Starry Eyes(13)

I chuckle, slightly embarrassed. “Of course not. Duh.”

A heavy awkwardness fills the space between us, and I don’t know why. Maybe she’s remembering how we used to all be better friends. Maybe she actually wants to go with me to Condor Peak but needs a little push. Sometimes if I prod her, she’ll let down her guard and show me the other Reagan—the girl she used to be when we were younger. Before all of the pressure of the Olympic training. Before her parents got rich.

She slaps my shoulder, startling me. Sometimes Reagan doesn’t know her own strength. “Don’t be such a worrywart. It’s all good,” she says, voice bouncing with positivity. “I think everything will work out for both us. You can spend a little time glamping with my group and then head to your astronomy thing with Avani.”

“Might take some coordinating,” I say, still unsure.

“Nah, it’ll work out fine,” she insists, bugging her eyes out at me comically and then sticking her tongue out briefly. “Just roll with it, Zorie. Let life happen.”

I’m not sure if she realizes, but that’s Brett’s motto. He says it all the time.

Maybe it’s time I take this advice.

*

The next morning, I’m letting life happen in the only way I know how, which is me going over my extremely detailed fifty-five-bullet-point list for the camping trip while sitting behind the clinic’s front desk. We leave tomorrow, which doesn’t give me a lot of time to ensure that I have everything I’ll need. I’m a little worried I might forget something.

What that is, I’m not sure. I’ve never been camping. But I’m poking around the glamping compound’s website, and it’s mostly magazine-worthy photographs of the surrounding landscape. The only information I find is a glowing write-up of their chef and wine collection. That and a list of their prices, which are insane. You’d think we were staying at a four-star hotel instead of in a tent.

Avani and I talked on the phone for almost an hour last night. We firmed up plans to meet up at the star party, and she helped me research the bus lines that run out there in the Sierras—which are not frequent. Seems as though I have two chances each day to catch a bus heading toward Condor Peak. At least I now have a plan, which is all I ever wanted.

The clinic’s door opens, and I look up from the front desk’s computer, expecting to see my mom’s next acupuncture appointment. My dad doesn’t have anything booked until after lunch, so he left a few minutes ago to run errands around town. Fine by me. I’ve still barely spoken two words to him. I’m not sure what to say. How’s it going? Any new mistresses this week? Or perhaps, What’s there to do in the Bahamas besides betraying your marriage vows and destroying our family?

I shove all of that into the back of my mind and slip on my polite dealing-with-the-public face. But the smile I’m conjuring quickly fades when I see who’s walking toward the desk.

The Lord of Darkness himself, Lennon Mackenzie.

My first thought: What the hell is he doing in here?

He never comes in the clinic. Ever, ever, ever. It’s probably been a year since he’s stepped foot inside this waiting room.

My second thought: OH SWEET LORD, HE SAW ME SPYING ON HIM IN HIS BEDROOM.

If there’s a God above, please let him or her grant me the power of time travel, so that I can rewind the clock and completely avoid this nightmare of a situation. I blink slowly, hoping Lennon will disappear when I reopen my eyes, but no. He and his too-tall body—don’t you dare think about his bare chest—are still taking up too much room on the other side of the clinic’s desk.

“Hello,” he says. It almost sounds like a question.

I think about lifting my chin without saying anything, like he did to me the other day, but quickly decide I’m classier than that. “Good morning,” I say formally. No smile. He’s not worth the effort.

His eyes drop. He balls his hand into a fist and slowly, gently taps it on top of the desk a couple of times while sucking in a long breath between gritted teeth . . . as though he doesn’t know what to say. Or he does, but he really doesn’t want to say it.

“So . . . ,” he finally says.

“So,” I agree. Is he avoiding my eyes? It feels as if he might throw dynamite over the desk and race out the door. Now I understand why people say you can cut tension with a knife.

Is he not going to say anything else?

Is he here to confront me?

What do I do?

“I wasn’t spying on you,” I blurt out defensively. “I was just making adjustments to my telescope. It was repaired. Recently. Recently repaired. I was checking it.”

Oh, now he’s looking at me. Something akin to horror is dawning over his face. Or shock. Or he thinks I’m an idiot. Why can’t I read him? And why is he not saying anything?

“I didn’t even see much,” I insist.

He nods slowly.

“Anything, really,” I amend. “I was testing my telescope.”

“You mentioned that,” he says, squinting at me through tight eyes.

“Sorry. I mean, I don’t have anything to be sorry about, because I didn’t do anything.”

“Right.”

“It was an accident.”

“Got it.”

My eyes flick to his arms. He’s wearing short sleeves, so now I’m staring at muscle. Look away! Look away! Too late. He caught me. Again.