In Sight of Stars(24)

“So, you’ve been here before?”

“Twice. Plus now. So, three, if you’re counting. And, you?” I shake my head. “No, not that. I meant your bandage, there. Fess up.”

“Oh.” My hand moves reflexively to my ear. “I had a fight with a bad day. Well, actually, a bad night. And the night won.”

Sabrina smiles. “I’ve lost my share of those.”

“Actually, it was a few bad months. Well, really the whole, entire, freaking, goddamned year.” I push my plate away. I can’t eat through the lump that’s taken up residence in my throat.

“I hear you,” Sabrina says, trying to commiserate. But it’s too late. Thoughts of Sarah, of my father, slam me. Of my mother’s letters. Sabrina nudges my plate back toward me. “Trust me. Sometimes you just need to talk about it. Maybe not right now. But soon.”

Martin nods, taking some fries from my plate. “We’ve all done stupid things we regret around here.”

“No one said it was stupid, Martin. And sometimes you just need to not talk about it, too.” Sabrina smiles at me again. “Especially with food in your mouth. Geez.”

And, I can’t help it. I laugh. “It’s okay. I guess it was pretty stupid,” I say.

“See?” Martin says. “We’re all brilliant and stupid. Geniuses and losers.” And he sits back, satisfied, content with whatever debate he thinks he might have just won.

*

“Mr. Alden, not asleep?” Sister Agnes Teresa waddles forth, sounding surprised as she drops a Hostess Fruit Pie on my table. Its cheerful cherry label stares up at me.

“Do you own stock?” I ask.

Sister Agnes Teresa frowns and says, “Ah, in Hostess, you mean. But Yodels are Drake’s Cakes, my friend.” She nods toward the window, where the shades are up, letting in the melancholy glow of the courtyard. “Awake and you let the outside in. Good signs this evening. Plus, always smart to have the reminder.”

I’m not sure what she’s referring to, but don’t ask, just watch as she moves to the window and stares out, her tunic rising and falling with her breath. She crosses herself before finally turning back to me.

“Don’t you like cherry pie, Mr. Alden?”

“I do, thanks. I’m just not hungry yet.” I pick it up anyway and examine the label, then hold it out to her. “It says fruit but shows cherry. Is it fruit or cherry, do you think?”

“Ha, we could ask Annie, right? See if she likes it.”

“Annie?” I rack my brain, worried the crow is lurking, about to make some grand entrance, proving I’m no better than I was a few days ago. That even Sister Agnes Teresa is a hallucination.

“Annie,” she repeats. “Don’t you know her? She’s odd and funny, but not peculiar.”

“O-kay?” I search beyond her to the top of the window sash, but no crow.

“Such a shame you haven’t heard of her,” she says, determined. “Annie, Annie? No? Well now you have. She likes cookies but not tarts; she likes apples but not peaches; and for sure she likes cherry pies but would never eat a fruit one.”

“Ah. Okay. A riddle, then?” I ask, more confused than ever.

“For me to know and you to figure out,” Sister Agnes Teresa says, moving from the window toward the door. “Well, I can see you’ve had enough of me for one night. And, it’s almost lights-out anyway.” She pulls the door open and turns back again. “She reads books but not magazines. Loves puppies but not dogs. Chews peppermint but not ever spearmint gum.”

“Annie,” I confirm.

“Indeed. I have faith in you. You’ll figure it out,” she says.

*

I slide the cherry pie out of its sleeve, turn off the TV and stare out the window, and think about that first night with Sarah, after the city, on the train back to Northhollow. It’s because of that train ride she writes what she does on my portfolio. But that’s days later. Here, now, we’re still on the train, making out, our lips raw with kissing.

My hand slips up her shirt and touches her bare breasts, my thumb circling her hard nipple. I want to do more than touch her, I want to move my mouth there, my tongue, and taste her everywhere. But I shouldn’t even be doing this much in public, so I control myself. At least the train is mostly empty.

At some point, the conductor comes to take our tickets and, I swear, we barely stop. Just hand him them, breathless, like we don’t even care.

Only when we reach the station before Northhollow do I force myself to stop and sit up. My breath is heavy, and I’m hard as a rock, so if I don’t stop, I’m not going to be able to get up and out, and to my car. I need to find a way to calm down.

Sarah sits up, too. Looks at me, amused. “You’re a mess,” she says, laughing.

She thinks it’s funny I’m so out of control, and maybe it is. As if to instigate further, she slips her hand between my thighs and squeezes.

“Wow, you want me bad,” she whispers, leaning in.

“I do. But I need to be able to walk soon, too, and if you do that, you’re going to make it impossible.”

“I have faith in you.”

“Don’t,” I say.

“Okay, fine.” She gives another squeeze, then pulls her hand away. “Here. I’ll be good.”