Yours to Keep (15 page)

She wondered what her mother would have said about Ethan. Not that they were going to get married, far from it, but it was interesting to imagine. Her mother hadn’t been bitter about her father’s abandoning them, only sad. She might not have held Ethan’s class or race against him as Ricky did.

The way Ethan was looking at her, wary and tender, was the thing that finally brought tears to her eyes.

He reached up one hand and brushed the tears back with his thumb. Her hand was still on his arm. She slid it up to the back of his neck, wound her fingers into his soft hair.

His mouth came down hard on hers, then softened, angled, his tongue finding hers. She whimpered at the sudden rush of sensation. He bit her lip, sucked on it. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he drew her into his lap, hard thighs under her, the heat of his
erection against the side of her leg. She buried herself in his mouth, trying to find her way deeper into him.

The timer went off with a sudden eruption of beeps that startled them apart. She stood up, laughing.

“
God.
Come back here.”

But they both knew she had to go. He stood up and pulled her close so she could feel him against her belly, the hard length of him under his khakis, against her belly. It brought out an answering throb between her legs.

“I’m looking forward to Saturday,” he said mildly, and they both laughed.

Every time he got into the car with her it felt different, a new episode in their unfolding story. A way of measuring their progress: Today, a new sense of ease and comfort. They could laugh with and at each other. They could trip over each other’s words in their eagerness to speak and sit companionably in silence. Those things were all new, and this car ride was a different place entirely for them. And yet it also felt as if they’d never left the car at all, another leg on a long journey, the destination unclear but the anticipation, the tension, like a third presence.

Because it was never far from his mind, he told her about the desperate mommies and about Nicole Freyer and her daughter, Mary.

“The specialist says there’s nothing developmentally wrong with Mary,” he said. Dr. Hastings had called him that morning to tell him that Mary was a normal three-year-old. He’d received the news with relief, but before he even hung up the phone he’d begun to worry again.

“So does that mean Nicole is just trying to get your attention?”

“Not necessarily. But it might mean that there’s something wrong with Mary that I missed the first time around. Chances are, one way or another, I’m going to be seeing more of them.”

“You’re too sexy for your own good. That’s why the mommies all want to be around you.”

The brake lights of the car in front of them flared, coloring their faces. He laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“You are!” She briefly let her hand rest on his arm, and, primed as he was, even that was enough to make his cock feel heavy.

“I don’t think so. I think it’s a rescue thing. Everyone wants to be rescued. The mommies want to be rescued from their lives of drudgery. I’m just a convenient superhero.” He told her how Nicole Freyer had called him Superman.

“I can imagine you’d need a break from that.”

“Yeah. From time to time—” He hesitated.

“What?”

“Well, it’s part of why I like you. You’ve rescued me.”

“Really?” She sounded delighted. “I thought you’d rescued me.”

“Nah. It’s the other way around. I was—I don’t know, going through the motions. I heard your voice and opened the door, and there you were, and now things feel easier somehow.” As he said it, he had the sensation of an avalanche in his chest, all the pent-up emotion, breaking loose and sliding free. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

Her voice was very small and sweet as she said, “That’s so nice. Wow.”

He nodded. “Really. And if I didn’t say this before?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to be jealous of Trish. At all. That feels like another life, a lifetime ago.”

He glanced over at her, smooth skin and dark eyes, regal nose, luscious mouth, curving now into a smile. If he hadn’t been driving, he’d have dragged her against him and licked that smile into submission.

“You’re now,” he said.

Chapter 13

Tuesday, on her way to the Abramses’ house to tutor Leah, Ana’s shuttle passed the middle school. She stared out the slightly streaked window at the row of cars lined up in the circle outside the main entrance, puzzled for a moment, until she remembered. It was Election Day. The occupants of those cars were inside the middle-school gym, pulling levers or coloring in bubbles or whatever one did to vote these days. She felt an itchy desire to participate that made her think of the Velveteen Rabbit’s longing to be real. Someday. Maybe.

Except as she got older she’d begun to accept that it might never happen. It was too hard to undo the mistake that had been made. The price was too high. To erase the past, she’d have to spend ten years in exile. How would she ever feel ready to trade ten years of her life away? Especially now. She could conjure up Ethan’s scent, feel his breath against her cheek—as insubstantial as a spirit, but also an anchor, steadying her.

That ghost stayed with her throughout the tutoring session with Leah, distracting and potent.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,” Mrs. Abrams said when Ana had finished tutoring Leah and the teenager had gone upstairs. Ana wondered idly if Theo had gotten around to asking Leah out yet. Then she saw the look on Mrs. Abrams’s face. Kind. Pitying, actually. Her thoughts froze solid, and her heart broke into a gallop. No good could come of that look.

Mrs. Abrams shifted uncomfortably, one foot to the other. She wore a lavender tracksuit, and her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. She didn’t meet Ana’s eyes.

Whatever it was that Mrs. Abrams didn’t want to say, Ana was sure she didn’t want to hear it, either. Her mind cast about for an escape or a change of topic, but she couldn’t think of a thing.

“I hope you won’t think I’m a total busybody,” Mrs. Abrams said.

The refrigerator motor subsided, leaving the kitchen in total silence. Ana began gathering up her papers and books to fill the emptiness.

Mrs. Abrams cleared her throat. “My brother-in-law is an immigration lawyer.”

A roaring swept through Ana’s ears, her head; she felt faint for a moment. She let her things fall back on the table.

Mrs. Abrams came forward, grabbed Ana’s hand, and clasped it in her own. “You have to understand, I just want to help.”

This isn’t helpful,
thought Ana through a brain full of fog. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She extracted her hand from Mrs. Abrams’s grasp and took a step away from the other woman, from her—her fervor.

“He could help you become a citizen.”

Ana took a deep breath.
Calm down,
she instructed herself.
You are totally overreacting. She doesn’t know you’re illegal. She wants to help you become a citizen. That’s perfectly legit.

“I’m not asking you to tell me anything about your status.”

Ana breathed a little more easily. She opened her mouth, not entirely sure what she was going to say but ready to try damage control.

Mrs. Abrams held up a hand, palm to Ana. “I’m not asking. I don’t want to know. But my brother-in-law could help. He’s a good guy. One of the best.”

A surge of hope washed over Ana, nearly as intense as the longings she’d felt Saturday and Monday nights in Ethan’s presence. And, she thought, as utterly and completely meaningless. It was only a tease from the universe, the suggestion that things might be as ordinary for her as they were for the rest of the world. Nothing she could or should cling to. Even a good lawyer, even the very best, wouldn’t be able to undo what a few mistakes and years of hiding had done.

Mrs. Abrams’s eyes were pleading. “At least talk to him?”

But she couldn’t. It was not just about that surge of false hope, the overwhelming probability of disappointment. It was about the very real danger to her, to her sister and her brother, and—although they couldn’t be deported—to her niece and nephews. If the children were left alone here, without her, without Ricky, without their mother …

“Mrs. Abrams.”

“Rena.” She’d urged Ana to call her that before, but somehow Ana couldn’t do it. Maybe that was why the invitations to friendship had never come. Or maybe it was because Mrs. Abrams, like Ed Branch, had suspected the truth all along.

“That is very kind of you. So very kind. I appreciate your thinking of me. But—”

She had to tread carefully here.

Ricky would have been out the door already. Up the street. Running for home. And if he couldn’t?

He’d be lying through his teeth.

“We already have a lawyer.”

“My brother-in-law is the guy to call. I could get you in to see him right away. Immediately. Tomorrow.”

Ana shook her head slowly.

“He could help with the CORI situation.”

Ana stared at her.

“Louisa Grieg is my cousin,” Mrs. Abrams said apologetically. “She heard about what they’re doing at the high school with the CORI. She and I—we don’t think it’s fair. It might not even be legal, what they’re doing.”

Oh, God. Now things made more sense. Ed Branch had known about Ana’s status because Louisa Grieg had guessed or known, and she had apparently not been at all discreet about her suspicion. All Mrs. Abrams’s talk earlier about not wanting to know Ana’s status had been disingenuous. She already knew it.

“I want to help, Ana.”

It was so dangerously foolish to think that because you liked the same clothes as someone, because you read the same books, it would somehow cancel out the fact that you came from completely different worlds. What had made her fantasize that she and Rena Abrams could be friends? It had been only a matter of time until something like this happened.

“You’re very kind.” Ana was so light-headed that she was afraid she wouldn’t make it to Mrs. Abrams’s immaculately decorated guest bathroom before she lost her lunch. “But, I assure you, we’re fine. The situation is totally under control.”

“Please, Ana—”

Ana could only shake her head, not trusting herself to speak.

Something shifted in Mrs. Abrams’s face. She suddenly looked old, not young and glamorous and privileged. Old, and pained, as if Ana’s reality hurt her as much as it hurt Ana.
“I understand,” she said. She said it as if she meant it.

It would have been loads easier if she could hate Mrs. Abrams, dismiss her as a busybody, see the interference as malicious or selfish. But the truth was she knew Mrs. Abrams was only doing what she thought was right. She was only trying to help.

And beneath Ana’s fear what she felt was loss, like a child who has too abruptly outgrown an imaginary friend.

The phone rang while Ethan was washing dishes. He dried his hands on a dishcloth and picked up the kitchen extension.

“Ethan?”

It was Ana’s voice. A premonition of disaster struck low in his chest. It must have been something in her tone, though he couldn’t have said what.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He steadied himself against what was coming.

“I’m not going to be able to have dinner with you on Saturday night. Or any night. We can’t do this. It’s not a good idea. I’ve thought about this, and—”

“Don’t think.” If he let her say it aloud, it would only solidify her resolve. “Nothing good ever comes of thinking.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “See, that’s the difference between us. That’s a luxury I don’t have.”

“Why? Why? I need to understand.”

He heard her sigh against the phone, and that, even that, made him think about the noises she made, the indrawn breaths, that moan that had hinted at how she’d be in bed. He thought of how easy it had felt, sitting across from her at the brewery, how she had infiltrated his mind and his life and Theo’s life, and how much change her presence had already brought. How much clarity. How much peace. He put his free hand to his forehead. He was in this way too deep, way too fast. He was a crazy man. He was doomed.

“Please don’t make me explain. Just trust me. It could never work.”

“It’s working. How can you even say that? It works better than anything has ever worked, Ana.”

“Ethan.”

He felt it, his name on her lips, in his fingertips.

“It’s Election Day,” she said.

“I know. I voted, earlier. When I finish the dishes, I’m going to watch the returns.”

“So you watch the news. You know how divided the country is about immigrants, especially Latinos. People, even people here, they feel this stuff deep in their guts. They see you and me together, they don’t feel like it’s right. It will make them angry, and they won’t even know why.”

“But that’s racist,” he said.

“Don’t be naïve,” she said scornfully. “Everyone’s a racist. You can’t live in the United States and not know that. Post-racial my ass.”

He’d never heard her angry. Wounded, he said, “I don’t think I’m naïve. Maybe not everyone’s post-racial, but maybe there’s something to it. I don’t think of you as—as different.”

“Then you’re the only one who doesn’t,” she said.

“Ana,” he said, aware that he was now pleading, that begging couldn’t be far behind.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Ana. Ana—”

She’d hung up.

She’d wanted to tell him the truth. She’d wanted to tell him what Mrs. Abrams said, how it felt, how it changed everything, reminded her that she was living on borrowed time and would always live on borrowed time.

But she hadn’t told him the truth. Would probably never tell him.

“My life—” That was the sentence she’d started the other day at the foot of the stairs. She’d been about to say, “My life is nothing like your life.” And nothing she did, no lies she told herself, no lies she let herself believe, would change that.

Even as she told Ethan that she couldn’t go out with him on Saturday, she’d felt his pull on her. His deep, almost husky voice, so low it reverberated in her chest. What he’d said about not seeing her as different. The fact that she believed him. Of all the people she’d met, ever, in her whole life, he was the only one who seemed to her to be genuinely color-blind. Without making less of her than she was.