The Distance Between Us (17 page)

“Really? And here I thought you were in your forties.”

“Nice try.”

I take a breath. “I was hoping I could get a phone number from you. I think he would give it to me himself. . . . I guess what I mean is that I’m not trying to get it behind his back or anything. He’s even called me before. I don’t think he’d mind if I had it.”

“Take a deep breath, honey.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You would like Alex’s phone number? He is quite the charmer, isn’t he?”

“No. I mean, well, yes, he is, but we’re just friends.” And right now I need a friend.

“That’s what it sounds like.”

I laugh. Mrs. Dalton is funny.

“Yes, let me get it for you. I have this fancy phone that can store hundreds of numbers, but I still write them in my little red book.”

I realize I’m holding my breath in anticipation.

“Are you ready?” she asks.

More than ready. “Yes.” I write down the number on the calendar. “Thanks so much.”

“No problem. Tell him I said hi.”

I hang up and stare at the number for an eternity. I want to talk to him. I need to talk to him. But my insides are all twisted up. I squeeze my eyes closed, and when I open them again I dial the number quickly before I change my mind. It rings three times and I feel like minutes pass between each one.

Finally he answers.

Chapter 27

“
H
ello.” His familiar voice automatically eases my tension. He’s nothing like Robert. If he were he’d have been gone the minute he found out I lived above a doll store. I relax with this thought.

“Alex?” I don’t know why Alex came out of my mouth. Probably because I had written that name next to his phone number when Mrs. Dalton called him that.

“Caymen?”

“Yeah. Hi.”

“Alex?” he asks.

“Sorry. Slip. I was talking to your grandma.”

“Why wouldn’t you be?”

I lie on the floor behind the register and feel a bit like Skye as I stare at the ceiling. This position is conducive to thinking. No wonder why she spends so much time here.

It’s silent for a long time before he says, “Did you need something?”

You. “I’ve needed my morning hot chocolate, but someone got me addicted to it then took it away.”

“Is that your subtle way of saying you missed me last week?”

“I’ve missed hot chocolate. I just think of you as the guy who brings it to me. Sometimes I forget your name and call you hot chocolate guy.”

He laughs a little, and I find myself wishing I could see his face so I could witness how his eyes light up when he smiles.

“And I’ve missed your wit.”

“Understandable.” My heart beats heavily in my temples. “I never said thank you for letting me borrow the camera.”

“So does this mean you’re done with the website? What’s the address? I want to see the soul-sucking dolls on my screen.” Some papers shuffle on his end and I wonder if he’s reaching across a desk or something to get on his computer.

“No. I mean, there is no address. My mom doesn’t want it.”

“Oh. Why?”

“I’m not sure, actually. I was going to surprise her, show her what I’d done, and she flipped out on me. Totally shut down, said she didn’t want it. It was so unlike her.”

“What did you put on it?”

“That’s the thing. I’d only shown her the banner and our contact info. I was telling her how I wanted to put her picture up as well.”

“Is she camera shy?”

I prop my feet up on the wall and let my free hand drift above my head. “No.”

“Maybe she just doesn’t want that on the internet, her face along with where you live. It’s basically like you’re posting your address on the website along with her face. I can see why that might freak her out, a bunch of strangers knowing where you live. Is there a way to do it without the personal info?”

I had stopped breathing. I know this only because black edges into my vision. I take a breath. Is she worried about a bunch of strangers finding out where we live or one very specific person? My father.

“You okay?”

I hum, not trusting my voice. My whole throat is tight. I’m not sure words could make it through at all.

“You sure?”

I swallow. “Yes. I think you might be right.” Considering how much my throat hurts, I’m surprised by how normal my voice sounds.

“I often am.”

“Do you think he’s tried?” It takes me a moment to realize I’d said that out loud and another moment to realize that Xander has responded back and is now waiting for my answer to a question I didn’t hear. “What?”

“I said, ‘do I think who’s tried what?’”

I force myself to sit up and then stand. Lying down was making my thoughts too free. “These strangers you refer to. Do you think they’d try to find us for their sinister purposes?”

“What sinister purposes are those?”

I lean against the back counter and with a black pen doodle around his phone number I had written on the calendar. “You know, the things strangers need people for . . . eating their candy and finding their lost dogs.”

“I don’t buy it, you know.”

“You shouldn’t. Those are their ploys to lure you into the car so they can take you away. I’m glad you wouldn’t fall for it.”

“I’m talking about your humor. I know that sometimes you use it to hide things.”

“You give me way too much credit. I really am as shallow as I seem.”

“Hardly. And the answer to your question is yes. Yes, I think your father has tried to find you. What father wouldn’t want to know his daughter?”

“The kind that would run away at even the thought of me.” I don’t know why I’m talking about this. There’s a reason I avoid this subject. It feels as though someone has poked every inch of my skin with a needle, leaving me raw and exposed.

“If he had known you he’d have never been able to leave.”

I close my eyes. What kind of man could run away like that? Just leave my mom in that state. The kind that was scared out of his mind. Scared what I would do to his future. I did ruin futures: my mom is evidence of that. He was just a kid, really, with a future so full of possibilities and the money to make it happen. He probably was a lot like Xander. Which is why when my mom saw Xander she couldn’t help but see her past. “Could you have left?”

“Never.”

I can’t decide if that makes me feel better or worse.

“That’s what makes me think he’s tried, Caymen. A regret like that doesn’t go away.”

Assuming he regrets it at all. “How hard can one girl be to find?”

“Maybe your mom hasn’t told you about his attempts.”

“My mom wouldn’t keep something like that from me.” As I say that my eyes collide with the box on the calendar where she had written “small business association meeting.” Maybe she was keeping something like that from me. And if she was, then maybe Xander was right. Maybe she was keeping a lot of things from me. “What are you doing Wednesday night?”

“I’m pretty open.”

“Career day. Six thirty. Meet me here.”

“It’s my turn for career day. I have something planned for tomorrow, remember?”

“Okay, fine. Tomorrow you. Wednesday me.” I clear my throat. “Unless that’s too much. You aren’t going to get in trouble for seeing me so much, right?” I want to add, “Girlfriends can get so jealous,” but I don’t because I’m afraid it might sound bitter. That’s the last thing I want to come off as.

“No, of course not. I already told you my parents like you.”

I don’t doubt that anymore now that I know his parents don’t think he’s dating me. “Tomorrow afternoon would be better than morning for me.”

“How about two?”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Caymen?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to hang up. If you need to talk some more I have time.”

The knot in my stomach loosens with the suggestion, and just as I’m about to open my mouth a girl’s voice sounds on his end.

“Xander, what’s taking so long? Are you on the phone?”

“Yes, sorry to make you wait. I’ll be right down. Give me five minutes.”

“Who’re you talking to?” she asks.

“A friend.” A door shuts and then his voice is louder in the receiver. “Sorry about that.”

“That’s okay. Sounds like you have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow at two. Bye.” I hang up before he can stop me, proud my voice sounded casual because it feels like someone has their hands clamped around my throat. No more phone calls. They don’t help.

Chapter 28

I
wait on the curb. Every minute that passes after two o’clock feels like an eternity. I think that maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe Sadie Newel told him he couldn’t talk to friends late at night and take them on “career days.”

At 2:07 his car rounds the corner. He parks and steps out.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” My body still reacts to him like it always has, my heart picking up speed, tingles spreading through my arms and up my neck.

He looks over my shoulder to the shop and then back to me. “You ready?”

I nod.

He lifts a hand to my elbow. “Are you okay?”

I meet his eyes and want to say, “No, I still feel like crap. My mom is keeping secrets, I’ll probably be homeless in a month, my dad ran out on me, and you have a girlfriend we’re both pretending doesn’t exist.”

I just say, “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

He must not believe me because he pulls me into a hug. I close my eyes and breathe him in.

“I’m here,” he says into my hair.

“For how long?” I want to ask. “You’re a good friend,” I say instead, and then untwist myself from his arms.

The ride is a quiet one until Xander pulls into the airport.

“Um . . .” I watch a plane take off then turn my shocked gaze on Xander. “Are we flying somewhere?”

“You’re not afraid of flying, are you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’ve never been on a plane before?”

“No.” And maybe I am afraid because my palms start to sweat.

“Really?” He studies me for a moment as though trying to figure out a puzzle.

“You know I told my mom I’d be back tonight, right?”

“Yes. You will be.”

“Okay.”

It wouldn’t have surprised me if Xander stepped into the cockpit of the private jet we boarded and started up the engines. But, thankfully, he didn’t. There was a pilot waiting for us.

We settle into seats that face each other. He grabs a bottle of water from a cabinet beneath his seat, takes a sip, and hands it to me. Then he retrieves one for himself.

“Pre-sipped beverages? This flight is so accommodating.”

I’m rewarded with a smile. It doesn’t last long enough, though, and I try to think of something else to say to bring it back. It’s a good distraction, and I’ve missed his smile. I should tell him that. I don’t.

His attention is on the screen of his cell phone and he starts texting or writing an email or something. I slip off my shoes and bring one foot beneath me, trying to get comfortable, trying to forget I’m sitting on a plane that’s about to be airborne.

He shifts over a little and pats the space next to him. “You can put your feet up here.”

“You don’t have a feet phobia?”

“Does such a thing exist?”

“Sure, it’s a real condition. There are groups, therapists, the whole nine yards.” I slide my feet onto the seat next to him, my ankle brushing against his thigh. “No shallowness of breath? No rapidly beating heart?”

He rests one hand on my foot as he continues to mess with his phone. His eyes meet mine in amusement. “Are those the indicators? I might have an issue after all.”

Why does he have to say stuff like that? Before him, I thought I knew if a guy was flirting with me. But he says things so subtly, so smoothly, that it’s hard to tell if it’s purposeful or if he’s just playing along with my jokes.

Maybe I should just ask him, straight out.
What does your girlfriend think of me?
That’s a fair question. “Xander?”

“Yes?”

“What . . .”

He puts his phone down and gives me his full attention.

“What are you doing on your phone? Words With Friends or something?” I’m such a wimp. Once it’s out in the open, maybe he’ll start treating me like he has a girlfriend.

And that’s not what I want. This is a problem.