The Cure for Dreaming(55)

“Pfft. No. I want to dress like a woman who drives men around on her bicycle.”

He snickered near my ear, and we both laughed like grammar school children all the way back to my street, drunk on moonbeams and speed and the incomparable exhilaration of hanging on to another person as if one’s life depended on it.

The descent wasn’t half as graceful as the flight. Two blocks from my house, we hit a bad bump, and the handlebars jostled in my hands like a thing possessed. Henry dragged his feet across the dirt to skid us to a stop, kicking up dust and tiny pebbles, but the bicycle fought his efforts and dumped us on our sides one block away from home. We landed with a thump in a tangle of arms, legs, fabrics, and metal.

I pushed myself up to my elbows and unwound my feet from Henry and the bike. A sore spot, bound to become a bruise, formed on my hip.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

My now supine passenger sat up with a dopey grin and wiped dirt off the sides of his coat. “Mademoiselle Mead, I had no idea you were a daredevil.”

“My father would call me a scorcher.”

“What’s that?”

“A reckless bicyclist.”

“Olivia ‘Scorcher’ Mead.” He nodded his approval. “I like it.” He climbed to his feet and lent me his outstretched hand.

I let him pull me upright, and we faced each other with our hands entwined. A pine tree bobbed a shadow across his scratched-up cheek, and the nail marks faded and glowed with the peekaboo moon.

His smile faded, and his dark-blond eyebrows turned serious. “What will your father do if he catches you sneaking in?”

I shrugged. “What more can possibly happen?”

“That’s what has me worried.”

“I’ll just say I desperately needed fresh air after getting sick.” I slid my fingers out of his. “Don’t worry about me, Henry. Go home and take care of your sister. How is she tonight?”

“Exhausted. That’s why I was reading the newspaper in the hotel lobby. I didn’t want to bother her.”

I nodded. “Well, you’re a good brother. I’m sure she greatly appreciates you.”

“I don’t . . .” He turned his face downward and grimaced as if his ribs ached.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing.” He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to smile away whatever was bothering him.

“Tell me, Henry.” I inched closer, my soles stirring up bits of gravel in the road. “Are you hurt? Was it the crash?”

“No, it’s just . . .” He swallowed with a loud bob of his Adam’s apple. “This isn’t the life I ever expected to lead, Olivia. I’m beginning to think I’m bad luck.”

“Why?”

“I’m certainly not good luck to you. Look what I’ve done by agreeing to tinker with your mind. And look at my family. Every single person I love dies on me. I feel as if I’m being punished, but I don’t know what I could have done that’s so indescribably awful.”

“I’m sure your parents’ deaths had nothing to do with you.”

He swallowed again. “My mother died of cancer, the same kind as Genevieve’s. My father lost his life to a bad typhoid outbreak when I was twelve. And . . . well, I already told you about Uncle Lewis and his poor choices.”

I nodded. “I agree—all of that is bad luck. But it has nothing to do with you.”

He released a long wheeze of a breath that had to have hurt his lungs, and he smoothed down the hair he’d just tousled. “Thank you. You’re really far too kind to me.”

“The scratches on your face don’t look kind.”

“I know, but . . .” He reached out and wove his fingers through mine. “Thank you.”

Another breeze nudged the needles of the rustling pine and toyed with my hair, tickling stringy strands across my cheek. My skirt billowed around my legs and flirted with the knees of Henry’s trousers.

“Henry, do I look like a monster to you?” I asked with a squeeze of his hand. “I saw myself in the mirror in the hotel lobby . . .”

He shook his head. “No, you look like someone who’s been on a wild ride and could use a rest—that’s all. Go get some sleep, and on Tuesday we’ll figure out a way to set everything right. And if you let me, I’ll take you away from all your troubles.”

“I still don’t—”

“Olivia,” he whispered, bending his face toward mine. “Pieces of me have been dying with each loved one I’ve lost.”

“I’m sorry . . .”

“But that ride through the city”—a grin burgeoned at the corners of his lips—“that daredevil, bicycle scorcher ride, reminded me what it’s like to be wide awake and alive. Please, let me do something for you.”

I nodded. “All right. I’ll think about it.”

“Good. I hope you do.”

He kept his face close—close enough to kiss—and I wasn’t sure if I should give him a peck on the cheek or back away.

“Are you waiting for me to kiss you?” I found myself asking in a voice too high-pitched.

He gave a startled blink and lifted his head. “What? No.”

“You were so close . . . I didn’t know if . . .” I lowered my eyes.