Where You'll Find Me (4 page)

Chapter Seven

I jog over to the barrier. Sure enough, Nate’s short hair and backpack are moving among the crowd.

“I just happened to look, and there he was,” the guy says. “It’s lucky I…”

“Nate,” I interrupt. No reaction. “Nate,” I call, louder. This time, his step falters. He looks around. “Up here.” People are staring at me, but I could not care less.

Nate walks toward me. “Are you stalking me?” There’s a smile on his face and hint of teasing in his tone.

“Come up here, okay?”

He glances toward the escalator. “I’ll be right there. Stay put.”

The kiosk employee sighs, and I realize he’s next to me, leaning on the banister with his chin in his hand. “He’s cute. Definitely worth looking for.”

I laugh. “Truth.”

A few seconds later, Nate is walking toward me.

“Gotta get back to work,” the kiosk employee says. “Good luck, Hanley.”

“Thanks for your help.”

“No problem. Don’t forget. Come see me,” he says, motioning to the lotion.

I catch a whiff of chamomile and cucumber and smile. “I won’t forget.”

Nate approaches, hands in his jean pockets, calm and collected. “Hi, Hanley.”

“Hi.” I don’t continue because I still don’t know what to say.

He clears his throat. “I was just going for a walk. Would you like to join me?”

I nod and follow his lead. Thankfully, he’s heading toward the food court. Though I can’t see a clock, I know I’m already pushing my five-minute limit.

“So,” he says, “correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you said the next time you saw me, you would call the police. Should I be concerned?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “No. I didn’t call the police. I’m not going to.”

He nods and is quiet for a few steps. “Thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome.” The conversation is awkward and forced.

“So…you called me up here why exactly? Oh, I know. You finally decided that you can’t get enough of my charming good looks, right?” He grins. The stubble below his smile is gone, evidence of recent shaving.

I take a step away from him. “Sorry. I’m just going to have to walk over here to make room for your big head.”

Nate laughs. “What is it, then? What can I do for you?”

“I just…” I stumble over words that still won’t form. “It’s cold outside.”

Nate adjusts his backpack on his shoulder and nods slowly. “That might be weird in July, but last I checked it was still January.”

Ohmygod. Could I sound any more stupid? We take another turn in the direction of the food court. “I mean it’s
really
cold. Like, they already cancelled school for tomorrow. Like dangerously cold.”

“Okay…” he says, like he’s waiting for me to continue, but I don’t. He shakes his head. “You’re going to have to fill in the blanks for me. I don’t get it.”

“I wanted to make sure you’re going to be okay,” I blurt out.

He’s quiet for a second that slows and stretches into minutes. Hours. Days. Then he says, “Really?”

“Yeah,” I say, staring at the ground in front of us. “I mean, I told you not to come back to my garage, but then I thought, what if that’s the only place you can go where you’ll be out of the cold?” I swallow hard. “What if you’re going to die tonight because of me?”

“Hanley, if I died tonight, it would be because of the cold, not because of you.”

But in my world, all blame goes to me. “You’ll go to a shelter or something, right? You’ll be okay?”

“I can’t go to a shelter.”

When I glance up, he’s not looking at me. “Why not? I saw on the news that they’ll take almost anyone. They just—”

“I can’t,” he interrupts. His tone is not apologetic or angry. Just honest.

“Why?”

“They take names at the local shelters. Check IDs.”

I wait for the problem to become obvious, but it doesn’t. “And?”

“And that’s asking more than I can give them.”

A shiver runs down my spine. Just how much trouble is he in? If he can’t give them his ID, it has to be bad. Or maybe he’s just a runaway? No matter how hard I try to picture it, I can’t see him as dangerous. “Can’t you just—”

“No,” he snaps. “I can’t just anything. Let it go, okay?” We walk in silence for a few seconds. He’s obviously angry, and I’m slightly stunned. Before I can figure out how to respond, he sighs. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t about you. I’ll find someplace to go. I always do.”

I bite my lip. If it wasn’t about me, then what was it about? “But what if you don’t?”

“Then I don’t. I’ll be okay, Hanley. You don’t have to worry about me.”

What he doesn’t understand, what I don’t even really understand, is that I do. When I sneezed in the garage, Nate became a part of my life. Dangerous or not, I can’t handle his death on my conscience. “I just… I don’t want you to get hurt. Or sick. Or anything.”

We walk in silence again. “Are you inviting me back into your garage?”

“I don’t know,” I say, because it’s the truth.

He nods. “Would it make you feel better if I told you that I’ll do my best to find someplace warm to stay tonight, and if I can’t, I’ll consider stopping by your place for a few hours?”

It’s perfect. The solution I’ve been looking for all along. “It would.”

“Okay. It’s a plan.”

We turn into the food court, still walking side by side. We’re close enough to the exit that I can see Heather’s car idling out front. “My sister’s waiting for me.”

We come to a stop, and he faces me. “Thanks for thinking about me. And for the offer, if that’s what it was.”

My cheeks burn. “Be careful tonight.”

“I will. And if you don’t see me, I found someplace else to sleep. Don’t worry.”

“See you later. Or not. Whichever.”

He smiles. “Hey, Hanley?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you wearing a necklace?”

My neck feels very bare under my jacket. The memories that hit when I first saw the necklace have kept me from fastening the chain around my neck. “No. I’m not. But thank you.” Without waiting for a response, I dash outside.

“That was longer than five minutes,” Heather says as soon as I close the car door.

I stare back at the mall, watching Nate walk away. “Sorry. Thanks for waiting.”

Heather doesn’t respond right away. I can’t remember the last time I said “sorry” or “thanks” to Heather, and she just got both at once. She puts the car into drive. “You’re welcome.” She pulls out of the parking lot. “Who’s the guy?”

“No one,” I say. But it sounds like a lie even to my own ears.

…

The entire evening becomes a game of See How Many Times I Can Check the Garage for Nate Without My Parents Realizing I’m Up to Something. When I chug a can of post-pizza Pepsi, I take the can out to the recycling bin instead of leaving in the sink and listening to Mom complain about it for three days before taking it out herself. Later, I pretend to have lost my cell phone and borrow Heather’s keys to head through the garage and “check for it in her car.” When I notice that our fridge is running a little low on water bottles, I grab a few from the value pack in the garage, which is still empty. Always empty. Even though I’m trying to follow Nate’s suggestion and not worry, I definitely am.

It’s late when I slip downstairs again, prepared to chug another can of pop.

“What are you doing?” Mom asks. She’s sitting on the couch in the den with her laptop in her lap. She hasn’t stopped working since she walked in the door.

“Getting a can of pop.”

She eyes me suspiciously. I get it. If there was ever a night to sneak out and drink, tonight would be it. But leaving is the furthest thing from my mind.

“Heather’s going to be babysitting all day tomorrow,” she says, closing her laptop. “Aunt Valerie needs someone to watch the kids, since school is cancelled. But I don’t want you walking anywhere. And I don’t want you going anywhere with Misty, either. That van”—the word sounds vile—“is going to break down, and it’s way too cold for that. You need to stay home tomorrow.”

Normally, I would argue. But right now all I can focus on is the fact that she’s packing up her laptop, wrapping the cord into neat loops, and tucking it in her bag. That means she’s going to bed. I won’t need excuses to go into the garage. So I don’t argue. “Okay.”

When Mom looks up, her green eyes are full of surprise. She’s still wearing her work suit, which is beyond wrinkled after this many hours of wear. The eyeliner she applied early this morning is smudged. I will never be an accountant because I never want to feel as exhausted as my mom looks.

“Okay?” she asks, like she didn’t hear me right the first time.

“Okay. I’ll stay home.”

“Good,” she says, eyeing me for another minute before shaking her head. “Well, I’m going to bed.” Maybe her shock is the reason why she doesn’t tell me to spend my day off cleaning my room or doing homework. Not that I would do either one, but still. Maybe I should avoid arguing more often.

I say good night and curl up on the couch with a blanket. The cold is seeping into the house, like the furnace can’t compete with Mother Nature’s brutality. A show on MTV distracts me while I wait for my mom to go to sleep. Once I’m sure it’s safe, I creep to the garage and open the door. I’m not sure which is worse—expecting Nate to be there or knowing he won’t be.

It’s almost 1:30 when I decide to check the garage one last time. I’m getting tired, and if he hasn’t showed up by now, chances are he’s not going to. It’s cold enough that I want to turn around immediately, but a familiar rustling sound stops me.

“Hello?”

“Hanley.” Nate’s voice brings instant relief. He’s here. He’s okay. He’s not turning stiff and blue on some park bench.

Once the door is closed, I turn on the light. Wrapping my arms around myself doesn’t help much, but I do it anyways. As I walk over to him, I wince with every freezing step. But when I get past the Trans Am and see Nate, I literally freeze.

“Ohmygod! What the hell happened?”

Blood drips down Nate’s face, onto his jacket.

He smiles a half smile. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I approach slowly, not noticing the cold anymore. “Are you okay?”

“I will be,” he says, leaning back against the wall. “I don’t think the damage is permanent.”

Even once I get closer, the source of the blood isn’t obvious. “Is your lip bleeding, too, or just your nose?”

His normally bright blue eyes are dull, like he’s in pain. “Just my nose.” When he wipes at his face with a towel, his knuckles catch my attention.

“And your hand,” I say. “Let me see.”

Hesitantly, he holds out his right hand. His fingers shake as he straightens them. The skin over his knuckles is already badly bruised, some of it cracked and bleeding. “Not broken. Just bruised. Same with my nose.” The left hand isn’t quite as bad, but also isn’t great.

“I’m going to get some supplies. Stay here.”

He laughs and winces again. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

The house feels like a sauna compared to the icebox of a garage. It’s a challenge to gather everything I need quickly, quietly, and mostly in the dark, but I manage. Back in the garage, I sit across from Nate on the tarps, which are only marginally warmer than the cement floor. Wordlessly, I hold out a wad of tissues. He holds them up to his nose with his right hand while I work on his left. With gentle movements, I clean the wound and bandage it. When he switches hands, there are three wounds on his right hand. As I clean and bandage those, I can’t help but notice that the injuries to his hands seem disproportionate to the injury to his face. There’s a lot of blood, but noses bleed a lot. One punch could have done that. I don’t think one punch could do this to his knuckles. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” I ask.

“No,” he says, voice clogged. When he pulls the tissues away, his nose has stopped bleeding.

“That’s good,” I say, pouring a little more water on a washcloth. “Because your hands are pretty bad.”

“I was just lucky I got the jump on the guy quickly. Otherwise, he probably would have killed me.”

He’s right. Despite the disproportionate nature of his injuries, I wanted Nate alive, and he is. Alive but potentially dangerous.

“Well?” he asks when I finish bandaging the last cut.

After wiping the last of the blood from his face, I say, “I’m no expert, but I think you’ll live.” I hand him a couple of Advil and a bottle of water.

“Good to hear.” He swallows the pills and leans against the wall. When I put a bag of frozen peas on one hand and one of corn on the other, he doesn’t say a word about the cold.

“So,” I say, taking a seat next to him. Our shoulders are inches apart. “You couldn’t find anywhere else to go?”

“I tried. Didn’t work out so well.”

I spin my ring around my thumb. “Well…I’m glad you’re…” The “here” I was going to say doesn’t feel right. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He nods. “Me, too. You weren’t kidding. It’s fucking freezing out there. People’s tempers are a little short.”

As if acknowledging this fact, I shiver. Nate leans to the left, closing the distance between our shoulders. The warmth I feel is much more than that tiny bit of contact can explain. It’s silent for a few seconds before I clear my throat and say, “I’ll bring some blankets for you.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll be okay.”

“I know, tough guy. But I’ll bring them anyway.”

“I knew you’d be one of those girls who like guys with scars.”

I pull my knees up toward my chest, careful to leave our shoulders in contact. “You think you know all about me, huh?”

I feel his shrug more than I see it. “Not to sound like a stalker, but I’ve heard you. Seen you. I’ve got you all figured out.”

There’s no way that statement can be true, but I let it slide. “And how, exactly, is that supposed to sound not like a stalker?”

“I’m here for the shelter. You get a random urge to move to, say, Canada? I’m not following you.”

“Wimp,” I say, nudging his shoulder. “I’m sure Canada can’t be much colder than this.”

“Not a chance I’m willing to take. And while I’m here, the Helton Family Soap Opera isn’t so bad.”

“Knowing about me isn’t really fair when I know almost nothing about you.”