Stealing Heaven (15 page)

"Don't follow me or anything like that," I say, and
start to get out of the car.

"Look," he says, just as I'm about to slam the door.
"I'm not--I get that you don't want to go out with me, okay? I didn't mean
to make you feel like

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you have to get out of the car on the side of the road to get away
from me. I'm sorry."

I stare at him. "You-- ?"

"I really am sorry," he says again. He looks miserable.
He had a good time with me when we went to Edge Island. He thought it was
special, and now he thinks I don't want to be around him.

This is the end of whatever is going on between us, or will be as
soon as I walk away. I know that, just like I know I should be proud of myself,
or happy, or something like it. But I'm not. I feel as miserable as he looks.

"You don't have to apologize, okay?"

Now it's his turn to stare. A car drives by, honking at us for not
being far enough off the road. "Why not?"

"Because you don't."

"So you're getting out of the car on the side of the road
because why?"

"Just... just because, okay?"

He grins at me, wide and sunny and sweet in a way I didn't know
grins could be. "You are absolutely the most logical person I've ever
met."

"Oh, shut up." I start walking away from him, heading
down the road.

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"No, seriously," he says, driving along next to me,
window rolled down. "Is it just that you don't like questions or you don't
like me?"

I look over at him. I know I should say, "You," but he's
looking at me, those green eyes intent on my face, and there's something in
them I can't read, that I don't recognize but that makes my breath catch.

"Questions," I say.

"Okay, I won't ask any more. Now can I please drive you
home?"

I stop walking. I still can't read the look in his eyes but I like
it. It makes me feel--I don't know. Safe, somehow. Which is stupid, because I'm
not safe with him.

I know that. I do, really, but I get in the car anyway. And when
he smiles at me and says, "Now, this isn't a question, but if I was going
to listen to music, would you have any preferences?" I smile back.

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When the house conies into view I figure his reaction will be like
Mom's. I mean, I can see that the house is small and dark, built so it's all sharp
angles. You can't not see it. I think I love it because it's like that. It's
what it is and you can't cover it up.

He stops the car and doesn't say anything.

I look over at him after a minute. "Don't like the house,
right?"

"Actually, I do. And it seems ... it seems completely perfect
for you. You must love it."

"I do," I say, surprised. "Mom can't stand it, but
I think it's great. The side of the house facing the water is almost all
windows and in the morning, when the sun rises ... it's amazing. I could live
here forever so easily but -- " I break off, aware I'm babbling. Why is

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it that I don't talk about any of this stuff with Mom, who
wouldn't really listen but at least isn't a cop?

"How about sunsets?"

"What?"

"You know, when the sun sets. They must look pretty amazing
too."

"I haven't really noticed. Mostly I just get home from work,
make dinner, and then pretend I'm going to clean up and fall asleep on the
sofa."

"I could make you dinner."

I look over at him. He's fidgeting with the steering wheel.
"I mean, if you wanted. Just as friends, I swear."

"You want to make me dinner?"

"Well, I thought I did. But now with the questions starting
again ..." He grins at me. "Yeah, I do. And okay, I also want to see
this great view you keep talking about too."

No one's ever cooked for me. Mom sometimes brings food home and
once she hooked up with a chef who made eggs in the morning before she kicked
him out. Or maybe it was waffles. I don't really remember. It was a long time
ago.

"Okay," I tell him. And so it ends up that not only

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does he drive me home, I willingly take him inside.

He likes all the things in the house I do: the furniture, the
pictures the owners left behind, and he spends a couple of minutes staring out
the living room windows.

"Wow," he says. "It is an amazing view."

I thought it would be weird having him here, but it doesn't feel
weird. It feels nice. I'm having ... I'm having fun.

"Oh, hey, the kitchen's got a nice view too," he says,
walking in there. "I can look at the--oh. Pile of rocks--while I cook.
Okay, what's the deal with the rocks?" He points out the kitchen window.

"I know," I say. The owners have some weird stone
formation on the front lawn. "When Mom signed the lease, one of the things
on there was that we had to promise not to disturb the ... whatever it
is."

"So they make one side of the house all glass and then pile
up stones to block the view? You know what? People are weird."

"Look who's talking."

He laughs. "Yeah, and right back at you." He starts
opening cabinets and pulling out stuff. "Okay, what have we got
here?"

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"You know, you don't really have to make anything. There's
peanut butter and bread and I normally--"

"Hey, I can cook."

"I'm sure you can. It's just--"

"Believe me, between my mom and my brothers, I had to learn.
My mom can't cook and my brothers are totally worthless in the kitchen. My dad
always did the cooking. I used to help out sometimes and then after he...after
he died, I just ended up doing all of it."

"Brothers?"

"Yep. Two of 'em. One older, one younger. Do you have a
colander?"

"No."

"That's all right." He grins at me. "I'll
improvise. You want me to call you when I'm done?"

I shake my head.

"Oh, okay. Want to watch a master in action, huh?"

I laugh. He grins at me again. "I should have known. Afraid
I'm going to poison you, right?"

"No. I just want to watch. No one's ever--no one's ever made
me dinner. It's ... I don't know. Nice."

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"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"You really do have a pretty smile," he says, and then
turns away, starts opening cans and turning on the stove. I watch him work,
nervous and happy and all mixed up inside.

He makes spaghetti and serves it with green beans and garlic
bread.

"You're a miracle worker," I tell him as I start on my
third piece of bread. "Seriously. I know I saw you do it and all, but
still."

He laughs. "You're a lot nicer about my cooking than my
ex-girlfriend."

"You had a girlfriend?"

"Thanks. Really, that did so much for my ego."

"No one should dump anyone who can make something like this.
Hell, even though you're a cop, I think my mother might..." See? Why do I
do this around him?

"Well, it was more than my cooking. She wanted to get married
and I..." He shrugs.

"She wanted to marry you?"

"Again with the ego bruising. But yeah, she did. Or said she
did. I don't think she really wanted

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to, but we'd been going out since high school and it was like --it
was like all we'd known was each other. I think she knew trying to push us into
something more would be what we both needed to move on. Plus, she said my
spaghetti sauce sucked. How about you?"

"How about me what?"

"Oh, right. Questions. Sorry. Here, take this last piece of
bread."

I do. God, it's good. "Okay, you can ask me a question."

"Really? Wait, don't count that. Hmmm. I know. Did you go to
high school around here?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. I would have remembered you." He
grins at me. "So where did you go?"

"No, I mean I didn't--I never went."

"Never?"

I shrug. "Nope. Sometimes I wish I'd had the chance to go,
but Mom always said she could teach me more than--" I break off. "I
was...home-schooled, I guess you could say. What about you? Are you in college
or anything?"

"Not really. I mean, I take classes when I can, but at

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the rate I'm going I'll be a hundred before I'm done."

"They have cop college degrees?"

He laughs. "Sort of. I could get a criminal justice degree or
something, but I'm taking social work classes. See, after my dad
and...everything, Mom sent me to see this social worker friend of hers. A
counselor. I was really pissed about going at first but she was --she helped
me. So I figure if I can help someone like that, I'd like to."

He clears his throat. "How about you?"

"How about me what? College?"

He nods.

"I can't go to college. Not with everything--I didn't even go
to high school."

"So? You could get your GED."

"And then go to college?"

"Sure, why not?" The way he says it, like it could be so
easy, makes me think for a crazy second that I could. And then I remember who I
am.

"Because."

"Oh, okay. Great reason."

"Look, I'd like to go. I mean ...." I trail off. I would
like to go. But it will never happen. "Right now things are--I have to
work."

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"I get that. What did you do before you started working for
Stu?"

Well, recently I was with my mom in Pennsylvania, where we spent a
couple of days getting ready to rob a house. We did, and then we came here.
"You know, crap job kind of stuff. And now there's Stu and--" I
gesture at my uniform. "I think this thing would glow in the dark."

He laughs. "How about your mom? What does she do?"

I get up and start taking dishes over to the sink.

"All right," he says, getting up and bringing the rest
of them over. "I get it. Over the question limit, right?"

"What does your mom do?"

He grins at me. "You're really good at answering questions
with questions, you know that? She's a teacher. Middle school, earth science.
You ever want to know anything about rocks, I'm the person to ask."

"Really?" I grin back, take the dish he's holding, and
put it in the dishwasher. "So if, say, I wanted to know--" My cell
rings, startling me. "Hold on a second. Hello?"

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"Baby, do you still need a ride?" Mom's voice, brittle
and very tense. Things with Harold must not be going well.

"No, I'm home already."

"Do me a favor and make some coffee, will you? I'll be there
in a little while."

"Okay," I say, and she hangs up. She wants coffee. Home
early and wanting coffee means things with Harold went beyond bad, and she's
going to be in a horrible mood because of it.

"You've got to go," I tell him. "That was my mom on
the phone and ..." I take the plate he's loading into the dishwasher out
of his hands, motion him toward the door. "Look, I'll finish that."

"I don't mind."

"No, it's not that, it's--look." I take a deep breath.
"Thank you for dinner."

"Wow, you must really want me out of here." He's still
grinning but it seems forced and there's something strange in his gaze.

I open the front door, and he leaves without saying anything, not
even good-bye.

What if he's mad? I can't let him leave mad because

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I... because he's a cop.

"Look," I say, and head outside, catch up to him.
"My mom"--hates cops, would kill me for having one in the
house--"she's strict. But I--thank you for making me dinner. Really. I had
fun."

He looks at me and I realize what the something in his eyes was.
It was hurt. I realize that because I see it fade, watch him smile at me for
real, a smile that lights up his face.

"Me too," he says, leaning in toward me, and I can't
move, can only stare at him, startled^ He brushes a thumb across my cheek, a
nothing touch, but the look in his eyes is so serious, so--so not a way anyone
has ever looked at me.

When he goes, I watch him drive away.

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20

Things with Mom and Harold aren't that bad after all. Mom came
home in a horrible mood, but that's because she had to get mad at Harold during
dinner. She could tell he was getting ready to pull a "you seem too good
to be true" speech--with three marriages come and gone, he's a little
gun-shy when it comes to women.

Anyway, it pissed her off because she says, "I thought he was
stupider than that, baby. And so now I have to be extra careful with him. It's
annoying."