Boundless (Unearthly, #3)(74)

“Take care of that baby, kid,” she says. “And take care of yourself.” She sighs heavily, then adds, “Sometimes he was so annoying.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Walter. He said this would happen. Infuriating man always had to be right.”

We lie low for a few days. We move to a nicer hotel, one where we have a full kitchen and dining area and living room space, two bedrooms so we can shut the door and watch TV while Web naps. We fall into something of a routine: Web wakes up and starts crying. We play rock, paper, scissors to determine who gets to change his diaper. We attempt to convince him to take a bottle of formula. We try different brands and different types of bottles, but he chokes and sputters and looks generally pissed that Angela is nowhere to be found, and eventually he drinks about two ounces of the stuff. We worry that it’s not enough. After he eats, he pukes. He starts crying again. We clean him up. We rock him, talk to him, sing, turn up white noise on the television, ride the elevator up and down, take him for long drives in the truck, jiggle and soothe and plead, but he cries for hours and hours, usually in the middle of the night.

I’m sure the other guests of the hotel are loving us.

At some point he falls asleep again. Then we tiptoe around, clean ourselves up, brush our teeth, chow down whatever leftovers are in the fridge—we memorize the takeout menus of all the local restaurants, which in Nebraska are a lot of steak houses. I change the dressing on Christian’s wound, which refuses to heal. I try to call the glory. I fail. We talk about anything but what happened at the Garter that night, even though we both know that’s all we can think about. We sit like zombies on the couch watching random shows. And then, too soon, always too soon, Web wakes up and we start the whole thing over.

I’m starting to understand why Angela was cranky.

Still, there are nice moments, too. Funny stuff happens, like once when Web pees on Christian’s T-shirt during a diaper change, right smack on the Coldplay logo, and Christian just nods all calm and says, “So what are you saying, Web?” We laugh until our sides hurt over that one, and it’s good, laughing. It eases the tension.

On the fourth night, as we’re sitting there on the couch after I’ve spent the past hour pacing around with Web yelling in my ear, Christian reaches over and draws my feet into his lap and starts massaging them. I bite back a laugh, because I’m ticklish, then a groan at how good it feels. It’s nice, the feeling that we’re with each other in this, that we’re partners and we’re going to make it through somehow.

“I think I’ve gone deaf,” I say, a running joke between us every time Web suddenly stops crying and falls asleep.

“When did Billy say she’d call, again?” Christian replies, another joke we’ve been telling often, and I laugh.

But something inside me squirms uncomfortably, because all of this feels like a scene we’re acting out of someone else’s life with someone else’s kid, and all we’re doing here is playing house.

Christian’s fingers go still against my ankle. He sighs.

“I’m beat.” He gets up and crosses to the bedroom where Web is sleeping. “I’ll take the first shift. Good night, Clara.”

“Good night.”

He goes into his room and shuts the door. I flip channels for a while, but nothing good’s on. I turn the TV off. It’s early, only nine o’clock, but I wash my face and dress for bed. I check on Web one last time. I lie down.

I dream of Tucker. We’re in his boat on Jackson Lake, stretched out on a blanket in the bottom of the boat, tangled up in each other’s arms, soaking up the sun. The way things used to be. I’m completely at peace, my eyes closed, almost asleep but not quite. I press my face into Tucker’s shoulder and breathe him in. He plays with the short, fine curls at the base of my neck—the baby hair, he calls it. His other hand moves up from my hip to that tender spot below my arm.

“Don’t you tickle me,” I warn, smiling against his skin.

He laughs like I dared him and drags his fingers over the back of my arm, feather lightly, sending a jolt all down my body. I bite his shoulder playfully, which gets another laugh out of him. I raise my head and gaze into his warm blue eyes. We both try to look serious, and fail.

“I think we should stay here, Carrots,” he says. “Forever.”

“I totally agree,” I murmur, and kiss him. “Forever sounds good.”

A shadow passes over us. Tucker and I look up. A bird sails overhead, a huge crow, larger than an eagle, bigger than any other bird I’ve ever seen. It turns in a slow circle high above us, a blot against the blue sky.

Tucker turns to me with worry in his eyes. “It’s only a bird, right?”

I don’t answer. Dread moves like ice freezing in my veins as another bird joins the first, circling, weaving through the air above us. Then another joins, and another, until I can’t keep track. The air seems colder, like the lake could freeze beneath us. I can feel the birds’ eyes on us as they turn, the circle tightening.

“Clara?” Tucker says. His breath comes out in a puff of cloud.

I stare upward, my heart pounding. They’re waiting for the right moment to swoop down, to tear into us with their sharp beaks and claws. To rip us apart.

They’re waiting.

The way vultures will circle a thing that’s dead or dying. That’s how they’re looking at us.