I lift my head, going on high alert. Isaiah disappears into the bathroom, and the sink turns on. What the hell? He returns and places a towel next to Beth on the edge of the bed, a wet washcloth to her forehead and a trash can on the floor. “Sleep, Beth.”
* * *
Isaiah eases onto the other side of the bed, careful not to touch her as he lies down. Beth doesn’t shrink away from Isaiah, and she wouldn’t. He’s her closest friend, and though she won’t admit it, she hates being alone.
Beth appears small curled up, and that’s because she is. She couldn’t reach five-five if she tiptoed in heels. She’s also thin. Unless she’s at her Aunt Shirley’s—my foster home—food can be a rarity, and Shirley isn’t conscientious about stocking the fridge.
Isaiah and I stay silent and after a few minutes, Beth flinches in her sleep. Isaiah surveys Beth then whispers to me, “Turns out if Beth’s in a moving vehicle for over two hours, she pukes. She didn’t sleep during the trip.”
Which means Isaiah didn’t, either. He’s always searching for the threat that follows Beth. “Did you know she’d get sick?”
“Beth didn’t know it. When has she been in a car longer than thirty minutes?”
Her life has been limited...and so has Isaiah’s. “This your first time out of state?”
“Since entering foster care.” Isaiah rubs his red eyes. “Can’t shake the vibe I’m a criminal on the lam.”
“Felt like that, too, when Echo and I crossed the state line. You and I have had so many social workers up our asses, I thought the cops would pull Echo and me over as soon as we crossed the bridge into Indiana. Then I realized no one gives a shit.”
“True.” Isaiah chuckles then falls somber. “It’s good to see you, man. It’s been...not right without you.”
“Same here.” He’s my brother, not by blood, but in the way it counts. We’ve stood strong on the streets together. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him or Beth.
“What’s going on with you and Echo?”
Fuck if I know. “Can’t get our shit together.”
“You’ll work it out. Have to.”
“Have to?”
“One of us has to get a happy ending.” His gaze drops to the sleeping girl beside him.
“Yeah.” Yeah. “Some days I don’t know why Echo’s with me. What she gets out of it. A messed-up kid from foster care with jacked odds of giving her a future. I’m a real prize.”
“She looks happy to me when she’s beside you.”
I laugh bitterly. “She looked real happy when she left.”
“She looked hurt. Hurt means she cares. It’s indifference that should scare you. The same look foster parents give you when you come and go.”
I can’t live like this anymore. Jumping around from place to place, knowing no one cares. Echo keeps me grounded. Gives me roots. “You think happy endings happen to people like us?”
He scratches the top of his shaved head and settles back on a pillow. He’ll be out in seconds. “Who the fuck knows.”
I snatch Echo’s laptop. The urge is to rush the coffee shop, but with the mood Echo left in, she’d probably pour boiling coffee down my pants. Instead, I’ll find a dark corner in the hotel and dig for info on my blood family. “Shut down, bro. I’ll be heading to work later, and I have a feeling that Echo will be AWOL.”
Isaiah extends his hand, and we share a short shake. “Tell Echo I’m not freeloading. I’ll cover me and Beth.”
“It’s all good.” But as I walk out the door, I’m drowning in worry.
Echo
I should have brought pepper spray.
Noah bought me some the day before he started his shift at the St. Louis Malt and Burger. Even though the campsite we stayed at was so family friendly it bordered on annoying, and despite the fact that I planned to call on art galleries, Noah felt uneasy with me being alone.
He also tried to teach me how to throw a punch, but all I ended up doing was accidentally kneeing him in the crotch. As he held on to the trunk of the car, half bent over, he didn’t see the humor, but I giggled.
The memory causes me to pause outside the coffee shop. After the past few days, thinking of such a lighthearted time with Noah honestly stings. If going home is the problem, maybe we should stay away forever.
A part of me floats—maybe we should.
At a back table of the coffee shop, Hunter looks up from a sketch pad and spots me. In seconds, he moves from startled to relieved, then waves.
“Not the Bates Motel.” I enter and inhale the rich scent of ground coffee beans.
It’s a quaint shop with seven older-than-me round wooden tables and just as worn wooden seats. What I like are the raw sketches tacked onto the walls, creating a wallpaper of art in progress. I feel like a missionary Jesuit priest walking into St. Peter’s Basilica and a bit like a child skipping into Disney World—small, high and enlightened.
Near the front, two girls with their heads huddled together whisper intently, and midway through the shop, a guy has his legs propped up on a chair as he sketches with charcoal. Behind the counter, a cute girl with blond hair slicked into a ponytail sits on a stool and reads a worn paperback with yellow pages. She gives me a cursory glance and when she notices Hunter stand, she returns to the words on the page.
“Now, that look,” says Hunter, “is what I like. That means you like my shop.”
“Your shop?”
In a dark blue button-down short-sleeve shirt and too-baggy-for-him jeans, Hunter flashes an I’m-a-proud-daddy smile. “Opened it four years ago on my twenty-fifth birthday.”
In other words, he’s much older than me, still sort of young, and is business savvy.
I smirk. No reason to make his life easy just because he’s an artist and established. Though I won’t admit it to Noah, the guy did creep me out this morning. “Is that your way of getting me to share?”
He laughs. “Maybe.”
And I’m smart enough to not answer, for now. “Let’s discuss the painting.”
“Fair enough. Coffee?”
I’d love coffee, but for the moment, it’s best not to accept drinks. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
He motions for us to sit, and when I do I become enthralled with the sketch of a baby cuddling near a delicate shoulder.
“It’s for my sister,” he says. “She had her first child last month.”
“It’s good,” I respond. Very good.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I comb my fingers through my hair, wishing I did accept his offer for a drink so I’d have something to fiddle with. Hunter Gray is a name I’ve heard several times this summer. He’s some sort of an artistic genius that exploded into the art scene a couple of years ago. Some people at shows mocked him for his success and his indifferent attitude to the art community, and some people called him courageous and gushed about him like he was a rock star. With all that was said, nobody ever trashed his work. It was wildly understood that he is exceptional.
And I told him one of his paintings was wrong. “I’m sorry.”
His sandy-blond hair is a little like Noah’s in the front, but unlike Noah’s, it’s long everywhere else. The waves lick his shoulders. “That’s your name?”
Just crap, he had asked me a question and I spazzed. “No, it’s Echo.” Leaving off the Emerson because I’m not giddy about involving my mom.
He falls back into his seat, causing the wood to squeak. “That’s definitely better than I’m sorry. And the pissed naked guy at your hotel room would be your brother?”
“My boyfriend—Noah.” And he had jeans on.
“Figured. The beautiful girls seem to have those.”
There’s a muttered “Humph” from behind the counter, and while I assess the girl, Hunter k
eeps his eyes on me. Rushed by the sensation of being on display, I slip my hand along the scars of my left arm. I should have worn the sweater, but I was so mad at Noah that I forgot.
“So...the painting?” I say, circling the conversation back around.
He leans forward and picks up the pencil he’d been drawing with. “Let’s discuss it, Echo with no last name and who must be old enough to travel with her boyfriend. Tell me which would you do—paint in the star, or do what you said and make the area where it’s missing darker?”
Not caring for how he stares at me like I’m announcing the cure for cancer, I grab a napkin out of the dispenser and fold the edges. “What did you intend for it to be?”
“To be the full constellation, but when I tried to fix it last night, I couldn’t. I kept hearing your voice yapping about constellations and how they represent the sum of their parts. But what struck me was when you mentioned a darkness because something is missing from your soul. I realized at three in the morning that I wanted the painting to be that and more.”
My mouth squishes to the side. “Then make that area darker.”
“I can’t.” This guy never tears his gaze away.
“Why not?”
“Because it wasn’t my idea.” He flicks the pencil, and it bounces onto the floor. So he has a conscience and wants permission to use my suggestion. I didn’t know people like that existed.
I toss the napkin in his direction. “I’m officially giving the idea to you. Paint as many dark spots as you want, and I’ll never claim that we had the conversation.”
“What do you do? Paint? Draw? Sculpt?”
“Um...”
“You’re an artist. I can tell. What’s your medium of choice?”
“Painting,” I answer immediately. “I love to sketch. I’ve grown fond of charcoal over the past two years.”
“Are you studying someplace?”
How to explain to an art guru that I scheduled business courses along with the art? “I start college in the fall.”
Smugness radiates with the grin. “Eighteen?”
I blow out a breath in affirmation. Dang it, he got me.
“Who are some of your favorite artists? Dead and alive.”
I watch his body language with every artist I mention. Some surprise him, some he nods at and because I’m just crazy enough to play with fire, I drop one final name. “Cassie Emerson.”
He lifts his chin. “Cassie Emerson?”
I brush away pretend crumbs on the table. “Do you know her?”
“Not personally, but I like her work. How she thinks. Screw it. She’s an artistic genius, who hasn’t received the recognition that she should. Just surprised you know who she is.”
Yeah, well, she sort of gave birth to me and then attempted to kill me a couple of years ago, and now she’s searching for forgiveness. “I’m familiar with her.”
“That’s amazing that you’re a fan of her work. We’ve got some of the same tastes in artists.” He focuses on the table as he loses himself in thought.
A high like being drunk runs through my veins. Hunter doesn’t know who I am. Noah will lose his mind, but this is my opportunity to prove that I have talent without anyone else, especially my mom, interfering. “I don’t have them with me, but I have some sketchbooks and paintings. Maybe one day I could—”
Hunter’s phone pings. He pulls it out and scrolls through it with an arrogance that reminds me of my father. “I want you to paint the constellation Aires for me.”
Air catches in my throat, and I choke. “But...I can’t...you haven’t even seen...”
“I won’t pay you, but if I like what I see, I’ll take a look at the rest of your work, and then we’ll go from there. Deal?”
“But it’s Aires.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. Aires.”
My lungs collapse, and I clutch the table, hoping to stay upright. It’s my brother’s constellation. It belongs to him and to visit there...to touch that part...to enter past locked doors...I close my eyes, thinking of him dying. What it must have been like for him, what it was like for me to hear of his death.
I open my eyes, and Hunter stands there waiting for an answer, totally unaware of the chaos inside me. Panic builds in intensity, and I swallow to bury the pain—to bury it so deep that the misery never escapes...that it never touches the surface. “I can’t.”
“Echo—” Hunter motions to my white-knuckled fingers “—whatever is going on there, that’s why I want you to paint it. It’s why you had the guts to say to me what you did. I want that emotion in the painting.”
“I said it because I didn’t know who you were.”
“You said it because it was true, and I miss hearing the truth.” Hunter scribbles on one of the napkins then slides it to me. “Here’s the address to my studio in case you forgot where it is. It’s above the gallery, and there’s usually someone else there besides me so you can tell your boyfriend to chill. If you show tomorrow, then I have my answer.”
Without another word, Hunter leaves the shop. The girl behind the counter studies me as if she’s experiencing a vision. “Now that has never happened before.”
Noah
The hotel has a “business center” that’s comprised of a long folding table, a chair with more rips than leather and a shoddy wireless connection. In between moments of connectivity, I found nothing on a Diana Perry of Vail, Colorado. In this day and age, it seems damned impossible to not have a digital footprint.
Diana Perry—my grandmother. A small part of me withers. Mom left her family and kept them a secret. They have to be bad, but is awful better than being alone?
I lean back in the seat and check the clock on the bottom of the screen. My shift starts soon, and I’m nowhere near where I’d thought I’d be. I could email the lady, but it’s not what I want. This one has to be on my terms, no one else’s, and I definitely need space.
I stare the monitor down like it’s a drunk guy waiting to take a swing. There’s another way to discover info on Diana Perry, but it’s an option that’ll kill my pride. Rubbing the lines forming on my forehead, I type the email before I can talk myself out of it. Only a few sentences because God knows we hated each other when she was paid to be my social worker.
Keesha,
Is it true that my mother’s family is looking for me? If so, I want their phone number and address.
Noah
I click Send immediately. I’ll deal with any regret later.
“What are you doing?”
My body freezes at the sound of Echo’s soft voice. With her arms wrapped around herself, she rests a hip against the door frame of the closet-size room.
“Looking for stuff on my mom’s parents.”
“Have you found anything?”
I should tell Echo I emailed Keesha, but I can’t. I fucking can’t. I don’t know how the hell I feel about contacting Keesha, and if I tell Echo that I sent the message, she’ll ask about my emotions. When I say nothing because I can’t sort through the chaos in my mind, she’ll get hurt because she thinks I’m not talking to her. Silence at times is better than words.
I close down my email account and switch back to my last Google search. “Not a thing.”
Echo’s shoes tap against the tile floor as she nears me, and I breathe for the first time in hours. As if sensing I’m seconds from implosion, she eases her hands onto my shoulders and kneads at the tension that has formed knots. “We’ll find them.”
We’ll—as in the two of us. Shit, she always has the right words. Echo’s thumb slides to the spot below my shoulder blades, and my muscles melt under her touch. My shoulders roll forward, and Echo deepens the massage. “You’re tight.”
“I’m fine.” Better now that she’s here, and we aren’t attempting
to verbally kill each other. I peek over my shoulder. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
She presses too hard on a sore spot. I flinch. She smiles. “Is that your way of apologizing?”
“It is if it means it’ll work.”
Echo slaps my back, and I chuckle. I turn in the chair and grab onto her hips, bringing her closer to me. I drop my legs open, and she glides in, tangling her hands into my hair. I look up and see those green eyes drinking me in, something that never fails to take my breath away.
I ease my hand to that sweet spot below her gorgeous ass. She pulls my hair in reprimand while also sighing with my caress. Beneath my jeans, I spring to life, and I stumble upon the problem of having Beth and Isaiah in tow. “Close the door, and we’ll declare this make-up official.”
“We have a room,” she whispers.
Had. I take her hand and guide her onto my lap. I love how Echo molds her body around mine: head on my shoulder, her hair teasing my neck, her arms winding around my chest. I hug her and revel in her warmth.
“When do you have to work?” Her breath tickles my skin, making the fine hairs on my neck stand at attention.
I inch my fingers under her shirt. “I’ve got time.”
“I said we have a room.” Echo places an openmouthed kiss below my ear, and my grip on her tightens.
I groan, and my head hits the back of the chair. Reality is my and Echo’s greatest threat. “Beth’s sick.”
Echo raises her head and damn if there isn’t concern for a girl that’s treated her like shit. “Does she need a doctor?”
“No, she’s carsick from the ride. She’s green around the gills, but nothing sleep won’t cure.”
Echo lays her temple against my shoulder again, and I glance at the open door. We could lock it and there’s plenty of room in this chair.
“No way, Noah,” she says, disrupting my fantasies.
“Never said a word.”
“Your mouth isn’t the only part that talks.”
“Can’t help what you do to me.” I readjust Echo, shifting her away from the part of my body currently running its mouth, and draw my hand through her curls.