyone else know that they were meant for each other?

“Isn't it awesome?” Dylan asked again.

This time she forced herself to nod. “Yes, it is.”

Her father probed her along, and as she walked away from Dylan, Meg suffered the weight of what she knew to be true press so heavy against her chest, she struggled to breathe. It was suffocating, and she fought the realization of her feelings for him in futile frustration until the moment her heart finally gave way and split open along the seam, an overripe peach rending its flesh. She hadn't known that it could burst like that. Or that the fissure wouldn't mend with time—that it would continue to leak.

That death by devotion is a slow, aching bleed.

“I know where the cast party is,” Sarah whispered, catching Meg's arm and pulling her away from the group of people that had congregated in the parking lot after the final curtain call. “Everyone is going to Lisbeth's house first. You know, Rosalind? Anyway, her parents are hosting a little celebration, but everyone is going to duck out early and head to Ethan's farm.”

“Ethan?” Meg crossed her bare arms to ward off the light breeze that was raising goose bumps across her skin. “The sound guy?” He was slight and quiet, the last person anyone would suspect of throwing what would undoubtedly be a wild house party.

“Yeah.” Sarah's eyes glinted. “His parents took off for Florida this morning and he's staying home alone with his older sister.”

Meg considered this for a second. “How are we going to get there?”

“Jess'll drive us. All we have to do is sneak out. He told my parents he's crashing at a friend's house tonight, but he said he'd meet us at the park if we want to go.”

“Why would he do that?” Meg was instantly suspicious. Jess
was a junior, and chauffeuring around his freshman sister and her lame best friend of his own free will smacked of ulterior motives.

Sarah laughed. “Because I promised him I'd do his chores for a month.”

A slow smile spilled across Meg's face. “How generous of you. Thanks for including me in your little intrigue.”

“As if I'd go alone.” Sarah stifled a little shiver, but Meg couldn't tell if it was because she was cold or because she was excited about the possibilities of the night spread out before them.

At home, Meg changed quickly out of her boho skirt and slipped into a pair of jeans and a fitted T-shirt. It was V-necked and a rather plain chocolate brown, but there was a tiny bird silhouetted in blue just above her heart. Meg hoped it struck the right note between casual and sexy, and teased her hair with a bit of spray gel to complete her offhand look. Then she threw a pair of pajamas into her backpack as well as her toothbrush and a tube of travel toothpaste.

“I'm spending the night at Sarah's,” Meg called as she tripped down the stairs two at a time.

Linda Painter looked up from the ten-o'clock news and surveyed her daughter. “At this time of night? Sweetie, what's the point?”

“The night is just beginning,” Meg teased.

“That's what I'm worried about.” Linda motioned Meg over and pulled her daughter's head down for a quick kiss. “Don't stay up too late. I need you to help me with the garden tomorrow.”

“ 'Kay.”

“And keep it down. The last thing the Langbroeks need is a bunch of teenage girls making a racket all night long.”

“There's only two of us,” Meg said, swinging her backpack over her shoulder and heading for the entryway. “And we aren't exactly the racket-making type. Say good night to Dad for me.”

“He's already asleep.”

“Then tell him good morning.” Meg laughed, and shut the door behind her.

Meg and Sarah waited until after eleven, when the Langbroek house was still and silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator. “My dad sleeps like the dead,” Sarah whispered, even though they were still in her bedroom with the desk lamp on and a CD playing softly in the background. “He won't hear a thing.”

They had decided to leave everything as is, lock the bedroom door, and sneak out the window instead of creeping through the house. Sarah's room was on the second floor, but the flat roof of the garage was directly below her window and the jump was less than ten feet. They reasoned that the slight slant of the roof and the spongy floor of old shingles would cushion their fall.

“What time are we supposed to meet Jess again?” Meg asked, easing the screen out of the window and setting it against the wall.

“Eleven thirty.”

“He's not going to show.” Meg gripped Sarah beneath the elbow and helped her shimmy up to the window ledge.

Sarah giggled. “He will. He hates laundry duty and it's his month. If he doesn't come for us, I'll sneak my red scarf in when he's washing his whites.” And then she pressed her hand to her mouth, wiggled her eyebrows at Meg, and slid off the edge into the darkness below. There was a muted squeal, a thud as she hit the roof, and then a scramble that sounded like pebbles on pavement.

“You okay?” Meg hissed into the darkness.

“Fine,” Sarah called back, and her voice was so light, it floated right past the window and headed for the stars. “So, so fine . . . I love sneaking out. Let's do it every night.”

Meg didn't answer but lifted herself off the windowsill and flipped around, grabbing the edge. Then she slowly lowered her arms until she dangled a few feet from the roof. She let go and landed lightly.

“I'm doing that next time,” Sarah said. She was rubbing the seat of her jeans. “Did I rip a hole in my butt?”

Swatting her friend's behind, Meg laughed. “Nah. And if you did, no one would notice anyway.”

“I'm offended by that,” Sarah pouted. “Are you saying my butt isn't worth noticing?”

“Never. It's a very attention-worthy derriere.”

“Derriere? I think the play got to you. Or, at least, someone in it.”

Meg chose to ignore that comment as she walked along the edge of the garage roof, looking for the best place to jump down. But Sarah wasn't so easily deterred.

“Come on,” Sarah said. “Admit it. You are so in love with him. You want to marry him and have little Dylan babies.”

“Hardly.”

“Hardly? That's the best you can come up with? You are in love with him. I thought it was just a crush.”

“We're friends,” Meg said in the moment before she disappeared over the edge of the roof and clambered off the little lean-to that housed the garbage can onto the damp grass below.

Sarah was a second behind her. “Some friend,” she muttered. “I wish I had a friend like that.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Are you friends with benefits?”

“Oh,” Meg said with a groan. “Don't be disgusting.”

They took off in the direction of the park, keeping to the fenceless backyards and avoiding the warm circles of light cast by streetlamps. Meg tried to check the time on her watch, but it was too dark. In spite of Sarah's assurances otherwise, Meg seriously doubted that Jess would come for them, and she wasn't even sure that she wanted him to. There was something sparkling and illicit about sneaking out, the whole world seemed sharp-edged and shiny, but she couldn't help wondering what the party would hold. Surely Dylan would be there, but Meg didn't know if he would greet her as a friend or an intruder. She could picture him with his arm around the girl who played
Celia, but her skin still tingled at the thought of his embrace. He could have one or the other, not both. Meg tried to stifle the hope that beat powerful wings against her chest.

“Told you he'd be here!” Sarah suddenly squealed, sprinting as they neared the park. Sure enough, Jess's car was pulled over on the side of the road, engine on but headlights off. Someone was in the driver's seat, but it looked like the rest of the car was full, too.

“You'll have to sit on laps,” Jess said rolling down his window and indicating that the girls should hop in the back. “And the taxi fare has just been raised. Two girls equals two months.”

“Two months?” Sarah choked. “That's so not fair.”

Jess grimaced in a parody of concern. “Life's not fair. You coming or not?”

“Nah.” Meg sounded nonchalant, but her heart was beating so hard it matched the bass line of whatever song Jess had cranked up on the pathetic radio in his clunker car. She desperately wanted to go to the party, but standing in the strange aura created by the unfamiliar music, the hot, sticky huddle of guys in Jess's car, and the uncertainty of the night before her, she had to admit that she was also very afraid. Meg didn't do afraid. At least, she pretended not to. All at once she wondered if courage was nothing more than a clever disguise for fear. If so, she definitely considered herself brave.

“What do you mean, nah?” Jess seemed to be glaring at her.

“I mean we're not coming.”

“We're not?” Sarah squeaked.

“No. It's not worth it.”

Meg started to walk away, and after a moment's hesitation Sarah followed. “Meg, I—”

But she didn't have time to finish before Jess called across the pavement. “Get in.” The back door creaked open and even from halfway across the street Meg could catch a cloying whiff of cigarette smoke and cologne.