What Happens to Goodbye(59)

“All right.” She smiled, then shut the door, and Dave came back to the table.
“Cells, huh?” I said as he sat back down.
“Yep.” He sighed, stacking our bowls one in the other, and putting both spoons in the top one. “They make up everything and everyone, Mclean.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m sure it will be fascinating.”

“Want to join us?” I bit my lip, trying not to smile as he stood up, pushing in his chair. “Yeah, it’s not exactly my cup of tea either. But if I want to go to Austin, I have to play the game. Be a good son, and all that.”
He walked over to the stove, where he picked up the saucepan, stuffing the pot holder in his pocket. Then, as I watched, he carefully shut all the open, empty cabinets. Just like that, my kitchen was normal again. At least, from the outside.
He was walking to the door now, the pot in hand, and I pushed out my chair, getting to my feet. “You know,” I said, “the fact that I didn’t come by today . . . it wasn’t about anything you said. I’m just—”
“Not into entanglements,” he finished for me. “I get it. Loud and clear.”
We stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. If I had more time, I thought, but really, it wasn’t about that. I just wasn’t sure any relationship could work. If the perfect love story turned out not to be, what did that mean for the rest of us?
Dave looked over at his house again. “I’d better go. The cells and their lives are waiting.”
“Thanks for the soup.”
“No problem. Thanks for the company.”
I pushed open my door, and he stepped through, glancing back once as he went down the stairs and across the driveway. I watched him go inside his kitchen, putting the saucepan in the sink. Then he started down the hallway, where the light of a TV was flickering in the distance.
I was almost back to my room, and my homework, when the phone rang. Which startled me, honestly, as I’d sort of forgotten it was there. My dad and I usually didn’t bother with landlines, instead just using our cell phones, as it was easier than having to keep learning new numbers in every place. But here, for what reason, EAT INC had put in a house line for us. The few times it had rung, they were wrong numbers or telemarketers. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was looking for a reason to procrastinate, I probably would have ignored it altogether.
“Hello?” I said, my tone stern, already in No mode.
“Is that Mclean?”
I didn’t recognize the voice, which just made the fact that the caller knew who I was that much weirder. “Um,” I said. “Yes. Who’s this?”
“Lindsay Baker. From the town council. We met the other day at the restaurant.”
Immediately, I saw her in my head: that yellow-blonde hair, bright eyes, even brighter teeth. Even over the phone her confidence was palpable. “Oh, right. Hi.”
“I’m calling because I’ve been trying to reach your father for a few days now on his cell and at Luna Blu, without any luck, and I was hoping to catch him at this number. Is he around?”
“No,” I said. “He’s at the restaurant.”
“Oh.” A pause. “That’s strange. I just called there and they said he was at home.”
“Really?” I looked at the clock: it was 7:30, prime dinner rush. “I’m not sure where he could be, then.”
“Oh, well,” she replied. “It was worth a shot. I’ll keep trying him, but could I bother you to pass on my number and a message? ”
“Sure.”
I picked up a pen and uncapped it. “Just tell him,” she said, “that I’d really like to get together for lunch and discuss what we talked about the other day. My treat, at his convenience. I’m at 919-555-7744. That’s my cell, and I always have it with me.”
LINDSAY BAKER, I wrote, with the number beneath it. WANTS YOU FOR LUNCH. “I’ll tell him,” I said.
“Perfect. Thank you, Mclean.”
We hung up, and I looked back down at the message, realizing only then that it sounded like something the big bad wolf would leave. Oh, well, I thought, sticking it on the kitchen table. He’ll get the idea.
I went back to my room and tried to immerse myself in the Industrial Revolution. About a half hour later, I heard a soft knock at the back door, so quiet I wondered if I’d imagined it. When I came out, no one was there. On the back deck rail, though, there was a small box, a sticky note attached to it.
I picked it up. It was a plastic container of thyme, already opened, but more than half full. JUST IN CASE YOU DECIDE TO STICK AROUND, the note said in messy, slanted writing. WE HAD THREE OF THESE.
I looked back at the Wades’ dark kitchen for a moment, then turned around and went back inside, putting the thyme in the cupboard, right by the salt and pepper and the silverware. The note I took back to my room, where I stuck it on my bedside clock, front and center, so it would be the first thing I saw in the morning.
Nine
v width="0em" align="left">The next day I woke up to a bright white glare outside my window. When I eased the shade aside and peered out, I saw it had snowed overnight. There were about four inches covering everything, and it was still coming down. “Snow,” my dad reported as I came into the kitchen. He was at the window, a mug of coffee in his hands. “Haven’t seen that in a while.”
“Not since Montford Falls,” I said.
“If we’re lucky, it’ll delay Chuckles at the airport. That would at least buy us some time.”