In Sight of Stars(44)

Finally, she says, “Oh my God, that’s awful, Klee.” She touches my arm. The look on her face, it’s brutal. She pities me. It’s exactly what I didn’t want to see.

I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I only want to be with you now. That’s the only thing I want in the whole world.”

“You should have told me…”

“I know. But now I did. And, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Please. I just want to be with you.”

I stand and pull off my boxers, tug at her shirt, until she lifts her arms and lets me peel it off over her head. Her breasts are beautiful. Her body is beautiful. She smells like cinnamon and apples and falling leaves. The feel of her skin erases everything.

She slips off her jeans, and I climb on top of her, not waiting, or kissing, just needing to be fully immersed with her now. Then I remember, and pull out, and fumble at my nightstand drawer.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, “I’ve got protection,” and she guides me back in, and we move together, delirious, and sweaty in our vodka-soaked haze.

Drunk or not, I don’t last long, but she doesn’t seem to care—not this time—and when we’re finished, we lie there, quiet and breathless, if not the smallest bit free.

Day 9—Evening

“Do you swim, Mr. Alden?”

Sister Agnes Teresa stands by my bed, holding a pair of yellow swim trunks.

It’s late, after ten, because the lights in the hall have been dimmed for quiet hours.

I press the remote that turns off the television and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

“Um, yeah, I guess I do. Why?”

“Good,” she says, tossing them onto my bed. “Go change. I’ll wait. I can rescue you, if need be. I’m a certified lifeguard,” she adds.

*

“Klee?”

“Yeah?”

I stare at my phone, at Sarah’s number, then press it again to my ear.

“You there?”

It’s 2 A.M. I’m probably dreaming. I’m not even sure if I’m awake.

“Yeah,” I say anyway. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. Sure. But I need a favor, okay?”

“Of course. Anything.”

“I need you to rescue me. Tomorrow ten A.M.” I hear the tears in her voice now. “My dad is coming. I thought … I need you to come with me into the city.”

*

Sarah calls me early the next morning and says to meet her at the Northhollow train station. “Don’t pick me up. I want to walk,” she says.

The only other information she gives is that we need to be at the Midtown Hilton by noon.

When I get there, she’s already up on the platform. She’s wearing a black wool peacoat with a baby blue scarf slung around her neck, and black leggings with Timberlands beneath that. At least she’s dressed warmer than I thought she’d be.

“Hey,” I say, wrapping my arms around her, but she wriggles free.

“This weather sucks, sorry. They’re predicting a blizzard.” She blows on her bare hands. “Thanks for agreeing to come.”

The train is delayed, and the stationhouse is locked, and my hands are already numbing through my gloves. Two weeks before Christmas, and it’s downright frigid out. Thick, wet snowflakes have begun to spiral down through the gray air.

“Want mine?” I ask, pulling off my gloves and holding them out to her. She shakes her head. “So, what are we doing again? Midtown Hilton, I know. But the rest was kind of vague this morning.”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry. My dad is in. With Tyler and Stephanie. I learned this late last night. Apparently they got tickets to something.”

“Stephanie?”

“My stepmom. Whatever.”

“Well, you like her. So, that’s fun, no? I’d think you’d be happy. Why do you want me to come?”

Her eyes dart away. “Not for me,” she says. “Just them. The tickets are for her and my dad. They want me to watch Tyler while they go.”

The train finally comes, but it’s slow going because of the weather. The city, however, is going to be packed with the holiday shoppers no matter what. Tourists flooding in from everywhere. My dad used to have a rule: No museums or shows or even mildly trendy restaurants from the day after Thanksgiving through the New Year. So, anywhere we’d take an eight-year-old is going to be hell on earth.

Still, I’ve come up with some ideas and I’m going to brave them, because Sarah seems miserable, and I want her to have a good day with her brother.

She barely talks on the train, or on the subway up to 53rd Street. And, when we enter the lobby of the Hilton, the first thing she mutters is, “Stupid fucking asshole” under her breath. At first I’m not sure why, but then I am. There’s a small boy alone at the concierge desk. He looks like her, with dark brown hair, a round face, and the same wide-set blue eyes. A bellman stands next to him, tapping away on his cell phone.

“Sarah!” The boy exclaims, and she lets go of my hand to run to him.

“Where are Steph and Dad?” she asks, but only after they’ve hugged.

“They paid him to watch me,” Tyler says, indicating the bellman. “Roberto.” The bellman nods at us, then goes back to whatever is on his phone. “They were going to be late because you were supposed to be here by noon.”