Текст книги "The Distance Between Us"

Автор книги: Kasie West

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Chapter 8

The store doesn’t open until nine, but like clockwork my eyes pop open at six Saturday morning. I try to go back to sleep but my body won’t have it so I stare at the ceiling for a while thinking about the night before. What happened? Did Mason mean to kiss me? Had I turned toward him when he was going in for a hug or something? My brain feels the need to disassemble and then reconstruct the night in a way that makes sense.

It comes up with two logical possibilities. One, it was an accident and he was too nice to say so. Or two, he was really friendly and kissed everyone. Now that I have some reasonable explanations, I feel better. I just hope we don’t run into each other for a while.

After an hour of unsuccessfully trying to go back to sleep, I roll out of bed and shower before my mom takes over the bathroom. I pull on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and slide my feet into fuzzy black slippers. With wet hair I go to grab a list of orders I had left downstairs the day before so I can enter it into the computer.

I cross-check it with the list my mom had made one more time. We still have an hour until opening so, with plenty of time to finish getting ready, I tuck the list into my pocket and head for the computer. Before I make it to the bottom step, I hear a knock on the front door. My hand immediately goes to my wet hair and my brain immediately thinks it’s Mason. This scenario doesn’t fall into either of the explanations my brain had come up with. Overly affectionate rock stars don’t show up on the doorstep the morning after. We’re not open yet so the blinds are still drawn over the glass. I don’t have to open the door.

A second later the shop phone rings.

Mason doesn’t have the shop phone number, does he? Would Skye have given it to him? I pick it up before my mom gets the chance to answer upstairs. “Hello, Dolls and More.”

“A week ago someone warned me not to buy the blueberry muffins at Eddie’s, but I didn’t listen and bought them anyway. Now at odd hours I get these insatiable cravings.”

I’m so relieved at who’s on the line that I let out a weird laugh/sigh combo then quickly clear my throat. “They’re laced with addictive substances.”

“I believe you now.”

I smile.

“So are you going to let me in? It’s kind of cold out here. I’ll share.”

My eyes dart to the door.

“I think this muffin might even have your name on it. . . . Oh no, sorry, that’s my name.”

“I . . .”

“You wouldn’t want me to die of hypothermia, would you?” he says.

“I don’t think it gets cold enough here for that.” I shuffle on my slipper-clad feet to unlock the door then hold it open for Xander.

“Hi.” His voice echoes in the phone I’m still holding to my ear. I push the Off button.

It’s been so long I had almost forgotten how good-looking . . . and rich he is. But it clings to him along with the cold air as he walks inside. I relock the door and turn to face him. He’s holding a brown Eddie’s bakery bag and two Styrofoam cups with lids on them. “Hot chocolate.” He lifts the cup in his right hand. “Or coffee.” He lifts the one in his left. “I only took a tiny sip out of each so it doesn’t matter to me.”

Nice. Maybe Rich is a communicable disease. I point to his right hand. “Hot chocolate.”

“I thought you might be a hot chocolate girl.”

I take the hot chocolate from him and try not to register my shaking hand as I do so. That would imply his showing up out of the blue on my doorstep is tripping me out.

My gaze travels the length of him. It irritates me that this early in the morning Xander can look so . . . awake. If I saw him in the middle of the night with bedhead and sleepy eyes, would he still look so perfect?

“Your stare can make a guy insecure.”

“I’m not staring. I’m observing.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The intent of observation is to gain data and form a theory or conclusion.”

He tilts his head. “And what theory have you formed?”

That you’re at least one step removed from normal. A chunky black ring on his pinky finger knocks against a rocking chair as he turns to glance around the dark store. I raise my eyebrows. Maybe two steps. “That you’re a morning person.”

He holds his arms out to the sides as if to say, You caught me. “I’ve made an observation as well.”

“What’s that?”

“You have very wet hair.”

Oh. That’s right. “Yeah, well, you gave me no warning. I don’t wake up looking perfect.” Like some people.

A realization comes over his face and I wait for him to express it. He looks over his shoulder toward the back. “Do you live here?”

“Yeah, there’s an apartment upstairs.” Now I’m confused. “So if you didn’t know I lived here, why did you knock on the door before opening?”

“Because I assumed you had to come in early to get everything ready to open.”

“This is where proper amounts of observation would’ve come in handy.”

He laughs.

“You have no idea how many nightmares a porcelain-doll store can fuel. I have been murdered in a variety of ways by angelic-looking dolls over the years.”

“That’s really . . . morbid.”

I laugh. “So what are you doing here?”

“I’m getting Eddie’s. Isn’t that obvious? And since you introduced me to the poison, I thought it only right that I share in the bounty.”

“You like to look at the dolls, don’t you? You miss them when you’re away.”

He offers one of his stingily given smiles. “Yes, I miss this place terribly when I’m away.”

I set the phone on the counter, wrap both my hands around the warm cup, and lead the way toward the stockroom. He follows. I sit down on the old couch and put my feet up on the coffee table.

He sets the Eddie’s bag and his coffee on the table by my feet, takes off his jacket, and sits down next to me. “So, Caymen . . .”

“So, Xander . . .”

“Like the islands.”

“What?”

“Your name. Caymen. Like the Cayman Islands. Is that your mom’s favorite place to visit or something?”

“No, it’s her third favorite place. I have an older brother named Paris and an older sister named Sydney.”

“Wow.” He opens the bag, takes out a muffin, and hands it to me. The top glistens with sprinkled sugar. “Really?”

I gently unwrap it. “No.”

“Wait, so you don’t have older siblings or those aren’t their names?”

“I’m an only child.” Mostly because I was born out of wedlock and have no contact with my father. Would that statement send him running? Probably. So why didn’t I say it out loud?

“Note to self: Caymen is very good at sarcasm.”

“If you’re recording notes for an official record, I’d like the word ‘very’ stricken and replaced with ‘exceptionally.’”

His eyes light up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his lips, but that seems to imply he actually finds me amusing. My mother always told me guys were put off by my sarcasm.

“All right, your turn,” he says.

“For what?”

“Ask me a question.”

“Okay . . . um . . . Do you often force girls to invite you into their houses?”

“Never. They usually invite me in themselves.”

“Of course they do.”

He leans back and takes a bite of his muffin. “So, Ms. Observant, what was your first impression of me?”

“When you came into the store?”

“Yes.”

That’s easy. “Arrogant.”

“Really? What made you think that?”

Does that surprise him? “I thought it was my turn to ask a question.”

“What?”

“Isn’t that how the game works? We each get a question?”

He looks at me expectantly. I realize I have no question. Or maybe I have too many. Like why is he really here? When will he realize I don’t play with his crowd? What exactly made him interested in the first place? . . . If that’s what this is. “Can I go finish getting ready?”

Chapter 9

“No. Okay, my turn. What made me come off as arrogant?”

I stare at the crease on the sleeve of his T-shirt—a clear indication it had been ironed. Who irons T-shirts? “You beckoned me,” I say, remembering that first day.

His brown eyes flash to mine. Even his eyes with their gold flecks remind me of his wealth. “I what?”

“You stay there. I’ll be you.” I walk to the far end of the stockroom and pretend to come in a door, holding a cell phone to my ear. I swagger a few steps, stop and stare at the wall, then hold up my hand and beckon him. I wait for him to laugh, but when I glance over he has a mortified look on his face.

“I may have exaggerated it just a bit,” I say even though I didn’t.

“That’s how you saw me?”

I clear my throat and walk slowly back to the couch. “So are you the soccer player or the math genius?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your grandmother brags. I’m wondering which grandson you are.”

“The one who hasn’t done much of anything.”

I toe the table leg with my slipper. “You do know who you’re talking to?”

“I do. Caymen.”

I roll my eyes. “I mean, I’m the queen of having done nothing, so I’m sure you’ve far outdone me.”

“What haven’t you done that you want to do?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I try not to think about it too much. I’m perfectly satisfied with my life. I think unhappiness comes from unfulfilled expectations.”

“So the less you expect from life . . .”

“No. It’s not like that. I just try to be happy and not wish I could do more.” Well, I was getting better at that goal at least. And having people like him around only serves as a reminder of everything I don’t have.

He finishes off his muffin then throws the wrapper in the bag. “And does it work? Are you happy?”

“Mostly.”

He raises his Styrofoam cup in a toast. “That’s all that matters, then, isn’t it?”

I nod and move my foot onto the coffee table. The order form in my pocket crinkles with the movement. I pull it out. “I should go. I have some work to do before we open.”

“Right. Of course. I should go, too.” He hesitates for a moment as if wanting to say something more.

I stand and he follows suit, picking up his jacket. I walk him to the front door and open it.

As he walks away I realize how little our question-and-answer session revealed about each other. I have no idea how old he is or where he goes to school or what he likes to do. Did we steer clear of those questions on purpose? Did we both ask ridiculous, meaningless questions because deep down we really don’t want to know the other person?

He pushes a button on his keys and the fancy silver sports car in front of the shop beeps. That car alone answers any question I could possibly have about him. No need for any more. He opens the door and throws me that smile and I hear myself yell, “Are you a senior?”

He nods. “You?”

“Yeah.” I hold up my drink. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“No problem.”

I shut the door and lean against it. Why?

It takes me several minutes to push myself away from the door and head upstairs. My mom’s in the bathroom so I drag a chair to the old computer and start entering orders online.

“Did I hear the phone ring?” my mom asks when she comes into the dining area rubbing her wet hair with a towel.

“Yeah. I answered it.”

“Who was it?”

“Just someone asking what time we opened.” And that is the first time in my life I have lied to my mother. We tell each other everything. It surprises me. I should’ve said, “This kid named Xander—yes, he goes by Xander on purpose—who has his T-shirts ironed and wears jewelry.” That would’ve been fun. My mom would’ve tried to pretend she was offended. We could’ve talked about how he probably gets his hair cut twice a month. She would’ve given a polite “it’s best if we don’t hang out with people like that” speech. I would’ve agreed. I do agree.

So what stopped me?

“Can you finish up this order, Mom? My hair is going to dry all funky if I don’t get ahold of a blow-dryer.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thanks.”

I close myself in the bathroom and press my palms to my eyes. What stopped me?

Loyalty.

I didn’t want my mom to have bad feelings toward him. Somehow the guy had managed to climb out of the box full of people I had already labeled off-limits with a permanent marker and he’d become different. And now, much to my irritation, I feel some form of loyalty to Xander Spence.

I had to change this immediately.

Chapter 10

Monday morning I wave good-bye to my mom and open the front door to the shop. As I walk toward school, I notice a sports car that looks just like Xander’s parked a few doors down. I bend over to look inside, and when I straighten up again Xander is on my opposite side. I jump. He hands me a cup of hot chocolate and takes a sip from his cup.

I look at the cup—the same as yesterday’s. “I only want this if you drank out of it first,” I say, refusing to say, “What are you doing here?” That might give away that I care.

He grabs the cup from me, takes a drink then hands it back.

It surprises me so much that he acted on my sarcasm that I can’t help but laugh. “I believe there’s a meeting Thursday nights at Luigi’s for those addicted to Eddie’s muffins. If that doesn’t work, I hear there’s a pill you can take.”

“I’m afraid my addiction is not one I’m willing to give up yet,” he says.

I give him a sideways glance. We were still talking about muffins, right? “I’m sorry.”

“So whose turn is it for a question?” he asks.

“Mine,” I say, even though I really don’t remember. But I’d rather ask than answer.

“Okay, what’s it gonna be?”

“Do you have any brothers?” I know he doesn’t have any sisters because his grandma said she has only one granddaughter and he already told me that is his cousin.

“Yes, I have two older brothers. Samuel is twenty-three, just graduated from law school.”

“Which law school?”

“Harvard.”

Of course.

“My other brother, Lucas, is twenty and away at college.”

“Those are pretty normal names.”

“Normal?”

“No Chets or Wellingtons or anything.”

He raises one eyebrow. “Do you know any Wellingtons?”

“Of course not, but you probably do.”

“No, actually I don’t.”

“Hmm,” I say.

“Okay, my turn.”

I smile but am nervous at the same time. I really wish I got to control all the questions asked. Then I could steer clear of the ones I don’t want to answer.

“Are you wearing contacts?”

“What? That’s your question?”

“Yes.”

“No, I’m not. Why?”

“I’ve just never seen eyes as green as yours. I thought maybe they were colored contacts.”

I turn my head so he doesn’t see my smile and secretly curse him for making me feel special. “Are you?”

“Of course I’m not wearing contacts. You think I would purposefully make my eyes boring brown?”

“Those gold flecks make them look more amber.” I want to kick myself for admitting I’ve noticed, especially when his smile widens.

“Well, this is me.” I point to the old high school on my right. It was built seventy-five years ago, and although its architecture is pretty and not seen much anymore, it could definitely use some upgrades.

He takes in my school. I shift uncomfortably, wondering what he thinks of it. Wondering why I care what he thinks of it. He probably goes to one of the two private schools in town. Yes, that is how many rich people live here—enough to require two private high schools in a small beach town.

His eyes are back on me. “See you later.”

“Later as in you’re going to be here at twelve o’clock to walk me home? Because I don’t know if I can handle you twice a day.”

He sighs heavily. “And my grandmother thinks you’re sweet.” Then his brow furrows a little. “Your school gets out at noon?”

“Well, not the whole school, but yes, I get out at noon.”

“Why?”

“Um . . .” I gesture toward the shop. “Work release.”

His eyes widen. “You miss half your school day to work in the shop?”

“It’s not a big deal. . . . It was my idea. . . . It really doesn’t bother me at all to help out.” I know I’m rambling because deep down it does bother me—a lot—so I cut off my list of excuses and finish with “I better go.”

“Okay. Bye, Caymen.” He turns around and walks back toward his car without even a backward glance.

“Caymen,” Mr. Brown says as I walk into science class a few minutes late.

“Sorry, I got caught in a thorny vine and had to untangle myself from its clutches.” Which is actually sort of true.

“Although your excuses are by far the most creative, that’s not why I addressed you.”

The rest of the class had already started on a lab and I want to be doing it. It looks like there are actual chemicals involved.

Mr. Brown must’ve noted my gaze because he says, “It will only take a minute.”

I reluctantly walk to his desk.

He slides several papers across to me. “This is that college I was telling you about. It specializes in math and science.”

I grab the papers. “Oh yeah, thanks.” I learned at the beginning of the year that it’s better to just play along with teachers about college than to try to explain to them that you’re not going for a while. I shove the papers in my backpack and take a seat at my station. At the beginning of the year we had an odd number of people in class. Mr. Brown asked for a volunteer to be alone. I raised my hand. I’d much rather do lab work alone so no one else can screw it up. It’s so much easier not to have to depend on anyone else.

The next morning Xander’s waiting outside the shop again, casually leaning against a light post, like we’ve been walking to school together our whole lives. He takes a sip of my hot chocolate then hands it to me as we start walking.

I take a drink. It scalds my throat going down. This isn’t working. I need him to disappear so I can get back to my normal life of mocking people like him. So he can stop making me look forward to every morning. “So, Mr. Spence, your first brother is a lawyer; your second is going to some fancy college. What does your future hold?”

“I’m kind of like you.”

“In what universe?”

He seems to think this is a joke and laughs. “I’m expected to take over the family business.”

“What makes you think that’s the same as me?”

“You work there, you live there, you help run the place. . . . I’m pretty sure your mom thinks of you as her eventual replacement.”

I had resigned myself to the fact long ago, but hearing someone else acknowledge it triggers something in me. “I’m not going to run the doll store forever.”

“Then you better start sending different signals. Stat.”

“It’s more complicated than that.” I can’t just walk away and do something else. She depends on me.

“I completely understand.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. He can’t completely understand anything about my situation. It’s more than obvious by his lifestyle that if he walks away from whatever his “family business” is it will survive. His family’s bills will still get paid. He has a future of limitless possibilities.

“What will you do instead?” he asks.

“I don’t know yet. I like science, I guess, but what am I supposed to do with that?” Knowing that would’ve required me growing up thinking I had a choice in the matter. “So why you?”

“Why me?”

“Yes, why are you expected to take over the business? Why not your brothers?”

“Because I haven’t done anything. I haven’t declared my strength. So my dad has declared it for me. He says I’m good in many areas so that must mean I’m supposed to be the face of the business. So they send me out into the world.”

“What is the family business?”

He tilts his head like he’s trying to decide if I’m serious. “The Road’s End.”

I try to make sense of that statement. “You own a hotel?”

“Something like that.”

“What do you mean ‘something like that’? You either do or you don’t.”

“There are five hundred of them.”

“Okay.”

“All together.”

“Oh.” Realization dawns. “You own all of them. . . .” Holy crap. This guy isn’t just rich; he’s RICH. My entire body tenses.

“Yes. And I’m getting groomed to take over one day. Just like you.”

Just like me. “We’re practically twins.” By this time we’re in front of my school. So is this why he started hanging out with me? I want to tell him that if he thinks he has found some sort of connection with me through our “similar” situations he should think again. But I can’t bring myself to say it, and I’m not sure if it’s to spare his feelings or mine. “I’ll see you. . . .” This time I walk away first and don’t look back.

Chapter 11

For the first time in as long as I can remember there are two customers in the store. As in two groups that didn’t arrive together and both need assistance.

I’m not so good with kids—perhaps the real reason I’m banished to the “eye painting area” during parties. So without any kind of collaboration with me, my mom heads for the mom and little girl while I walk over to the middle-aged woman. “Hi. Can I help you find anything?”

“Yes. A few months ago I was in here—maybe it was more like six; I’m not even sure anymore—and there was this doll.”

When she doesn’t continue I say, “I’ll have to look into that. We don’t like dolls coming into the store.”

She gives a halfhearted laugh. Maybe more of a nervous chuckle. “I know I’ll have to be more specific.” She walks along the back wall, intently looking at each and every one.

I trail after her. “If you can describe it, I can start a lineup of suspects.”

“Dark curly hair, one dimple on her left cheek.”

The woman is describing herself. A lot of people fall in love with dolls that look like them. So I study the woman a little closer and try to think of any dolls we might have that look like her. “Tina,” I finally say. “Was she a sitting doll?”

“Yes.” The woman gets a large smile. “Yes, I think her name was Tina.”

“She should be out here. Let me look.” I go to the corner of the store where Tina last was, but she isn’t there. “Let me look in the back.” We almost always order the same doll after it’s proven itself a good seller.

The side wall in the stockroom is lined with shelves and those shelves house boxes big enough to hold a single doll. On the end of each box a name is written. It’s like our very own porcelain-doll Crypt. About midway up I see the name Tina. I drag the ladder over and pull down her box, which feels very light.

On the floor, after digging through the packing peanuts, I find out why. There is no doll. Weird. I stand there confused for a moment, not sure what to do, before I go back out to the sales floor and interrupt my mother mid-sentence.

“Sorry, Mom, can I talk to you for a minute?”

She holds up a finger to me, and when she’s finished talking to her customer, walks with me behind the register. “What’s going on?”

“I just went to get Tina out of her box, only it seems Tina has been abducted.”

“Oh yes, sorry. I sold her a while back. I must’ve forgotten to put her name placard in the drawer.”

“Oh, okay. It just freaked me out. I’ll tell the customer that we can order it for her.” I start to walk away.

“Caymen,” my mom says, keeping her voice low.

“Yeah?”

“Will you try to sell what we have on the floor before ordering another doll?”

I nod. Of course. That makes more sense than anything that had happened in the last five minutes. My mom wants to sell our inventory before we place more doll orders. It is a good idea to get us out of the hole. It actually eases my burden to know she has a plan for the big red number in her book.

“I’m sorry,” I say to the lady. “Tina has found another home, but I know we have some other dolls you’ll love that look very similar to Tina. Let me show you my favorite.” Favorite being a relative term, meaning I found her the least disturbing.

This woman was not biting. After showing her five dolls that look very much like Tina, she gets visibly upset. Her voice starts to wobble; her cheeks deepen a shade. “I just really want Tina. Is there a way I can order her? Do you have a catalog?”

My mom, having just said good-bye to her customers, joins us. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“You had a doll in here that I want, but now she’s gone.”

“Tina,” I remind my mom.

“Did Caymen show you some other dolls?”

“Yes, but those ones won’t work.”

“Is there something specific about Tina that makes her special to you?”

“Yes. My father bought me a doll when I was a girl. The doll was given away when I became a teenager and I have since lost my father. When I saw Tina a few months ago I couldn’t get over how similar she was to my doll. I left without buying her that day but haven’t been able to get her off my mind. I really just want that doll.” A few tears escape the woman’s eyes and she hastily wipes them away.

I look away, embarrassed for her. Or maybe it’s more. Maybe I’m jealous someone can have that close of a relationship with her father that even after he is gone just the thought of him makes her emotional. When I think of my father I feel only emptiness.

My mom pats her arm and says, “I completely understand.” But does she completely understand? My mother was disowned by her father. Is she thinking about that while comforting this lady? Does she think about that a lot? Or does she, like me, try to push it into the furthest parts of her mind and hope it never escapes, especially in front of others?

Mom continues. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Sometimes it’s the little things that bring that special someone back to us in some small way.” She waves her hand toward me and says, “Caymen can be a stickler sometimes, but we can definitely order that doll for you. We can probably even give you an extra special price.”

I see how it is, make me the scapegoat. But I can handle taking the blame. It’s the fact that my mom is once again not thinking about our financial problems that has me worried. Would this store have collapsed already if not for me keeping her from giving customers too many discounts, letting little girls pick too many clothes for their birthday dolls . . . ?

“For sure,” I say. “Let me take you to the catalog so we can make sure we’re all talking about the same doll here.” I lead the way and then say, “We require payment up front before we can place the order.” The last thing we need is to order a doll and have the lady never come get it.

My mom turns to me when the lady leaves. “Caymen.”

“What?”

“I don’t believe you were with that customer for a good half hour without finding out why she wanted that doll. We care about people, Caymen. I’ve been around too many people who only care about themselves to raise a daughter who doesn’t think about others, even if they are strangers.”

My mom’s not so veiled put-down of my father was not lost on me, but her generalization bothered me. Wasn’t it possible that money had nothing to do with the attitudes of the tiny slice of horrible rich people she had been exposed to? “You told me to try to get her to buy one we already had.”

“Not at the expense of her feelings.”

“Feelings don’t cost anything. Dolls do.”

She offers me a small smile and then runs a hand down my cheek. “Feelings, my dear daughter, you will perhaps learn one day, can be the most costly thing in the universe.”

And that’s the kind of attitude that is going to be the financial ruin of the store.

As I sit in my room later, her phrase plays over and over in my mind. Feelings can be the most costly thing in the universe. What does that mean? Well, I understand what it means, but what does it mean to her? Is she talking about my father? Hers?

I pull a notebook titled Organ Donor from the top shelf of my closet, flip to an empty page, and write the sentence my mom had said. This is where I keep all the information I have on my dad. I actually know a lot: his name, where he lives, even what he looks like. I’d looked him up on the internet out of curiosity. He works for some big law firm in New York. But knowing about someone doesn’t equate to knowing them. So in this notebook I write all the things my mom has ever said about my dad. It isn’t much. She had known my dad when she was young; it was a short relationship that ended fast. I often wonder if she really knew him at all. She could rarely answer any of my questions so I stopped asking. But every once in a while she says things in passing that I want to remember. Things that might help me discover . . . him? Me?

Even thinking that makes me angry. As if I need him to be a whole person. He left my mother to fend for herself. How could I want to be anything like him? But I’m practical, rational, and if I need to find him one day, I want to know as much as possible. I close the book and underline the title again. You never know when you might need a kidney or something one day. That is why I keep this notebook. It’s the only reason.