Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(68)

When I’m done, I dry off and cover my lower half with a towel before slipping out into the apartment. I’m halfway across the floor to my dresser for one of a few changes of clothes I left here when I hear her call out in a cute, sleepy voice, “You really wanted that car, didn’t you?”

I keep walking until I reach the dresser, while prickles run up my spine, knowing her eyes are on the tattoo of a ’69 Barracuda across my back. At least I can blame the cool November air for the goose bumps she’s giving me right now. “I don’t need much,” I murmur, fumbling through the drawers for a change of clothes.

“I’ve thought about getting a tattoo for years.”

“Why don’t you?”

She chuckles. “I could never decide what to get.”

I check the mirror above the dresser, which gives me a perfect view of the bed and her. “How are you feeling?”

She lifts her arms over her head and winces. The swelling on her lip has gone down, but the bruise across her cheek is darker, angrier. She pauses, arms resting above her head, simply staring at the ceiling above for a moment. “I think I may hurt more today than yesterday,” she mumbles, the grimace fading but not disappearing. “But I can’t remember the last time I slept this well.”

“It’s the fresh mountain air. You’re not used to it.”

Deciding that I probably shouldn’t simply drop my towel in front of her—though it’s nothing she hasn’t already seen—I pull a pair of boxer briefs up under the towel before tossing it to the rocking chair. Another glance in the mirror catches her watching me intently, her cheeks flushing. I quickly yank on some jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, knowing it’s going to be chilly out there.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t have you looked at? I can wake my sister up. She’s a nurse, remember?” That would go over well. She’d be phoning my dad in five minutes flat. Look what your son is involved with now!

She shakes her head. “I’ll be fine. I just need to take it easy.”

“Okay, well, I’m going to raid my parents’ fridge for breakfast before I run to get the parts I need. Anything you want? Besides blueberries, of course.”

She grins. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did. You got me to eat fruit. It’s a miracle.”

A soft giggle escapes her lips. “I don’t think I’m very hungry right now.” She yawns. “Maybe coffee. Two-and-a-half milks and one sweetener, please.”

“Two-and-a-half milks and one sweetener.”

“Yes, please.”

“Right.” I repeat it twice before I give up and write it down on a scrap of paper, knowing I’ll screw it up. I doubt we even have sweetener in the cupboard.

On impulse, I cross the attic floor to the bed and lean down to lay a kiss on her forehead. Her fingers graze my throat as I pull away.

“Hey, Jesse?”

“Yeah?”

She smiles up at me. Even with a bashed-up face, she’s beautiful. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“I’ll be back soon.” I lay a second quick kiss, this time on her cheek, and then I leave.

My parents’ house is eerily quiet when I step through the sliding door. My dad’s already gone—not surprising. He’s normally at his desk at the main office in Bend by six a.m., even when he goes in on weekends. I know Amber’s asleep in her room, because her red Mini is parked in the driveway. She won’t be up until close to dinnertime.

I set the coffee to brew and start rifling through the cupboards and fridge, looking for something that can pass for breakfast. After my grandma died, we operated under very much a “fend for yourself” environment of packaged foods and order-in for a few years, my parents struggling to adjust without the extra help. Thanks to those days, I’ve grown partial to frozen pizza pockets for breakfast, a habit I haven’t been able to break.

My mom started making more of an effort around the house about the same time that I hit rock bottom, my bad choice in friends getting me detained for questioning, with attempted murder charges looming. I didn’t do it, of course. I tried to stop it. But for those twenty-four hours, while waiting for Tommy—a mouthy jock who didn’t deserve to get stabbed—to pull through, while my supposed friends were both pointing fingers at me, my mom sat in this very kitchen, a constant flow of tears streaming down her cheeks. Asking over and over again where she went wrong with her son.

That’s what Amber told me, anyway.

Now all I see in the fridge is fresh fruit and vegetables, some high-end cheeses, yogurt, and weird-colored bread. Fresh steaks ready for the grill. Alex would know what to do with all this stuff. Not that I’d ever let her cook this weekend.

Even though she said she wasn’t hungry, I load a plate up with some fruit and cheese and yogurt. Miraculously, I find sweetener in the cupboard, which I add after making her coffee. I move fast. The last thing I want is to discover that Amber has suddenly become a light sleeper and have her appear in the kitchen.

When I climb the stairs to my attic apartment, I discover Alex cocooned in that wool blanket. Asleep again. I set everything down on the nightstand next to her and then, grabbing my keys and wallet, I head out, locking the door behind me.

It’s almost four o’clock when I hear the water running upstairs.