The Vision (10 page)

chapter 14

If I'd had to guess, I would have put Zander behind the wheel of some fancy low-slung Italian sportscar—sleeker and more dangerous than Ryan's. Instead, it was a banged-up, dark-blue Nissan. I guess Zander's father didn't own a thriving funeral home. Or maybe he did, for all I knew about Zander, which was basically nothing.

He opened the door for me, waving his hand grandly at the passenger seat. I smiled and climbed in as gracefully as I could.

His car was neat, freshly vacuumed, and smelled intoxicatingly like him, earthy and Eastern, like incense and patchouli oil. The scent was faint, the way wood like cedar or pine smells, its fragrance essential rather than applied.

Zander got in, cranking the heat up full blast and unwrapping his scarf. A small gold charm on a black leather necklace flashed in the dome light as he leaned forward. It settled against his silky olive skin in the spot where his top shirt button was undone. I looked down, fiddling with my bookbag's zipper, but not before he'd caught me staring.

“You like?” He smiled slyly, holding out the charm, an
O
with a line through the center. I'd seen it before.

“It's Greek, right?”

He nodded. “Do you know the letter?”

I shook my head. “My grandmother knew the language but never taught me.”

“It's theta.” He was looking at me expectantly.

“Mmm. Very nice.” Him, the charm, all of it.

He smiled and let it drop back to his chest. “Which way?” Zander asked.

I gave him directions, canvassing the car as we drove. Beyond the classic rock station, there was little evidence of Zander's personal tastes. His car was as generic as Jackson Kennit's apartment had been.

“Who do you live with?” he asked. Most people assumed I lived with parents but of course I'd already told Zander I'd lived with my grandmother in Pennsylvania. Past tense.

“A friend. Her name's Petra. She works at a mental hospital,” I added, shifting to see his reaction. “The one where I thought I saw you.”

Zander's expression stayed completely neutral. “Ah. So that's why you hang out at the nuthouse.”

“Sort of. But I was really there visiting Demetria.”

He said nothing.

“Do you know her? Demetria Kansokis? I thought you might, since she probably goes to
your
church.”

He shrugged, eyes still totally focused on the road. “Maybe she does. Like I said, I don't go all the time. And I certainly don't know everyone there.”

“You seem pretty
in
with the Greek community, though,” I persisted. “All the people you hang with at school, your church …” I really didn't have anything else.

We had turned onto my street and Zander guided the car into an empty spot by the front of our building. He turned to me, the car still idling.

“You seem very interested in the Greek community,” he observed.

“Yeah, I guess.” I scratched at a smudge on my jeans, hoping I didn't sound stalkerish and trying to come up with a version of the truth confessional enough that he'd believe it. “I'm probably way off-base thinking this, but I'm kind of short on family and it seems like being Greek—in the community and all—makes you part of something. Gives you a connection I guess I'd like to have.” I glanced up, giving him a half smile that felt sadder than I'd meant it to. “Pathetic, huh?”

Zander smiled back, his eyes almost kind. He was silent for a minute, then said, “Why don't you come to my house for dinner this weekend?”

I couldn't possibly have heard that right. “What?”

“My mom's a great cook. You know, like your typical Greek.” He was teasing me now, but gently. “She'd love it if I brought a nice Greek girl like you home.”

“But …” I was totally floored. He wanted me to meet his mother? Have dinner with his family? “You hardly know me, Zander,” I said hesitantly, not wanting to offend him and not at all sure what his invitation meant.

“So I'll wait a little longer before I propose.”

My obvious and total confusion made him laugh.

“Really, Cassie,” he said. “Lighten up. You seem like a nice person—a little lost, maybe, but nice. If you're so interested in us Greeks, come on over and study us in our natural habitat. No pressure.”

“Uh …” I smiled weakly, feeling like a kid who'd spun herself dizzy. “Yeah, I guess.” I recovered my manners enough to add, “Thanks, Zander. That's really nice.”

We settled the details. Saturday night. He'd pick me up.

I was getting out of the car, my head still whirling, when Zander leaned across, catching my wrist gently in his strong hand. “And just so there's no mistake,” he said, his near-black eyes fixed on mine, “I
do
like you.”

I don't even remember him letting me go. I stood on the sidewalk watching him drive away, that smug smile still on his lips. My heart was pounding and I felt hot enough to give off steam in the frigid Illinois winter. What was I getting into?

chapter 15

At the wake on Saturday, Mr. Ludwig had to ask me three times to replenish supplies in the ladies' room.

“What's wrong with you?” Ryan asked after Mr. Ludwig had gone.

“I don't know. Nothing,” I mumbled, feeling bad about disappointing Mr. Ludwig, who was clearly annoyed. But that couldn't begin to compete with the other stuff I was feeling. Nervous, excited, and nauseated at the thought of tonight. Meeting the family of the boy I was finally willing to admit I had a huge crush on, though I barely knew him.

I couldn't figure out Zander Dasios at all. He wasn't the bad boy with a heart of gold, but he also wasn't just the bad boy. He was, as Liv said, smokin' hot, kind of a jerk, and definitely high on himself.

But there was more to him. Even Jack had never held a door for me. And who invites a near stranger to his house for dinner because she's lonely? Well, and because he liked me, an idea that would have made me squeal if I were at all the squealing type.

I spent most of the day avoiding Ryan, who kept wanting to talk about religion. It wasn't that I wasn't interested, but if I couldn't focus enough to bring toilet paper to the bathroom, how on earth could I discuss Hinduism versus Shintoism?

Finally, the interminable wake ended, the last of the teary mourners went out the door with me right on their heels.

I ran home, waving at Petra when I passed her at the building entrance.

“Good luck on your date!” she called, jogging toward the El.

“It's not a date!” I yelled back.

“Right!”

Liv had had the same reaction. Of course, she and Erin accosted me even before first bell the day after Zander drove me home. I played it off the best I could, but I couldn't keep the giddiness off my face, I guess.

“Honestly, Cassie,” Liv had said, hands on her hips and looking imperiously down at me from her Scandinavian tallness, “you expect us to believe he's inviting you to dinner at his house—to meet his family—because he feels bad for you? You don't really think that, do you?”

I didn't know what I thought. But I definitely found it hard to imagine that Zander Dasios invited every girl he liked to meet his mom before he'd even gone out with her. So I tried not to believe anything. Or think anything. Or feel anything. All of which was, of course, completely impossible.

Zander was right on time, escorting me to his beat-up car with the same tongue-in-cheek gallantry as the last time.

He had a classical station on, which made me smile because I'd never have expected it, yet it totally fit. It reminded me of Nan and thinking of her helped settle my nerves. A little. Enough that I could carry on a conversation with Zander, something that in the half hour before he got there, I'd begun to doubt.

But he was surprisingly easy to talk to, his superiority and arrogance softened in our aloneness.

“I'm an only child,” he told me as we drove through back roads, dark except for his headlights, though it was barely seven o'clock. “No brothers or sisters and totally spoiled because of it. As you might imagine.”

“I've probably seen more spoiled,” I said, thinking of Erin's huge house and Ryan's brand-new car.

Zander smiled. His long fingers tapped the wheel, alternating as if he were playing along with the piece on the radio. “Do you play piano?” I asked.

“I do. Since I was five. You?”

I shook my head. “But my grandmother loved classical music. I've heard this one a gazillion times.”

“Yeah?” he said. “I forget what it is.”

“Haydn. Sonata No. 62.”

“Wow.” He glanced over, then nodded. “Yeah. My mom's going to love you.”

Zander's mother was stunning, as elegant as her son was hot. And gracious and totally devoted to him. I'd been picturing dark hair piled high, overdone makeup, overeaten baklava—God knows why, since Nan, the only Greek mother I'd known, was nothing like that.

His father was nowhere to be seen. Every photo in the house was of just the two of them, which I guess kind of summed it up: he wasn't in the picture. I thought of Nick Altos's family, his mom also a single parent, but I was pretty sure this was a different story. Calliope Dasios seemed about the last person who'd ever get caught up with a druggie ex-con.

“Zander tells me you're new to the area,” Calliope said, passing a basket of rolls across the mahogany table. She'd insisted I call her by her first name.

“I am. I moved here about three months ago.”

“From Pennsylvania.”

“That's right,” I said, feeling a tingle inside. Zander had been talking to his mother about me. Not just my name, but details.

“And you're on your own, more or less?”

“Well, I live with a friend, but yeah … I mean, yes,” I corrected, matching Calliope's precise diction. “I don't have family here.”

She nodded, motioning Zander to refill our water. As he reached for the crystal pitcher, I took another look around the dining room. The furniture was heavy carved wood and the walls were filled with paintings in gilt frames and shelves of “antiquities,” as Nan's friend Agnes called them: ornate boxes, odd-looking tools, a bronze and glass candelabra. It looked expensive and a little overdone. Like the Greek church.

“Your parents are no longer living?” Calliope asked, interrupting my thoughts.

“They died when I was two.” I decided to leave it at that. Much simpler than the whole truth.

I glanced at Zander, who'd been mostly silent since we got here. He was watching us with a thoughtful and slightly unfocused expression, but smiled when he caught my eye.

“So why did you come to Bellevue?” his mom was asking.

“Well …” I hadn't really had to explain that to anyone. People didn't ask once they found out my parents and grandmother were dead. That usually stopped them cold.

“Why not?” Zander joined in finally, saving me. “Who wouldn't want to live here? I mean, why go to Florida—or Greece, for that matter—when you could move to the windy city with the coldest winters this side of Minnesota?”

“Yeah,” I said, grinning. “I didn't really consider the weather before I moved. What about you?” I asked Calliope. “Have you always lived here?”

“No,” she answered. “We moved around quite a bit when Zander was younger. Since he's been in school, I've tried to stay put. It isn't always easy.” Calliope's dark eyes twinkled. “I'm afraid I'm a bit of a vagabond by nature. I like to see different places. Collect.” She gestured toward the walls and nooks of the room. “You may have noticed.”

I smiled too. Calliope had a way about her that made me feel uniquely comfortable, as if she were taking me into her confidence and sharing secrets. “I did notice,” I said. “So you … collected … all of this traveling?”

She nodded. “It's what I do. I've turned my bad habits into a living. I'm a dealer of antiquities and ephemera. Mostly for high-end designers and the occasional private client. But some of the things I've found”—she glanced around the room again—“I just couldn't part with.”

Dinner was delicious—chicken with feta and olives, salad, fresh bread.

“I went with something simple,” Calliope said, almost apologetically. “Zander asked me to give you a real Greek experience, but he wasn't sure what you liked. Next time we'll know better.” She smiled, but I was stuck on
next time
. As in, I'll be coming here again. With Zander. He'd barely joined in the dinner conversation and I was afraid to look at him—what if
he
didn't want me to come back? But when I glanced over, he winked and my pulse raced.

Calliope served dessert and I told her about my summer in Kansas with my aunt; she told me about the inlaid bowl she'd gotten from a dig in Tunisia. Zander still said almost nothing. A strange and unsettling idea—subtle but insidious—crept in that maybe he hadn't really
wanted
me here, but
needed
me. As cover.
My mom would love it if I brought a nice Greek girl like you home.
Is that what I was? A stand-in date to keep his mother happy? Calliope was clearly attached to her son and not afraid to confront. Not stupid either. If even a fraction of the rumors about Zander were true, she had to know. I could definitely see her interrogating Zander more than he cared for.

I was glad when it was time to say good night. Talking to Calliope had been interesting, but grew less so the more I thought about Zander's detachment. I stood by the car while he spoke to his mom for an extra minute, wondering how to ask why he'd brought me here without sounding totally insecure.

I didn't have to.

I heard the front door close and turned to find him there, right behind me. So close that I could see faint stubble on the soft olive skin of his jaw. Wordlessly, he leaned forward, bracing his arms on the roof of the car, pinning me in, and kissed me.

My head spun, the word “swoon” coming to mind. A helplessly outdated word that was exactly how I felt. There was no connection between thought and feeling, just a crazy, light-headed, weak-limbed dizziness that left me breathless even when he stepped back, a tentative half smile on those full lips that had just been on mine.

We didn't speak. I couldn't take my eyes off him, feeling something I'd never quite felt before. Something not me. Attraction almost beyond my control.

Had it been this way with Lucas and Jack and I'd forgotten? I didn't think so. There was something too penetrating about Zander, the way he looked at me too deep. And I was helpless to cover myself, my feelings embarrassingly naked.

I looked down, saw my hands trembling slightly.

He leaned close and for a heart-stopping second I couldn't breathe, sure he was going to kiss me again, but he reached past, pulling firmly on the car handle, the door bumping me lightly on the butt.

“Get in,” he said softly.

In the silence of the car, in the seconds before he joined me, I tried to slow my heartbeat. I had no idea what to say to him.

He slid into the driver's side, started up the car, air blasting from the vents on high, where we'd left it when we parked. Zander lowered it to a soft whisper and rubbed his hands together before looking over expectantly, still with the slight smile.

“I have no idea what to say to you,” I told him.

His smile deepened. I saw a twinkle in his dark eyes. “Tell me how you feel.”

I looked down, mumbling, “I think that's obvious.”

“I want to hear it.”

Of course you do. His arrogance was less charming when I was so obviously being toyed with. “I feel confused, Zander,” I said, my voice steadier than I'd expected. “You taunt me at the mall and school, then invite me to meet your mother but completely check out of the conversation. Then you come out here and kiss me like …” I stopped for a second, caught up in the dizzying memory of it.

“Like we're lovers?”

My face turned bright pink—who on earth says “lovers”? “Like we're more than strangers,” I said deliberately.

“It's almost as if I like you or something, huh?”

I refused to play along. “Normal people don't act like that, Zander.”

“I'm not normal.”

“No shit.”

He sighed, backed the car out, and started to drive.

I stared out the window in stony silence, unwilling to budge until he did. The last thing I needed was some mind-gaming pseudoboyfriend. Still, my heart froze at the idea of telling him to eff-off.

We drove the five or so miles to my apartment in silence, large and awkward despite the classical music that played and the weightless drift of flurries brushing gently across the windows.

Zander pulled up in front of my building and I reached for the door handle, ready to spring out without even a thank-you, my infuriation having grown to a live and pulsing thing.

“Cassie …”

I paused, hand still on the door, face averted.

“Look at me, please.”

I did. Gritting my teeth.

“Listen.” His voice was soft. Cajoling. “I know I didn't handle tonight very well.” He looked down hesitantly and I tried to ignore my cynical side calling him out for the calculated move. “The truth is, I really do like you and it's been a while since I've actually said that to anyone.”

I scoffed. “Zander, you don't even know me.”

He met my eyes. “You don't know me either and you like me, don't you?”

I didn't answer and he didn't make me.

“Sometimes,” he said, “attraction is just that. A gut feeling that builds into something more. I know enough about you, Cassie, to see the ‘more' that could be there. Maybe I shouldn't have brought you home. That was probably a mistake, having you meet my mom before we knew each other better. But you had a good time, didn't you?”

“Yeah,” I said grudgingly.

“And maybe I should have butted into the conversation more, but you and my mom seemed to be hitting it off. I thought you liked talking to her.”

“I did,” I said, starting to feel like a jerk.

“And I definitely shouldn't have kissed you like that,” he said, flashing his devilish smile. “But I just couldn't help it.”

I looked down, smiling too.

“If I promise to be a gentleman, can we go out again? Somewhere normal, you know, a movie or something? I promise not to try anything funny, like holding your hand or …”

I held up my palm. “Okay, stop.” I smiled at him. “I'm not trying to make a big deal of this, Zander, but you just threw me, especially after the things …”

I stopped, not wanting to admit the gossip, but he was a step ahead. “… that people say about me?”

I shrugged.

“You think I don't know people call me a player? Please, Cassie,” Zander said, rolling his eyes. He turned serious then, looking searchingly at me. “They're right, you know,” he added. “But not this time. I'm not playing you. I promise.”