Out of Nowhere (4 page)

He perked up at the sight of food, but seemed hesitant to take it from me. “No, it’s yours. You eat it.”

“I have three of them. Look, I’ll even…” I rooted around in my bag again, coming up with a second granola bar. “I’ll eat one too.”

“Okay.” He took the bar with his good hand and ripped open the package with his teeth.

“Sorry. I should’ve opened it for you.”

He didn’t answer because his mouth was full of granola. The entire bar disappeared in two bites. “Thanks,” he said once he’d swallowed. “I’m starting to feel better now.”

I held up the last granola bar. “Another one?”

“I’m good.”

I finished mine and opened the third, ripping it down the middle. “We’ll split this one.”

He didn’t hesitate this time. When we finished our snack, I insisted on going to get us a couple of bottles of water from the vending machine. The boy’s face had regained some color, and he was able to stand up without fainting to dig in his pocket for change. As he did this, I noted that he was about my height. But where I was lanky and pale, he was wiry and very tanned, even though it was just the end of April. He didn’t come across as the tanning bed type, so I figured he must have spent a lot of time outdoors.

“I’ve never had service like this in the hospital before,” he said when I came back with the waters and passed one to him, already opened. “You want to examine my arm too? X-ray it right here in the waiting room?”

I laughed self-consciously and took a sip of water. He was smiling, but I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me or not.

“You’d make a great nurse.”

“Actually, I want to be a doctor,” I said, my eyes on the scuffed white floor.

“Yeah? Well, I’d go to you for sure, and I hate going to the doctor.”

Why?
I wanted to ask, but I didn’t. It wasn’t any of my business. And why in the hell did I tell him I wanted to be a doctor? I barely knew this guy. Hospital waiting rooms were a little like summer camp—people thrown together for hours at a time, bonding through necessity.

“Madison Carter!” the nurse yelled. A woman with a sniffling toddler in her arms stood up.

“Where do you want to go to college?” the boy asked me.

“Here. Kinsley. It’s a good school and I can probably get a scholarship.”

He raised his eyebrows; impressed or surprised, I wasn’t sure which. “Will you start in the fall?”

“No, I have to get through another year at Nicholson first. You?”

“I graduate in June. Oakfield High.”

“My grandparents live in Oakfield,” I told him. That got me thinking about Tristan, and I wondered if he was having fun with Grandma and Grandpa. “Where are you going in the fall?”

The boy smiled again. He had a nice smile, wide and bright and it reached his eyes every time. “The school of life.”

“Oh.” I left it at that. None of my business again.

It was closing in on four o’clock now. Most of the original waiting room occupants, including Mole Lady, had been replaced by a new set of hurt and ailing people. And here this guy—whatever his name was—and I still sat, itching and aching for our turns.

Speaking of itching, it was getting bad again. I reached under my sleeve to subdue the biggest hive, the nasty one near my elbow.

“Don’t touch,” the boy said, watching me. “Bacteria.”

“It’s not an open wound like yours,” I replied, laughing. I was starting to like this guy, whoever he was.

“Cole Boyer!”

“Finally.” The boy stood up, carefully tucking his injured arm against his stomach. He caught my eye. “Hey, thanks for the granola bars…and the company.”

“Um, sure. No problem.”

He touched two fingers to his forehead in a casual salute and then sauntered off toward the nurse, who was waiting to lead him away. I watched him go, wondering what his diagnosis would be and if he’d ever get brave enough to step on a skateboard again.

* * *

Diagnosis: acute allergic reaction. Treatment: antihistamine at bedtime, anti-itch cream when needed, and a new antibiotic for the lingering sinus infection. Prognosis: positive. I would heal.

The house was still empty when I got home from the hospital. I called Mom at work like she’d asked me to and gave her the full report.

“A four hour wait!” She tsked. “You must have been bored out of your mind.”

“Actually,” I said, “the time flew by.”

Mom told me she planned to pick up Tristan at her parents’ house right after work, and that they’d both be home around nine. I told her not to rush. Usually I minded being alone in the house, but after an afternoon in a crowded, noisy hospital, an evening of peace and quiet sounded pretty good to me right now.

I ate cold leftover pizza in front of the TV and then drew myself a warm bath. The doctor had recommended sprinkling in a little baking soda to help with the itch. I dumped in a generous amount and stirred it around with my foot. When it was fully dissolved, I settled in for a good long soak and tried to clear my mind of everything—my rash, school, work, fatal brain aneurysms—everything. I wouldn’t let anything in.

Cole Boyer
.

My eyes popped open. Where did
that
come from? Why was I thinking about some stranger from the ER waiting room? I didn’t know him at all, and it wasn’t like I found him physically attractive or anything. He was so not my type. And what kind of a name was
Cole
anyway? It sounded like something naughty kids got in their stockings at Christmas, not something you named your kid.

Now Adam, that was a normal name. A good, honorable name for a fine, upstanding boy. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven when none other than Adam Nash started flirting with me in the middle of last year.
Me
, a tall, gawky tenth-grader with nonexistent boobs and pimples on her chin. He was a
senior
, for God’s sake, and adorable to boot. And he’d recently broken up with Abby Zamora, who looked like the teenage version of J-Lo. So imagine my surprise when he chose me.

I probably should have foreseen the potential problems then, but I didn’t. I was girlfriend to Adam Nash, Mr. Perfect, and for a couple of months I was the happiest girl in the world. But then the shine wore off, cracks began to show, and the real Adam emerged.

Our biggest problem was sex. Or rather, the lack thereof. To put it bluntly, he wanted it and I wasn’t ready for it. My mother had been lecturing me about birth control practically since infancy (kind of ironic coming from a woman who’d gotten accidentally knocked up not once, but twice), and she’d kicked it into high gear when Adam came along. She drilled me about safe sex and abstinence and STDs until I would’ve gladly joined a convent just to shut her up. She’d been a teenage mother, she liked to remind me, over and over. She didn’t want that for me.

I didn’t want that either. I had plans for my life. Big plans. I was going to college, then to medical school. And I refused to let anything interfere with that. Even for Adam.

But Adam neither understood nor respected this. He kept pushing and pressuring. Our conversations usually went something like this:

Adam:
Come on, Riley. It’s been (insert number here) months. I can’t wait anymore.

Me:
I told you, I’m not ready. I don’t know when I’ll be ready.

Adam:
What exactly are you saving it for? It’s not like you’re Catholic or something.

Me:
This has nothing to do with religion. I have goals, okay? I don’t want to risk getting pregnant.

Adam:
There’s no risk. We’ll be careful.

Me:
There’s always a risk.

Adam:
I’m beginning to think you don’t love me.

This went on throughout the spring and most of the summer until finally he sent me an email one day in August saying that he still loved me, but I was getting too clingy and he thought it might be good for us to spend some time apart. And he needed a girlfriend who was mature and understood his needs. And he was sorry, but I wasn’t the right girl for him. Good-bye.

Seriously. The asshole broke up with me by email. And even though I’d known deep down it was coming, I was devastated.

Two days later he was back together with Abby Zamora. They dated for the rest of the summer, went off to college together, had lots and lots of sex, and lived happily ever after. That was what I assumed, anyway. I’d never spoken to him again after that email. He could have knocked her up or given her gonorrhea for all I knew.

Now, as I soaked myself into a raisin in the tub, I wondered if I was destined to become one of those women who rely on gay men to satisfy their need for male attention without the expectations of sex and commitment. Probably not. I loved Lucas to death, but he just wasn’t cutting it for me lately. I wanted a warm hand on the small of my back. I wanted whispered phone calls late at night. I wanted someone to say
I love you
and actually mean it.

Chapter Four

The front door was ajar.

Now, we lived in a pretty safe neighborhood, but burglaries and house invasions were not unheard of around here. Just last month our neighbor Sylvia got her car broken into in broad daylight. Still, in the twelve years we’d lived on this street, the only thing we’d really had to complain about was the occasional out-of-control house party. Most of our neighbors were young couples who loved fixer-uppers and seniors who’d lived here since the fifties.

I tugged gently on the screen door handle and found that unlocked too. I
always
locked both doors before going to school, and I specifically remembered doing it this morning because my key got jammed in the sticky deadbolt again. I scanned my surroundings for any clues an intruder may have left behind, like stray cigarette butts or lock-picking tools. Everything looked normal. Mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway so it couldn’t be her, home early for some reason. Unless she got violently ill at work and her flaky car broke down and she had to take the bus home or catch a ride with a co-worker, which was a possibility.

Slowly, I pulled the screen door open all the way. “Mom?” I called, poised and ready to run in case a burglar was hiding inside the coat closet.

“Hey, it’s Rye Bread!”

I jumped about three feet in the air and let out a yelp. “Jesus Christ!”

“No, sorry. It’s just me, Jeff.”

Indeed it was Jeff, standing right in front of me and laughing, looking like a big, muscular, adult version of Tristan. And right now I wanted to punch him in the face. Instead, I glared at him and said, “You scared the
hell
out of me.”

“I tend to have that affect on people,” he said, flexing his bicep. Jeff was not only annoying and juvenile, but he was also conceited.

“I thought you weren’t getting in until tomorrow.” My breathing started slowing down, as did my traumatized heart rate, and I took a moment to look him over. He was bigger than ever, his blond hair damp from the shower he undoubtedly took when he got here. His eyes were clear and blue, the color of faded denim. Tristan’s eyes.

“I caught an earlier plane.” He came over and wrapped me in a hug before I had time to duck away. Receiving a hug from Jeff was like being crushed against an unyielding, cologne-scented brick wall. He let me go and ruffled my hair. “I got in at one and stopped by your mom’s store to surprise her. She gave me the keys.”

I fixed my hair until it hung flat again. I hated it when he ruffled it, like he was my dad or something. My own dad never even did that.

“It’s good to see you, Rye Bread. What’ve you been up to since November?”

I also hated it when he called me Rye Bread, a play on my name he’d thought up shortly after meeting me. Did I mention he was also unoriginal? Besides, with my coloring, I looked more like Wonderbread than rye.

“Oh, this and that,” I said, walking into the living room and almost tripping over a mountain of luggage by the doorway. Oh God, was he moving in? “How was your, um, trip?” I asked. I wasn’t too clear on the specifics of Jeff’s job. All I knew was that it involved him visiting power plants all over the country and welding whatever they needed welded. He must have been good at it because he was away more than he was home.

“Long,” Jeff replied. We left it at that.

“Have you seen Tristan yet?”

“No. Your mother thought he might freak out if I tried to pick him up at daycare.” He flopped down on the couch and picked up the remote. “She said she’d knock off early and go get him. I can’t wait to see the little guy. He looked so big in the last set of pictures you guys sent.”

“He is getting big,” I agreed. And Mom was right too, he
would
freak out if Jeff showed up at his daycare and tried to take him. Tristan was shy with people he didn’t know, especially big loud guys.

While Jeff reacquainted himself with our high-definition cable, I sat at the kitchen table with my math homework and a box of Cheese Nips. I found it hard to concentrate though, what with the blaring TV and that distressing stack of luggage in the living room. Mom would have told me if he was moving in, or even just staying with us for a while. She knew how much it bothered me last time. Surely his landlord was finished with the apartment renovations by now, so why hadn’t he gone
there
with all his junk?

I heard the front door open about forty-five minutes later. “We’re home!” Mom sang. Usually she sounded like she needed a strong drink when she came home from work. Today, she sounded chipper and energetic. I knew why, but I tried not to think about it. My ears still burned from the last time Jeff spent the night.

I stepped into the hallway just in time to see father and son meet face-to-face for the first time in half a year. For a minute they just stared at each other, two pairs of denim-blue eyes locked together. Tristan seemed unsure about this large, strange man who was kneeling in front of him and smiling like he was expecting some spark of recognition. But Tristan had no idea who Jeff was, and he buried his face in Mom’s skirt. Jeff’s smile slipped a little, but he didn’t push it. Tristan would warm up eventually. And by the time he was used to his dad, I thought, Jeff would probably have to leave again.