The Lies They Tell(45)
“Pearl—”
“I want to go home. Now.”
He made a quick call on his cell phone, presumably to the same manservant who’d taken her keys. His call was answered right away, despite the late hour. Apparently, a middle-of-the-night summons wasn’t unusual in Spencerville.
She could feel Bridges’s gaze on her, waiting for her to turn to him, but she wouldn’t. The headlights of the Civic appeared around the bend in the drive. Bridges said, “Come down to the cottage. Just for a couple minutes.”
The Civic stopped beside her, and the manservant stepped out; same neatly pressed clothes, as if he’d slept propped up in a closet. “No.” Pearl glanced at Hadley. “She needs you.” Then she got into her car and left.
Dad’s truck was in the driveway when she got there; he’d left a couple of lights on for her. His snores were audible even from the living room. There was evidence of how he’d spent his evening after coming back from Yancey’s—a half-empty bag of corn chips on the coffee table, Bud Light empties, remote wedged between the couch cushions—and she felt more than guilt. It was a genuine longing for how things had been before she’d decided to make herself absent this summer. Not perfect, maybe, but predictable, a routine. She switched off lamps as she went and shut her bedroom door behind her.
Someone in black stood by her closet. Her heart slammed into her throat before she recognized herself in the full-length mirror, still wearing Tristan’s oversize jacket, creating a distorted, elongated reflection. She yanked off the jacket, then the rest of her clothes, and kicked the damp heap away.
Pearl curled under the blanket in her underwear, still feeling chilled. She thought of her phone, tucked in her purse, and the one person she wished she could call right now. When she closed her eyes, the strange half-light of the chamber pool was there, waiting for her, and the rhythmic, hypnotizing motion of the ctenophores.
It was relatively quiet for a Saturday morning at Dark Brew. The weather was gray and drizzly, raindrops dewing Pearl’s face and eyelashes after the dash from her car to the air-conditioned confines of the coffee shop. As she pushed her hood back, she scanned the seating area for Reese. No sign.
Jovia was behind the counter, putting cinnamon buns into the case from a parchment-lined baking sheet. She noticed Pearl and said, “Oh. Hey, hon.”
Well, much better than what she’d expected. On the drive, Pearl had imagined Jovia treating her coldly, asking what had happened at the ball last night to get Reese fired, or maybe ignoring her completely. Pretty ridiculous. Reese was so cagey about his personal life that he probably hadn’t told Jovia a thing.
Jovia stopped what she was doing, scrutinizing her. “Are you okay?”
“Are you? You look . . .” Pearl examined Jovia’s red-rimmed eyes. “Did you call Reese’s dad or something?”
Jovia made a rueful face. “That obvious, huh. You want the usual?”
“Two coffees this time.” Pearl hesitated. “And two chocolate croissants.”
Jovia didn’t remark, filling the order with deft movements. “Yeah, the conversation was typical. Things are a little tight for him right now, but he’ll be sure to catch up on what he owes us just as soon as he can.” Jovia snorted softly. “Must be behind on his Porsche payments. Don’t ask me what the hell I was thinking, not making him sign something legal in the first place. Anyway.” She shrugged, fitted lids on the to-go cups, and put everything into a cardboard carryout tray before making Pearl’s change.
“Has Reese been down yet?” She failed miserably at sounding casual.
“Nah. He’s off today, probably won’t stick his head out of his man cave until eleven or so.” Jovia pressed her lips together for a moment. “If you see him . . . well.” She gave a lopsided smile. “He’ll talk to you. He won’t talk to me. Good luck.” She slid the tray over.
Weighed down by the words, Pearl went out the back door, across the yard, and into the shadows of the carriage house. She could hear Reese’s music playing upstairs, and she steeled herself as she knocked on the door at the top of the stairs.
“Yeah?”
Pearl let herself in. He was stuffing dirty clothes into a bag, getting ready for a Laundromat run. When he glanced back and saw that she wasn’t Jovia, he remained silent, looking her over as he balled a uniform shirt in one hand. Then he turned his back again. “What, the Young Republicans won’t let you into their clubhouse without the secret knock?”
She looked at him, barefoot, dressed in threadbare jeans and a T-shirt; she’d expected to see evidence of last night’s fight with Akil—bruises, something—but he just looked like Reese on a day off. “Do you still have a job?” She kept her voice remote.
He snorted softly, nodded once.
“What’d the Nazi say?” Somehow, it felt forced to use the club nickname for Meriwether now, like she’d given up the right.
“All kinds of things. I wasn’t listening.”
Pearl exhaled, set the tray down on his makeshift bedside table. She caught a glimpse of what was pulled up on his laptop screen. Apartment listings. “You’re moving out?” No response. “Why?”
“Because I can. School’s over. I don’t need a guardian making sure I get to study hall on time.” He stuffed more clothes into the bag. “Jovia can’t put me up forever.”