Borderline (The Arcadia Project, #1)(35)

“Teo’s last partner.”

I sat there for a moment, letting the weight of that settle on me.

“Millie?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to get out of the car?”

I did, and I slammed the car door just slightly harder than necessary, which hurt me more than it hurt the car.

I found Teo in the kitchen. Apparently I was too late to influence his choice of dinner, because he was already manically slicing long, thin strips of zucchini.

“Hey,” I said. “What are you making?”

“Lasagna,” he said without turning to look at me.

“Need any help?”

“Nope, I’m good.”

“I don’t mean to interfere with your cooking or anything, of course, just . . . You know, if you need something stirred or peeled or whatever.”

“Nope.”

“Just trying to be friendly,” I said. “I know you don’t like people, but I’ve learned the hard way what happens when you push everyone away.”

This time he didn’t bother to respond.

“Are those pumpkin seeds?” I tried again. “What are they for?”

“Seriously, Millie, just let me cook.”

I stood there for a moment, fighting what I knew was an irrational amount of hurt. I knew I should probably just walk away and respect his space, but part of me couldn’t accept the rejection and the other part was genuinely worried about him. I tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t irritate him further; I wasn’t quite ready to surrender.

“I found it!” piped up a cheery Southern accent as Gloria materialized from behind the island with a fine-mesh sieve.

I almost fell over. “Gloria, I didn’t see you there!”

I wanted to take it back the second it came out of my mouth. Judging by the chilly look she gave me, there was no chance in hell I could convince her I hadn’t meant any insult. As Teo started to turn toward her, she quickly replaced the glare with a pretty smile.

“Oh, good,” said Teo to Gloria as though I’d already left. “The quinoa’s there on the counter.”

She’d heard my whole little speech. And apparently it wasn’t company Teo couldn’t stand, just me. My face heated all the way to my ears. Since neither of them was even looking at me, I didn’t bother saying anything else before I turned and left the kitchen.





17


I could tell my face was still red when I got to Song’s room, but I didn’t care; I just wanted my phone. My landlord sat on the floor supervising her son’s attempts to devour himself toes first. Song exuded the kind of bland serenity that’s usually accompanied by a stench of stale marijuana, but all I smelled were diapers.

“Caryl wants me to have Lisa’s phone,” I said.

Song looked up at me in surprise. “She didn’t mention it to me.”

“She’s going to call you as soon as she gets home, she said.”

Song rose, moving to what looked like a lost-and-found box. “If you’re sure,” she said mildly as she rummaged through it.

Her implied doubt skimmed across my nerves. “Do you figure I’m just making this up?” I said. “How would I even know who Lisa is? Do you think Teo and I have just had some intense -little heart-to-heart, and now I’m using his dead partner’s name so I can steal a phone? Am I wearing some kind of sign that says ‘Beware of Lying Bitch’?”

Song flinched but kept rummaging; my only answer came in the form of a high-pitched keening from the floor. I looked down and saw the baby’s face scrunched up, his arms and legs pulled in toward his body as he drew in breath for an even louder wail.

Song hurriedly pressed a phone into my hand, then rushed to kneel down and take the baby into her arms. It occurred to me that in all the time I had spent in that echoing old house, day and night, I had never once heard the baby cry. From the stricken look on Song’s face, she apparently didn’t hear it often either.

Song clasped the baby to her chest as though trying to reattach a severed limb. With a half-assed apology still caught in my throat, I made an awkward exit.

I felt bad, but not as bad as I should have felt, which only made me feel worse. I had never understood the fuss over babies. My own window of cuteness had been wasted on a man too eyeballs-deep in grief to notice, and I’d managed to survive.

My new phone was saying “Connecting . . .” before I even realized I’d dialed it. It was a cheap relic with a tiny screen and no Internet capability, but at the moment it felt like a life preserver. I heard the receptionist at the Leishman Center answer as I unlocked the door to my room. A blast of heat greeted me; I’d forgotten to roll down the shades before I left that morning.

“If Dr. Davis is there, I’d like to speak with her. It’s Millicent Roper. I need phone coaching, but I don’t know her direct number.”

It was like an oven in there. To distract myself from how hard it was to breathe, I sang along with the hold music and struggled out of my clothes and prosthetics. Sitting naked on the air mattress, I stared at my ungroomed hands. Hangnails everywhere.

BPD whispered to me that Dr. Davis was never going to answer the phone. She was avoiding me, just like everyone else. Why wouldn’t she? What had I ever done to deserve anyone’s patience?