The People We Keep(84)

When Ethan wakes up he pads into the kitchen barefoot, wearing paint-stained scrub pants, a faded R.E.M. tee, and wire-rimmed glasses that take up half his face. He pats my shoulder and says, “A half-naked man cooking breakfast. We could get used to this, April, huh?” I think maybe he’s using my trick, jumping into the middle of our friendship so we all feel like we belong together.

Robert hands him a mug of coffee. Ethan takes a sip and sighs. “Oh, cinnamon. Robert, you make better coffee than Ivan.” He looks at me. “I don’t need Ivan one bit, right?” The way he says it, it’s like he’s hoping I’ll actually have the answer.

“Right,” I say firmly, as if I know all there is to know about the situation. The buck knife is digging into my side. I feel ridiculous for carrying it.

“Good coffee,” Ethan says. “Good people. What else do I need anyway?” I have the overwhelming urge to hug him and tell him everything will be okay. I don’t. But I want to.

“How do you like your eggs, April?” Robert asks.

“Over easy,” I say. I’ve never liked eggs, but people at the diner always ordered them that way, and mostly they came out looking less gross.

“I like mine scrambled,” Ethan says.

“Eggs or men?” Robert asks.

“Both, apparently,” Ethan says, flashing me a grin.



* * *



Robert has to go to the restaurant so he can start working on lunch. He leaves me and Ethan with topped-off mugs of coffee and bellies full of eggs and potatoes.

“See you later, Alliga-tor-idae!” Ethan yells after Robert. He leans in and says, “He makes me watch PBS.”

“In a while, Crocodylidae,” Robert calls back, laughing. They sound like little boys who can’t wait to meet up later and play trucks in the dirt.

Ethan gets up and puts his plate in the sink. “So, what do you need to do to get ready for your performance tonight?”

“Tune my guitar,” I say, shrugging. “But not until I get there.” I may as well stay for the gig at this point. Sneak out tomorrow morning instead. Maybe I can busk downtown again before the gig to grab some extra cash. Leave here caught up on sleep and food and money.

Ethan looks disappointed. “No pre-gig ritual? Smudges of sage? Herbal tea and complete silence to channel your muse?” He takes my plate for me.

“My muse?” I laugh. “I just get up and play. When I’m done I have a beer or something. That’s about it.”

“No fanfare?” He pours me more coffee and empties the pot filling up his own cup.

“On a good week, I play three to five gigs and I drive the rest of the time. There’s no room for fanfare.” I could tell him about my dad’s guitar pick. I bet he’d like to hear it. But I don’t think I’ve ever said those words out loud.

Ethan smacks the table. “I’ll give you fanfare! Come on.” He downs the rest of his coffee. His eyes tear a little. “Bring your guitar.”

“Where are we going?”

“Up, up! You’ll see when we get there!”



* * *



We walk across town. I like the way our footsteps sound. Half a beat apart. It’s sunny and so much warmer than New York. It seems strange to me that people choose to live with winter when they could see the sun in March.

Ethan points out things while we walk. The one perfect cloud in the sky, crocus buds peeking through the damp spring soil, a tails-up penny he flips over so the next person who sees it gets some luck.

We make our way through campus to a big brick building, stopping at a grey metal door. It’s a back entrance. No signs or windows. Ethan pulls keys from his jacket pocket.

“Close your eyes,” he says, grabbing my free hand and squeezing.

And I do it. So stupid, but I do it. I squeeze his hand back.

I hear him unlock the door. He leads me inside. The door closes behind us with a slam that makes my heart jump. He keeps walking. I take baby steps, trying not to stumble over my own feet, not sure what I might bump into. Both my hands are spoken for, guitar in one, Ethan’s cold, dry palm in the other. I open one eye, trying to figure out where we are and what we’re doing. Everything is black. The eggs and buttered toast sit heavy in my stomach. I’m locked in the dark with a man I don’t know.

I open both my eyes. It is darker than the woods behind the motorhome at the new moon. Something’s hanging from the ceiling, brushing my arm as I walk past. Ropes maybe.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I wonder if Ethan can feel my crazy pulse. I will my eyes to adjust faster. They don’t.

Shit. I let my guard down, like an idiot. I know better. I know better. I’ve walked into the exact kind of scene Margo used to warn me about.

Ethan’s grip is tight on my hand. I try to keep my breath calm and plan escape moves in my head. We haven’t turned. The door is straight behind me, a few feet away. My knife is in my bag somewhere, not ready at my hip. If I drop my guitar, I’ll still have to search for the knife. My palm sweats against Ethan’s. Or is his palm sweating too?

He lets go of my hand. “Stay there.”

I inch backward, fumble in my bag with my free hand. I feel my wallet. Flashlight. A tampon. Chapstick. I can’t find my knife.

I hear the patter of Ethan’s feet walking away and tighten my grip on the handle of my guitar case, ready to swing if I need to. It’s probably fine. I try to picture his face. Kind eyes, sweet smile. He’s not going to hang me from the ceiling and hack me to pieces. He’s not. It’s probably fine. But I really don’t know how I’m ever supposed to trust myself.