Cold Kiss (11 page)

I really hope it also doesn’t matter that he followed me outside last night, since I can’t remember seeing him again after that.

I let go of her when she seems a little calmer, and glance into the kitchen. Mr. Purrfect’s bag of kibble looks like it exploded, clown-car-style—mounds of tiny fish-shaped pellets have spilled out of a bag half its size.

Robin winces when I look back at her. “I was shaking it, you know? To get him to come? And I was calling him and shaking it, and calling him, and … suddenly all this food started pouring out of it.”

It’s really coming, then, the moment when Robin can do the things I can do, and Mom can do, and for a second jealousy stabs at me. At least she has an idea it will happen to her, unlike me.

But that’s something to deal with later. For now, we have to find the dumb cat.

“You checked the whole house?” I ask her, going back into the front hall to grab my jacket. “Closets, drawers, basement, everywhere?”

“Everywhere.” She’s practically vibrating with panic, and I don’t blame her. The number of places a twelve-pound cat can hide is huge.

“He has to be outside, then. Come on.”

She grabs a sweatshirt and follows me through the back door, already calling for him as she yanks it over her head. It’s nearly dusk, the backyard crouching in the shadow of the scarred elm tree beside the garage.

“You check in there,” I tell her, and squint into the gathering dark of the lawn, the space under the back steps, the scraggly bushes along the wall.

Robin knocks something over in the garage, and she comes out muttering and brushing off her sleeves. “If he’s in there, he’s somewhere I can’t see. We need
light.
”

The word is barely out of her mouth when a buttery glow follows the path of her outstretched hand. Her eyes widen, and I stumble backward a foot, but there’s no time to comment on it because the light has fallen on a trampled path pressed into the dying grass.

Heading straight toward the corner of the yard, and Mrs. Petrelli’s garage.

Robin’s on her way before I can say anything, the yellow light wobbling in front of her. It’s pretty clear that the path is too wide for a cat to have made, but she doesn’t see that in her panic.

“Robin, slow down.” I jog after her. “You might, um, scare him if he’s back here.”

“Mr. Purrfect,” she calls, ignoring me. “C’mere, boy. Come on now, I’ve got dinner for you, boy.” She’s already at the break in the hedge, waving her hand to cast the light through the scraggly leaves.

And there, just on the other side of the hedge, is the cat, six feet from Mrs. Petrelli’s garage, with a crumpled piece of paper in his mouth. His yellow eyes gleam hot when Robin’s light bounces over his face.

“There you are!” The light disappears as she rushes toward him, pushing through the leaves and dropping onto the grass with her hands outstretched. “Come here, boy.”

I know it’s not possible—if my heart really stopped, I would pass out, keel over, lose consciousness. But it feels that way as the stupid animal opens its mouth to mewl at her, dropping the paper on the ground at her knees.

All I can think is
wind,
but it’s too late. Before the stiff breeze slaps at us, she picks up the paper and spreads it open. “What’s this?” she says, petting the cat as he rubs against her thigh. His fur is standing partly on end, and I don’t know if he’s freaked out because of the wind or something else.

Like my dead boyfriend.

“Wren,” Robin says as I stand there with my mouth open like an idiot. “It looks like one of Danny’s.”

The wrinkled page on her knees bears a cartoon sketch of a girl who looks just like me, in skinny black jeans and Docs, dark hair sticking out every which way, only half caught up in barrettes, and a bright red slash creating a smirk.

It is me, of course. And Robin would know—her favorite game was to get Danny to draw funny pictures for her, of me, of the cat, of himself, even of her. She still has a couple of them pinned to the wall over her desk, all signed with Danny’s scribbled initials.

She loved him, too, and he treated her better than most boyfriends would treat someone’s annoying little sister, because Danny was always willing to make someone smile.

None of that matters right now, though. I lean forward and snatch the paper off her lap. “Get the cat, come on. It’s freezing.”

“Where do you think he got that?” She stands up, Mr. Purrfect cradled in her arms and her voice muffled since she’s speaking into his fur.

“I threw some stuff out the other day,” I tell her, and glance back over my shoulder as we make our way across the yard. “It must have blown out of the trash.”

She blinks, and even in the semidarkness I can read the betrayal on her face. “Oh.”

It hurts to let the lie hang there, but there’s nothing else I can do. Except glare at the cat, who hisses at me as Robin walks past on her way up the back steps.

“Turn it off,” Danny says, frowning, when my phone buzzes for the fourth time.

It’s Mom’s late night at the salon—on Mondays she does bills and general cleanup after closing, so Robin and I are on our own for dinner and homework. And since Robin locked herself in her room for some disgusting lovefest with the stupid cat after I made frozen pizza, I snuck out to the loft.

Darcia keeps texting me, though, little blips of happiness about Friday, and dumb stuff about school or home, just the way she used to. It’s nice, except for how Danny—this Danny anyway—isn’t used to sharing me.

“I can’t.” I stroke his back gently. He’s sitting up, drawing something in the last of the big sketch pads I got him. “I told Robin I was going to the library, and Mom’s not home, so I need to answer if she calls.”

Now I’m lying to Danny, too. Not that I haven’t been all this time, of course, but it feels different to lie to him about everyday things. I close my eyes for a second, swallowing back the instinct to start screaming and never stop.

He glances over his shoulder at me again, brow still creased. Three fat candles burn in the corner of the room on the floor, the flames casting dancing shadows over his face. For a moment, I’m sure I can see the blunt outline of his skull beneath his skin, the indentations of his eye sockets, and I shudder.

“Are you cold?” Just like that, his unhappiness is forgotten. He grabs the ratty quilt from the end of the mattress to tuck it around my legs, and his drawing falls to the floor.

It’s nothing like his usual comic panels or figures. Instead, a huge, gnarled tree seems to grow out of the center of the page. The branches are bony, long arms that stretch into skeletal fingers, dozens of them reaching toward me as I stare at it, a twisted, funhouse tree.

I shudder again, and Danny moves closer, winding his arm around my waist. It doesn’t help—he’s like marble, cold and unforgiving, his ribs like a cage.

“What’s that?” I ask him, pointing at the drawing while I try not to shiver.

He shrugs. “A tree. Can’t you tell?”

“Well, yeah, but … you don’t usually draw things like that.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the folded sheet of paper, smoothing it open. “You usually draw stuff like this.”

His sudden smile is startling, the Danny I love surfacing from under a shroud. “That’s you. Yeah.” Just as suddenly, he scowls. “I had to throw it at the cat.”

I actually gulp, shaking now. “The cat?”

“Robin’s cat.” He moves away, body tight with tension again, the line of his back a blunt backslash in the candlelight. “Stupid thing hates me now. It used to like me.”

I nearly tear the paper as I sit up straight, pushing the blanket away and touching his arm. “When was the cat up here, Danny?”

The noise he makes is dismissive, like it’s no big deal. “Before. Hissed and showed his claws. I used to give him tuna, man. It’s not right.”

Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh
God
. “Danny, did you leave the stairs down?”

“I can hear you coming better when I do,” he says, and gives me the sweetest smile. Wide, bright, completely honest—I saw that smile so often, when we met in the parking lot after school, or when he would look up from drawing as I studied on the sofa, or when he lifted his head from the pillows on his bed, flushed and already sleepy.

For a moment, I want to reach out and trace his lips with my fingers, relearn the generous curve of his mouth, but I know if I do the moment will be ruined. Danny’s mouth is too cool now, lips not as soft as they used to be, and it’s always a reminder. Danny—my Danny—is gone. What I brought back is just an imitation.

Instead I close my fingers gently around his wrist, my thumb stroking the place where his pulse used to be. “You can’t do that, Danny. Remember? We talked about that. It’s not safe.”

His smile disappears as quickly as it broke open, and when he leans closer, I realize I’m stiff with fear.

“But you’re not here,” he says, a low whisper. “You’re not here so much, Wren. I need you here, I keep telling you, when you’re not here I can’t
think,
Wren, I can’t, it’s all cloudy, and I see the tree, and I smell the smoke, and I can’t
think
—”

My hand is shaking when I reach up to touch his mouth, stopping the furious flow of words. He’s trembling, too, something fierce and frantic coursing through him, and I have to stop this, I have to do something.

For now, all I can do is stroke his cheek and murmur, “Sleep now, Danny, sleep. I’m right here, sleep, sleep…”

It takes a few minutes for it to work tonight, and he clings to my free hand the whole time, icy fingers gripping tight. When he finally lies down, I pet his hair for a few minutes before slipping free.

At the bottom of the stairs, I use the broomstick to push them up into place, listening for the heavy
snick
that means they’re shut tight. And all the way across the dark lawn, my heart thumps wildly as I remember what he said about the tree and the smoke.

He’s talking about the tree in his drawing. It’s the tree that was torn open in the car crash. The tree that killed him.

ANOTHER LONG NIGHT OF BAD DREAMS MUST show on my face, because the next morning Mom hovers. Standing too close, squinting at me over her coffee—considering, wondering, suspecting.

I try to keep my head down as I gulp my own coffee. I haven’t given Mom any of my laundry in days, and I’m wearing my least favorite sweater and a denim miniskirt I hate. Mom knows it, too, because she lifted an eyebrow when I walked into the kitchen, my hair still wet and sticking up in a dozen directions.

She doesn’t even make a pointed comment about keeping up with the wash, though, which is so unlike her,
I’m
suspicious.

Robin’s chattering enough for everyone, as usual, splashing milk over her cereal and, I realize halfway into my caffeine, telling Mom all about Mr. Purrfect’s big adventure. I nearly spit out my coffee when she says, “And then we found him way out back, like he’d been in Mrs. Petrelli’s yard.”

It doesn’t really mean anything—he’s a cat, he can and will wander anywhere—but anything that draws attention to the garage is a bad thing. And I’m only making it worse, since Mom is frowning at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“Wren?”

“Coffee went down the wrong way,” I say, and give her a weak smile before I grab my backpack. “I’m working tonight, so I won’t be home till late.”

I’m out the front door before she can answer, but as I walk to school I can picture the look on her face, curious instead of worried, at least for now.

I just hope I can keep it that way.

School is torture. Gabriel is waiting in homeroom, gray eyes trained on me the minute I walk in, and I mouth,
Later
, as I glare at him. I can’t talk about Danny now, and definitely not here. Gabriel’s frustration is almost tangible, crowding hot against me.

I see Ryan in the hall outside my chemistry room, which is always awkward, and by the time I get to lunch, where Jess is waiting, I’ve never been more tempted to run away. Or simply curl up in a ball and howl, right there on the grimy floor. Jess is bubbly with gossip and plans for Friday night—something about renting some new vampire flick—and I can hardly do more than nod and try to smile.

The thought of Danny is like a sore tooth all day, wondering if he’s safely in the loft the way he’s supposed to be, dreading how much of the accident he’s beginning to remember. Every lie and half-truth seems to burn just under my skin, and when I walk into Bliss after school, Trevor takes one look at me and barks, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to blast him off his stool with the simple force of my fury. I stalk into the kitchen and throw my backpack on the floor in the corner instead. “Your boyfriend is a real humanitarian, you know that?”

Geoff sighs and looks up from the sandwiches left over from lunch, which he’s boxing up for the shelter in Plainfield. “I’ll send him out with these, huh? He’s in a mood today.”

Geoff leaves me alone once Trevor is gone, but he puts in one of my favorite CDs as I wipe down tables and organize the mess that Trevor always leaves behind the counter. After a few minutes, I relax into the mindlessness of the work, making lattes and espresso, serving Geoff’s awesome carrot cake, and calling back to him for one of the salads he makes to order. It’s not incredibly busy, but there are enough customers to keep me occupied and moving, which is perfect.

Bliss has always been a sort of haven for me, even before I got the job. It still sports the building’s original tin ceiling, painted silver now, and the exposed brick wall along the east side of the room is a faded red, worn with time and touch. None of the tables and chairs match, but Geoff painted them all the same chocolate brown and trimmed them with either bright green or purple. Framed art for sale hangs everywhere, and there’s a stand with indie CDs and local authors’ books. Everything Trevor lacks when it comes to dealing with actual human beings apparently went into a green thumb, so he keeps spider plants and ferns all over, and the café always feels comfortable, warm, alive.