The Hearts We Sold(32)

She picked up the cream cheese and frowned.

“Are you lactose intolerant or something?” he asked quickly. “Because I can grab jam.”

“No,” she said. “I just like the light cream cheese.”

He gazed at her. “Is this a diet thing?”

“No.” She shrugged, although she could not shake off the words of her father, telling her she needed to take a PE class.

He made a clearly skeptical noise. And with a deliberate sort of care, he pushed another one of the cream cheese containers toward her.

“Is this some kind of subtle comment on my weight?” she said tartly.

He shook his head. “Whatever you’re worried about, ignore it. There’s no sense in limiting ourselves,” he said. He took a huge bite of the bagel and spoke around the mouthful. His words came out gummy. “Live now.”

“And for you, living means full-fat cream cheese?” she said flatly.

He swallowed. “I like to keep my dreams attainable. Eat cheese, sleep on a nice bed, have my work in the same museum as Rothko—the usual.”

“Yes,” she said, face deadpan. “That’s what everyone dreams about.”

He ducked his head, a smile pulling at his mouth. “You don’t agree?” he said, nodding at Dee’s food.

“Anyone can be a hedonist. Self-control is what keeps us human.”

“See,” said James, taking another bite, “that’s what I don’t get about you. You come off all tight-laced and pleated skirts and you look like you could behead someone with a ruler, but your price was money.”

She cut him a sharp look.

“I eavesdrop,” he said, unashamed. “Cal thought we shouldn’t listen, but I heard you in that hospital basement. You could’ve asked for anything and you asked for money. Not exactly what I’d expect from someone like you.” He slid a pen from his pocket and began doodling on a napkin. As if he needed something to do with his hands.

She clasped her own hands around the cup of coffee, glad for its warmth. “The money wasn’t for anything stupid. I’m not going for a wild time in Vegas or anything.”

“Good plan.” He took another bite of bagel, then went back to sketching on his napkin. “I hear it’s full of demon hunters these days. So, what is the money for?”

She smiled briefly, then looked down. “You’re very curious all of a sudden. I could just lie. Or refuse to answer.”

“Either way,” he said, “I’ll learn something about you.”

“Ah. Well.” She considered wildly for a moment telling him. About the bottles and the cigarette smoke and the scar on her foot. “It’s for school.”

“School,” he repeated. “… That’s—that’s it?”

She sipped her coffee serenely. “You thought it’d be something more interesting, didn’t you?”

Another small shake of his head. “Nah. It’s just… why is your school so important to you? That place looked pretty fancy, so I can see why you’d want to stay. But… I mean. There had to be another way to pay for it other than a deal with a demon.”

She felt her smile fall. She picked at the bagel, tore its edges into tiny pieces. “No. There wasn’t.”

She felt his eyes on her and when she finally gathered enough courage to look up, she saw something she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t curiosity or pity. It was… recognition. Like seeing someone he thought he’d never see again.

She waited for him to comment, to ask the obvious question. But he remained quiet, sipping his coffee and finishing off his bagel—and then hers.

“I needed out of that house,” she finally said. “I couldn’t be what they wanted me to be.”

His tone was gentle. “And what was that?”

A crutch. A carbon copy of her father. Someone who could fix things.

She looked down at the crumbs scattered across her plate. Uncertainty became a weight in her mouth, and she couldn’t have spoken if she wanted to. The silence dragged on, until James leaned back in his seat.

“You can ask me,” he said, with the breezy air of someone changing the subject.

Dee latched on to his question, grateful for his not pressing. “Ask you what?”

“What I sold my heart for.”

She had wondered that; she did not know what attractive, fearless boys sold their hearts for. Girls, was her first thought, but James didn’t seem to have a girlfriend. Money, was her next guess—but then she gazed at his clothes. Beyond that, she did not know.

“All right,” she said, “what did you sell your heart for?”

He smiled and slid the napkin across the table.

She had been half-wrong. He had been doodling, but… but the word doodle hardly did it justice.

He had sketched her. A girl with a squared-off jaw, bushy hair, hands clasped about her coffee cup. But he’d done something—smoothed out the imperfections of her skin, made her lips seem softer, her eyes lowered and mysterious. Heat flooded her cheeks and her stomach went tight. It was undeniably beautiful, and for one brief moment she thought, Is that how I look?

But one glance in the reflection of the window reassured her that no, she had not suddenly transformed into a model. It was simply a trick of the art, a subtle flattery of her features.