Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(17)

“I’m working on my goals. In fact, Delia and I want to go to ShiverCon at the end of May for a meeting with a big producer.”

“What’s ShiverCon?” my mom asks.

“It’s a big convention for people who are into horror films and TV. Lots of important people will be there.”

“We’ve planned a family trip to Atlanta on the last weekend in May to visit Aunt Cassie,” my dad says.

I knew I had something. Cassie is my favorite relative, a TV addict like me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Alexis smirking. “Dang, Alexis. Sitting there all smiling.” I try to kick her phone again, but she’s ready this time and pulls it out of reach.

“I wasn’t even smiling at you. Chill.”

“Okay, Josephine,” my mom says. “I can tell you’re hungry from the way you’re acting. There’s tilapia and pasta salad in the fridge. Go.”

“Fish is nasty,” I mutter, rising from the couch. “I’ll be in my room.”

I’m happy for the excuse to exit. I don’t like talking about the Food Network thing. It’s not that what my parents are saying doesn’t make sense. It’s that…I don’t even know. Something inside me tells me it’s not right. I’m not especially interested in hashing out what that is with my parents while Alexis the Unsullied Princess sits there grinning.

I go upstairs, lock the bathroom door, set my phone beside the sink, and start washing off my makeup. My phone buzzes and skitters on the tile counter with an incoming text. I dry my hands and quickly pick it up to check, assuming it’s Delia. It’s not.

(731) 555-7423: Hi, Josie, this is Lawson Vargas from earlier. I got your number from the twins. I realized I accidentally left with your dog costume on Tater. Can I bring it by?

Oh, boy. We got a slick one. Delia called it. I want to text her, but it’s probably not safe yet, since she hasn’t said anything.

Me: It’s cool, just give it to the twins when you see them again.

Lawson: I don’t see them very often because we don’t hang out much.

Points to Lawson for that, I guess. I make eye contact with myself in the mirror and shake my head. What’s the one thing I know about this guy so far? That he doesn’t give up. Hence the spectacular kicking technique and flexibility. Hence the battered face.

Me: Tonight?

Lawson: If you’re home.

I consider telling him I’m not home and to drop it on the front porch. But that seems too cold. He did put on a great show to help us. Plus, it would be healthy for Alexis to witness a boy wanting so badly to see me on a Friday night.

Me: When?

Lawson: I can come by now.

Of course you can, Lawson. Of course you can. I text him my address. At least you have a nice face.





My stomach is a fist. I stand and pick up my phone but I almost have to sit again, my legs tremble so violently. I’m already a pretty pale person, but I can sense myself taking on a ghostly green cast.

“DeeDee? You don’t look great,” Mom says, her voice sounding distant and submerged.

I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I say in what I recognize to be a profoundly unfine voice. “I gotta go to the bathroom.” I totter away on gelatinous legs.

“I hope I didn’t leave out that pizza too long,” Mom calls after me.

I slip inside our cramped bathroom, its counters perpetually piled deep with beauty products and hairstyling implements with tangled cords, shut the door and lock it, and sit on the toilet, shaking and trying to breathe down the adrenaline. When I finally feel less dizzy, I lift my phone and read.

Ms. Wilkes, sorry for not getting back to you sooner. I was tied up on a stakeout. I’ve managed to track down someone who I believe is your father— My heart pounds. I close my eyes and lower my phone. I wanted her not to be able to find him. I wanted him to be gone forever so all I would have is one perfect day and an October night sky filled with stars and the bright moon. I wanted to not have to make any decisions. But I also didn’t want any of that and I wanted to find him. Even if I put my few perfect memories at risk. I swallow hard and keep reading.

A Derek Armstrong lives at 685 Herbert Street in Boca Raton, Florida. About five years ago, he legally changed his name from Dylan Wilkes. Information from public records roughly matches his description: 5’9”, blue eyes, Caucasian. I couldn’t find a phone number, but I came up with an email address: [email protected]. I can keep digging if you want to be more certain, but I’d need another payment of $300 up front.

I’m looking at my father’s name, but it isn’t his name. My father and I don’t have the same last name anymore. He changed it so that we wouldn’t. Even his name is a broken promise. Dylan Wilkes is dead. There’s only Derek Armstrong now. Why would he change his name? Is he in trouble? A spy? Just really intent on never being found?

I wanted him to be dead so that he couldn’t have tried to make contact with me all these years. His being alive makes it a choice. I press my hands to my eyes, and warm tears well between my fingers. My emotions churn and seethe. I can’t even begin to untangle the ball of twisted sensations I’m having. My body is telling me crying is the right response. And yet, even in the privacy of the bathroom, I try not to, as if the universe only allots you a finite number of crying jags, so you have to make each one count. It’s dumb. But still. Sometimes if you fake being strong, you start to believe yourself.