Stealing Heaven (17 page)

"Your mom still not better?"

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I know I told him about Mom--and where I live and actually let him
in the house and want to talk to him now, and oh crap, let's just not go there.
I just have to stop screwing up around him. "What, now you're a
doctor?"

"Yeah, asking about your mother means I'm a^ doctor. Have you
ever been to a doctor? If I was one, I would have ..." He picks a box off
the shelf and holds it out toward me. When I take it, he says, "Okay,
that'll be a hundred and eighty bucks."

"Hilarious." I put the box back on the shelf.

"Yes, I can see I've really cheered you up. What's going
on?"

"Nothing. What are you doing here?" Why am I still
talking to him?

"I. just finished ..." He gestures toward the front of
the store.

"What? Guarding a dangerous vegetable shipment?"

He doesn't say anything, but his face turns a little red.

"Oh, please, tell me you weren't actually guarding
vegetables." I manage, just barely, not to laugh, but I hear it in my
voice.

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His face is definitely red.

"You were!" I am laughing now.

"I should have known. The humiliation of my having to come
down here and watch over a truck cheers you up. But just so you know, it wasn't
vegetables. It was--"He grins at me. "A cake."

"A cake?" I start laughing even harder.

"Hey, I'll have you know it's a very special cake. It's for
two hundred and fifty people and it's to celebrate the first town
meeting." He pauses for a second and moves closer. "You want to know
what the worst part is?"

"What?"

"They spelled West Hill wrong, made it all one word. When I
pointed this out, you know what the bakery guy told me?"

I shake my head.

"'Oh, I'll just throw some sprinkles on and no one will
notice.'"

We look at each other and both start laughing.

"Sorry," I say after a moment. "It's just
that--"

"I spent my morning watching over a cake?"

"Yeah."

He grins at me. "Do you want to go get something

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to eat? There's a New York System place just down the road."

I shouldn't. But I want to. "New York System?"

"Yeah."

"You do know this isn't New York, don't you?"

He laughs. "That's a yes, right?"

"Me pointing out you don't know what state you live in makes
it a 'y
^es
>' how?"

"'Cause you're still here," he says. "And you're
smiling again."

I go to lunch with him. He says he would drive but he walked to
the grocery store from the police station, and so before I know it he's in my
car. The car Mom and I share. The car I know for a fact she sure doesn't want
any cops to notice, much less ride in.

"This isn't what I expected," he says when we get in.
"I thought it would be more--well, you."

"This is me. I'm a very ..." I look at the steering
wheel, hoping it will contain a clue as to what kind of car this is. I never
really notice our cars because we never have them for very long. Great. No
words, just a logo. "I'm a very midsize sedan kind of girl."

He laughs. "I can think of a million words to describe

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you, Dani, but a midsize sedan kind of girl? Not what springs to
mind."

I look over at him, ready to ask what that means, and stop, the
words drying up in my throat. He's looking at me and smiling and it's not like
I haven't seen Greg smile or look at me before or anything. It's just ....it's
not even what he said. It's just the way he said it, like he really could think
of a million words to describe me. Like he already knows them by heart.

Wow. I'm feeling--

"Uh, red light," Greg says, and I slam on the brakes.

Happy. I'm happy.

I'm so screwed.

It's all I can think about as the light turns green and we drive
into the heart of West Hill, and I'm torn between wishing I'd never agreed to
go to lunch with him and knowing that I'm really glad that I am. Which isn't so
much being torn, I guess, as it is realizing that, for the first time in ages,
I actually want to spend time with a guy.

"There it is," Greg says, pointing out the window.
"My home away from home. I know you're thinking,

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"'Wow, what a glamorous police station. How on earth can I
get a tour?'"

I'm in a car with a guy who's a cop, and we just drove by a police
station. The station where he works, and which reminds me all over again of
exactly what I'm supposed to be doing--which is avoiding cops -- and what I'm
doing instead. And how I shouldn't be doing it.

And yet I am doing it--I am with him, and what's more, I'm happy I
am--and that makes me mad. At him, but mostly at myself.

"You don't know what I'm thinking."

Okay, I might have overdone it there because Greg looks at me,
eyebrows raised. But all he says is, "I know," and then, quietly,
"You're not easy to figure out. It's one of the reasons why I like
you."

So SO screwed.

"Here it is," he says, before I have time to think of a
reply--not that I'm sure I could think of anything to say right now--and
gestures at a door squeezed into a tiny space between two stores. "And
hey, look, there's a parking space. Now that's what I call--well, okay. I call
it you turning down this street and not stopping."

"I don't want the car to get scratched. Or dented."

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And I sure don't want to leave it parked in broad daylight a block
from the police station. Or let myself think about the fact that I'm still with
him.

"Well, that's less likely to happen, especially since we're
still driving. Should I just take a nap and have you wake me up when we get there?"

"We're like two blocks away. Your cake delivery supervising
duties tire you out or something?"

"Two and a half blocks. Oh, wait, are you stopping now? Are
you sure you want to? Look, there's a whole other empty block just waiting for
you--"

"Don't tempt me." I pull the car into a parking space.
"So what is this New York thing?"

"New York System," he says as we get out of the car.

"Yeah, that answers my question."

"You'll see," he says, and grins, bumping his shoulder
against mine. I decide not to think about how screwed I am anymore.

Then I find out what New York System means.

A hot dog. It's a hot dog. We walk into the smallest and
oldest-looking restaurant I've ever seen and that's all people are eating. And
the place is packed too, standing room only like we're in a club or something.
Greg joins what I'm guessing is the line and I

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stand behind him watching people eat these things, which appear to
be nothing more than small hot dogs covered with chili.

"Okay," I ask him when we're almost about to order.
"Why do you call chili dogs New York--?"

"Shhh," he whispers in pretend terror. "Don't say
the c word. You'll get us thrown out of here."

I look at him. He's smiling and his hair is still nothing but pale
fuzz and he's in his uniform (a cop, he's a cop) and he asks way too many
questions and ... and I'm still happy to be here.

"Chili," I whisper back, just to watch him laugh. Which
he does, and then says, "Six" to the guy behind the counter.

"Six?" I ask. "Is this your only meal of the day or
something?"

"Watch," he says, and I do, see the guy line up a row of
hot dog buns on one arm. He adds the hot dogs next and then, in a strangely
graceful way, dumps on mustard, onion, something from a big spice shaker, and
then the not-chili. It takes him maybe ten seconds and he doesn't spill or drop
anything.

"Wow." I look over at Greg, who's grabbed two sodas,
grinning at me as he pretends to linger over the

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diet ones for a second, and then gets in line to pay.

I look at him and I'm--you know what? I'm tired of worrying, of
thinking about what I should do. I'm just going to let things be, just for this
one lunch.

"Hey, Dani, I think I see a place to sit," Greg says. I
like the way he says my name, the name I've always wanted for the me I've never
gotten to be.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," I tell him, and watch him
smile.

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22

Greg finds us a spot in a corner. I'm not sure I'll be able to eat
because the place is still so packed I can't move my arms--and because I'm not
really fond of chili--but it turns out there's just enough space, and whatever
is on the hot dogs doesn't taste like chili at all. It's a weird combination of
meat sauce and gravy and it's good. Really good.

"So did that stuff you got for your mom before help at
all?" Greg says when he hands me my second hot dog.

"I guess. She's fine now. Well, sort of."

"Sort of?"

"She says she's okay but she doesn't seem better. You
know?"

"She should go to the doctor," Greg says, and picks up
the last hot dog. Not-chili leaks onto his

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shirt cuff. He sighs. "The downside of the New York
System."

"I haven't had that problem."

"I suppose that's true as long as I don't look at the
floor."

"Hey!" I kick him lightly in the shin, and then realize
I'm flirting. Actual honest-to-God flirting. It's fun. "And I've tried to
get her to go to the doctor. She won't go."

"There's a clinic right outside town," he says.
"The doctors there are pretty nice:"

I shake my head. "It doesn't matter how nice they are. I
don't remember her ever going to the doctor for anything. But I just... I don't
know what to do." I bite my lip.

"Hey," he says, and leans over, brushes his thumb across
my mouth, "You'll figure it out."

I nod, caught by that simple touch. By how good it feels. Being
with him makes the whole world sharper somehow. More real. More everything.

"I should probably go." I should, I really should.
Except I'm not getting up and walking away or even moving.

"Me too." He isn't moving either, and we just

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stare at each other for the longest time. Then someone says,
"Hello, waiting to sit down," and it breaks the tension because we
both laugh.

Once we're outside, though, we both stand on the sidewalk. Out of
the corner of my eye I can see our reflection in a store window. I can see how
close we are. I can see him looking at me, a smile on his face. I smile at his
reflection. His smile gets broader.

"What's so funny?" I ask.

"I--oh hell. Here goes. I was just thinking I've never wanted
to go back to work less than I do right now and it's because you're here and
you're looking at me. Only you aren't, really. You're looking at my
reflection."

"I'm looking at you." I turn, face him. He grins more
and in the bright sunshine I see the freckles on his nose, lurking under his
sunburn. I see that when his hair grows out it'll be that strange mix of red
and blond and brown again, something that shouldn't look right on anybody but
will on him.

"Dani?" he says quietly, moving closer. He's going to
kiss me, I know it. I am standing here and know it. A cop is going, to kiss me.
Greg is going to kiss me, and I want him to. I want him to kiss me.

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Someone bumps into me then, hard, and I look up to see a
middle-aged guy I don't know ... and Mom.

"I'm so sorry," she says, "I wasn't watching my
step." Her voice is polite, friendly even, but her eyes--she's furious.
Really and truly furious in a way I've only seen her with others. Not with me.
Never me.

"It's okay," I mumble, and watch her walk off arm in arm
with the guy, who must be Harold. She doesn't turn back but! watch her steer
Harold into a store and know she's hanging around to keep an eye on me, to see
what I do next.

"I need to get home," I tell Greg, and take off before
he can say anything. I think he calls out something as I'm crossing the street,
but I'm too freaked out to listen.

She saw me. She saw me with Greg. She saw me almost kiss him. I
race back to the car and drive home, where I wait and wait and wait some more.

She comes back what feels like a million years later. I'm sitting
outside, waiting for her, and I watch her pay the cab driver and tell him very
sweetly to have a nice afternoon. She walks toward the house, toward me, still
all smiles. She stops when she's standing at

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the foot of the steps, and the smile is long gone from her face.