This one night, he asked me to bring him food. He complained the family was vegetarian and that if he didn’t get a hamburger soon, he might die from starvation. I had nothing better to do, so I agreed. I picked up takeout and met him outside the house, surprised when he got in instead of taking the bag back inside. He said he wanted the company.
We were there for about ten minutes, and I watched him tear through two cheeseburgers and a handful of fries. I guessed he hadn’t been joking when he’d said he was starving. At one point, he turned to me, his brown eyes curious, flashing with mischief. “Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked, midchew.
I gave him a scathing It’s none of your business look.
“Oh, come on,” he said with a smile. “There’s no special someone in your life?”
“Shut up.” I laughed, looking out the window. The air from the heater made me entirely too warm, so I turned the directional away from me. It didn’t lessen the heat on my face, though. Deacon and I were quiet for a painfully long time, until I finally sighed and turned to him. “No,” I said. “No boyfriend.”
“Yeah. I can believe that.”
“Hey!” I called. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not because you’re horrible or anything,” he said, like I’d totally twisted his words.
“Oh, thank you.” I narrowed my eyes at him.
“Listen, it’s cool,” he said. “I’m not dating anyone seriously either. I’m just saying, people like us, we can have commitment issues, wouldn’t you agree?”
I smiled. “I think maybe you just have asshole issues.”
“Nice,” he responded with a laugh. “You totally called it.” He grabbed the soda from the cup holder, smiling as he sipped from the straw. I couldn’t help it—I found him completely disarming. And even though I didn’t say it, I was happy to know he didn’t have a girlfriend.
No one’s asked me that since him. No one’s cared about the answer. I look down at my lap, shivering uncontrollably in the car. My teeth chatter as my wet hair clings to the side of my face. “Everyone hates me,” I murmur.
“I don’t hate you.”
I’m so cold, both inside and out. I’m lonely and scared that nothing will ever be okay. I want a life—I want my life. I let the napkins fall to the floor. I’m sick of living on the fringes of society. And maybe I don’t want to admit that the idea of coming out tonight, it wasn’t totally about Angie. I liked the idea of being invited—even if I wasn’t really.
“Quinn,” Deacon says softly, reaching to take my hand. He squeezes it, his skin hot in comparison to mine. “Tell them you can’t finish this assignment,” he says. “Tell them it was too soon.”
“My father—”
“I don’t care about your father,” he interrupts. “I don’t give a shit about Arthur Pritchard, either. Every time you go on assignment, you come back a little different. You should end your contract. Who cares about money? I’ll give you mine. I just . . . I don’t want you to lose yourself.”
“It’s not about the money,” I say, looking up at him. “It’s never been about that.” I pause, thinking over my decision to take this assignment, even though I was so tired. “I’m doing this for my father,” I say. “He counts on me, Deacon. I’m supposed to be good at this. Do you know what it would do to him if I failed? This is his life’s work. He believes in me.” My voice cracks. “I . . . I can’t disappoint him.”
“He’s disappointing you.” Deacon’s stare holds me fast, fiercely protective. For a minute I wonder what it would be like to give it all up, be free like Deacon. But then I realize that my father would never forgive me, just like he’s never forgiven Deacon for failing him. I can’t do that. I can’t give up everything I’ve worked for. My father’s the only family I have left—he’s the only person who’s never left me.
Deacon looks like he’s waiting for an answer, but then his eyes follow something beyond my shoulder, and he adjusts his position to get a closer look. “Isn’t that your sister?” he asks.
I turn immediately, wiping away my tears as my training floods back and washes me away. I’m dismayed to see Angie stumbling out from the back entrance of the bar, talking loudly into her phone. Although she would have been troubled tonight anyway, the confrontation with me has sent her on a destructive path. I can see from her mannerisms, her wild look, that she doesn’t care what happens to her tonight. She doesn’t care about anything.
“She’s drunk,” I say. My worry spikes, and I turn to Deacon. “What should I do?”
He leans forward, draping his arms over the steering wheel as he watches the scene unfolding outside the windshield. “I don’t know,” he says, watching her carefully. “It’s a tough call. If you confront her again, who knows how she’ll react. She already threw—” He stops and looks over at me apologetically for bringing up the drink incident.
He’s got a point, but I don’t care about what happened inside the bar. She’s my sister, and I should have been looking out for her. Now the situation has gotten out of control.
Angie leaves the parking lot, heading toward the street. She kicks off her shoes into the bushes along the sidewalk and laughs. She pauses and takes the phone from her ear, staring down at it. I wonder if whoever she was talking to hung up. She opens her palm and lets her phone smash on the pavement, and then sways. She drops into a sitting position in the middle of the sidewalk.
Deacon curses, recognizing that we have to intervene in some way. I wonder where Angie’s friends are. How could they leave her alone when she’s obviously a mess?
My sister splays out on the pavement, her head falling into the edge of the grass in front of a beat-up old house. She stares up at the sky, letting the rain run over her face. God, is she going to pass out like this?
Deacon and I wait another minute, but no one comes for her. Whether Angie’s isolated herself or she’s always been this alone, I’m not sure. All I know is that I feel incredibly sorry for her. With a sore heart, I turn to Deacon.
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, and nods out the window. “I can go,” he offers. I consider it. Deacon’s a stranger, and he can try to help her get back inside. Then again, my sister doesn’t exactly look up to walking. She might cause another scene, and the cops might get called. Deacon can’t be involved if that happens. He’s not supposed to even see me when I’m on assignment.
“No,” I tell him. “She’s my responsibility. I’ll bring her back to the bar.” I don’t mention that Isaac is inside and that part of me doesn’t want Deacon to see him.
Deacon weighs it out and then agrees, acknowledging it’s a bad situation all around. But he also knows helping her is the right thing to do. I smile, once again reminded of how well Deacon knows me. How deep our connection runs. I lean in and hug him, our bodies pressed together, my cheek against his neck. His skin is burning hot in the cold air, and longing sweeps over me. Invades me. I pull back slowly, our eyes locked like this moment can last if we want it to. If we let it.
He smiles slightly, acknowledging that he feels it too. His fingers brush my thigh as I move away. Lights from a passing car illuminate the space around us, highlighting the passion in his eyes. I could get lost in here forever.
“I’ll be right back,” I mumble, quickly opening the door and climbing out into the rain. The cold night air hits my damp face, sobering up the crazy I just indulged in. Another minute and we might have ended up in the backseat. But Deacon and I are just friends, that’s it. It’s too dangerous to be anything else.
I wrap my arms around myself, heading toward the sidewalk. My sister laughs from where she’s lying on the pavement, and I start jogging in her direction. I pull up my hood, hoping that with a bit of cover I won’t elicit such a violent reaction from her. I slow down when I get close, and come to pause far enough away so I won’t startle her.
“Angie,” I say softly. She turns her head in the wet grass, a bit of dirt smudged on her cheek. She runs her eyes over me and then scoff
s.
“Go away, impostor,” she calls. Her arms are bare, her pale skin glowing in the streetlight. I sit on the pavement next to her, folding my legs under me, and settle in. I won’t leave her like this.
“Can I at least help you back inside to your friends?” I ask, using my natural voice. Angie doesn’t want to know me as Catalina. I can spare her that pain since she’s not technically part of the assignment. At least until I know more about what she needs.
“I don’t have any friends,” she tells me, staring at the sky. “I don’t want any.”
At baseball practice she was with another girl, so I assume she has at least one friend, but she doesn’t want to think about that. She wants to feel sorry for herself, hate herself so she’ll have to reason to withdraw. She’s sad. She’s so deeply sad that I can’t believe she’s gotten this far without anyone noticing.
“Does your mother know how you feel?” I ask, keeping my voice steady but quiet. Angie winces at the mention of her mother.
“Of course not,” she says bitterly. “Only thing anybody sees is Catalina. ‘Catalina’s depressed,’ ” she mimics in her mother’s voice. “ ‘Catalina’s fighting with Isaac. What’s wrong with Catalina?’ ”
As I listen, my heart rate speeds up, finally about to get some answers to this assignment. There was nothing in the file about a change in Catalina’s state of mind. “And then what happened?” I ask.
Angie turns to me, her mascara bleeding black over her cheeks. “Then she died,” she says coldly. “She died right in front of me.”
I take in a sharp breath, the answer completely unexpected. This should have been in the file. This most definitely should have been in the file. “How did she die?” I ask, getting up on my knees.
For a moment I think she’s going to tell me everything. I watch pain cross her expression, pull and distort her features. But rather than answer, Angie turns away, staring straight up into the sky, hitching in uneven breaths like she’s about to break down. “She just died,” she says.
I start to move closer when I hear a shout from the bar. I look over my shoulder; my body exploding in panic as I see Isaac running toward us, his shoes sloshing in the puddles on the wet pavement. “Angela,” he yells.
“Oh, shit,” I mutter, and quickly get to my feet. I can’t talk to Isaac right now. I’m completely out of character, and my makeup has probably run off. I turn back to the car, where Deacon looks equally concerned. But just as Marie would, he holds up his hand and tells me to be steady.
Isaac runs right past me to where Angie is crumpled on the ground, and he helps her sit up. For a moment I watch them, wondering if I could hurry back to the car, cut my losses, and start again tomorrow. But before I can make the decision, Isaac looks back at me and stills. He didn’t know I was the person waiting here with Angie.
“You,” he breathes out.
The rain has soaked through my clothes, chilled my body. It’s almost impossible for me to flip back; I’ve been out of character for too long now. But before I answer him, I mentally review the file. Scan all the pictures and videos. Remind myself of an entire life. When I speak to Isaac, my voice has changed.
“She needs help,” I say. “I was leaving and saw her sit down on the sidewalk. No one came out after her. . . .” I trail off, caught up in the disbelieving way Isaac is staring at me. I bury my hands in the pockets of my sweater, feeling exposed.
“I heard she threw her drink on you,” he says after a long silence.
“Technically it wasn’t her drink,” I respond, darting a look at my sister. She’s not paying attention. Her head hangs as she sits with her knees up, her pose signifying that she might barf at any second. When I look back at Isaac, there’s a hint of a smile on his lips.
“I hadn’t heard that part. Seems like I owe someone a cocktail,” he says.
“Well, not her.” I point to Angie and she murmurs something unintelligible. Isaac turns to talk to her, quietly brushing her hair back from her face. I take the moment to observe him. His brown hair is matted down from the rain, and every so often he slides his fingers through it to keep the water from running down his face. His salmon-colored T-shirt is soaked through, nearly red now as it clings to his body. He looks at me, catching me staring, and I smile politely trying to play it off.
“We should take her home,” he says, standing. “Let’s get her on her feet.”
I’m surprised by how easily he’s talking to me, and I jump at the chance to participate. I get on the other side of my sister, careful not to say too much now that I’m back on assignment. I don’t want her to freak again, point out to Isaac how untrue this all is. The minute I put my hand on her arm, she rips it away, dashing any hopes I had of her going quietly.
“Don’t touch me,” she says.
“Calm down,” Isaac soothes. “We’re just getting you out of here before the cops pick you up.” He reaches his arm around her waist and props her unsteady body against his hip. “Where’s your car?” he asks me. I freeze, wanting to look at the lot but afraid of drawing attention to Deacon.
“I took a cab,” I lie. Isaac swears to himself, and then glances around.
“Well,” he says. “You’re going for a ride, Angela.” He dips down and puts his arm behind her knees and then lifts her easily, resting her head against his chest. “I’m parked down the block,” he says, starting down the sidewalk.
I watch after them, noting the bits of behavior I’ve seen throughout the night. But then Isaac stops and looks back at me. “Come on,” he says with a shake of his head. “I’ll give you a ride too.”
My mouth opens in surprise, but at first nothing comes out. Then, just: “You will?”
“I’m not going to leave you in the rain,” he says. Uncertainty flips through his eyes, but then he starts walking again, expecting that I’ll follow. I turn back to where Deacon is waiting in my car.
He stares at me, but now the car is running, warmed up for me. I could walk to him, walk away from everything: that’s exactly what his expression is asking me to do. I don’t know if it’s fear of failure, desire to do the right thing, or terror at the thought of falling back in love with Deacon—but I motion down the street toward Isaac and my sister.
Deacon waits a beat and then mouths Okay in a simple surrender. My conscience hurts for a moment, but I turn and jog after my sister and my boyfriend, unsure of where this night will lead.
CHAPTER FIVE
ISAAC STOPS IN FRONT OF a white Ford F-150 with the extended cab for a backseat. He tries to balance Angie while getting out his keys, and at one point when he looks at me, there’s an awkward moment where I think he’s going to ask me to fish them out for him. He doesn’t. He finally gets them in his hand and clicks the locks, nodding for me to open the doors.
Getting my sister’s rag-doll body into the back proves difficult, and eventually I have to climb in first to help drag her onto the seat. When she’s propped up, she stares at me for a moment like she wants to call me Catalina. But then, without talking, she moves to lie down, and I climb over into the passenger seat.
Isaac gets behind the wheel and turns to me, the interior of the cab bright from the overhead light. His eyes travel over me, taking stock of my entire person. Each second that passes seems to hurt him more, and just before I tell him he shouldn’t look too closely, he licks his lips to talk.
“You’re not her,” he says in a quiet voice. “Not up close.”
His comment doesn’t warrant a response, so I sit there under his scrutiny as he tilts his head, memorizing my face. “You have freckles,” he says. “A different mouth. When I look at you, I know you’re not her.” He turns away, sadness darkening his mood, and he starts the engine. “No matter how much I want you to be.”
Music blasts through the radio, left on from the last time he was in the truck. I jump, startled from the melancholy moment, and Isaac reaches quickly to turn off the radio. He pulls into the road and I look back to where Deacon is parked
, but the car is lost from this angle. I hate that I just ditched him, but what choice did I have? Tell Isaac I was here with my ex-boyfriend? A closer? That might not have been very effective in getting him to trust me. Still . . . Deacon is going to be pissed. I’ll have to apologize to him later.
The wipers scrape along the window and send streams of rain down the sides. I wish the rain would let up, show some sign of summer. Marie always says that the minute the sunshine hits Oregon, we forget about the all the months of rain, like we’re reborn. Like we’re flowers blooming. Right now, I’m sopping wet and cold and so far from feeling like a rose it isn’t funny.
“Angie’s staying at our aunt’s house,” I say quietly, afraid to look at Isaac. I debate dropping the act, but ultimately it’s not confronting Catalina that is bringing him misery. That’s the part that has to be fixed. I’m the demon he has to face.
“She told me,” he says. “She wanted to leave before you showed up.”
I worry he’s about to go on a tirade about how terrible I am for being a closer. I pray he doesn’t. I don’t think my heart can take any more tonight. I just want one minute of everyone being okay. Of me not being the source of their pain. Of not being hated.
“When I first saw you outside,” he says, “I was overcome. I . . . I thought you were her. For one fleeting moment, you looked at me just like she used to. And when I realized it was all a lie . . .” He glances over, tears in his eyes. “It fucking hurt.”
I bite down on my lip, holding back my sympathies. I don’t want to patronize him, but I’m not sure how anyone can observe this and not have it affect them too. Be patient, Marie’s voice tells me. Let him lead his recovery.
“I’m sorry,” Isaac says, turning back to the road. “I’ve been an asshole to you, and I don’t mean to be. Honest. It’s just . . . seeing you breaks my heart.” He takes a shaky breath and then exhales to keep from crying. When he looks at me, I see it didn’t help. “Can you fix that?” he asks, his voice choked off.
“I want to,” I say. “But I’m not the cure for a broken heart. You’re the only one who can mend that.”