The Guardian (17 page)

I shake my head. “It’s not you,” I explain. “And I know that is so cliché.” I laugh weakly, stirring the potato soup with the spoon. “But it’s tru
e. It’s not you. It’s me. I’m just coming off another break-up, and I’m really not looking for anything serious right now.”

He shrugs casually. “No big deal. I mean, we can still hang out.
As friends.”

I glance over at him, and, for a moment, find myself
lost in his endless blue eyes, trapped. They’re piercing.
Penetrating.
Sucking me in.
My pulse ratchets a degree. I break away from his gaze and clear my throat. “We’ll see,” I say. “You know
,
if something comes up.”

He runs his fingers through his sun-li
ghtened hair. I force myself not to look at him.

“I thought you had a good time at dinner. You said you did,” he reminds me.

“I did,” I confirm. “It’s just that things are kind of complicated right now.”

“So you aren’t giving me the run-around?”

I turn to
ward him.
Huge mistake.
Those eyes.
They puncture my skin and seep into my veins. They make me want to promise things that I can’t. Forget things that I shouldn’t. “No, of course not,” I reply, quickly looking away.

There’s something about them.
. . .

“I
t’s weird right now. But maybe we’ll try again soon.”

No promises
, I silently add.

“You waste my time,” Ernie calls from the kitchen. I sit up taller, grateful for the interruption.

“It’s good. I swear. Genesis loves it, and she wouldn’t even eat eggs f
or dinner,” Stu explains. As if this is the standard by which all food should be judged. I live on pasta half the year. What do I know about food? He hurries over to the pot of soup simmering on the stove, grabs a ladle, and pours a decent-sized portion in
to a bowl.

Stu sets the bowl on the counter in front of me. Ernie picks up a spoon and samples a bite. The three of us watch him. I don’t realize it at first, but I’m holding my breath.

“Is good,” Ernie says, nodding. He goes in for another bite. I smile.

Stu clasps his hands together. “Good. Because I was thinking we could put it on the menu. You know, to shake things up a bit.”

“No,” Ernie says. “The menu is good.”

Stu’s face falls, the hurt registering in his features. “But the menu hasn’t changed since
I’ve been here,” he reminds him.

“People like what we cook. Why change?” he asks.

“Because people get tired of the same old food.
It wouldn’t be hard to add one or two new things to the menu.
To give them options.
We could shake things up a bit,”
he repeats.

My heart twists, contorting, like it could split in two.

“It’s just potato soup,” I tell Ernie. “It won’t cost much.” Ernie doesn’t bother looking up at me. “I like it. I’d buy it.”

“You no pay for food you steal now.”

I roll my eyes. “Ernie,
I swear I pay for my food.”

“It would be a good addition for the fall and winter,” Stu goes on.
“When it gets colder.
People want soup.”

“We have soup,” counters Ernie.

“But this will give them more choices.”

“We have few customers in fall and winter. New
menus cost too much.” He waves his hand, as if physically shooing away the idea.

I roll my eyes. “Well, maybe we’d have more customers if there were soup choices. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“Who die and make you manager?” Ernie asks, his beady, bla
ck, rat eyes boring holes into mine.

“I’m just saying.”

“You say too much.”

Ernie picks up the bowl. “Soup is good, but menu fine.” He stops in the kitchen doorway, spinning around to face us, his sizeable tan body filling the entire frame. “And what you d
o sitting down?” he asks, pointing to
Arsen
. “You work or I fire you.”

He waddles through the kitchen. We watch him pass the stove, then stop, turn around, and grab the ladle, filling his bowl with another scoop of Stu’s potato soup. Moments later his offi
ce door shuts.

Stu lets out a pent-up breath, face flushing.

“It’s okay. You tried,” I say. “The soup really is good. And you know how pig-headed he is.”

“I must have a big, fat ‘Reject’ stamped on my forehead. How many times have I made something new for
him? And he goes and shoots me down every single time. You’d think I would’ve learned my lesson by now.”

“Some people are too scared to take risks. They hate progress,” I say. “Save the recipe, and when you start your own restaurant, you can use it. You’ll
be a hit. And then I’ll
come
work for you. Your amazing potato soup will put Ernie right out of business.”

The corners of Stu’s mouth turn up ever so slightly, into a sad smile. He squeezes the bottom of my chin between his index finger and thumb. His fin
gers are dry and chapped, and they scratch at my skin, but, at the same time, they feel oddly comforting, gentle.

“You’re my favorite waitress,” he says, just before returning to the kitchen.

N
INETEEN

I lift my shirt over my head on Sunday afternoon and toss it on the hallway floor. I reek of fried food and cigarette smoke. It’s nothing short of amazing—a smell I once found completely intoxicating makes me want to vomit now. I’m not sure why I’m surpris
ed.
Everything
has changed.

The afternoon is mine. Mom is working through dinner,
then
has plans with Mike. I shiver thinking about him, pull on a clean tank top, and climb into bed.

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t like him very much, either.”

“D
on’t you knock?” I ask, feigning annoyance as I pull my comforter to my chin. 

“Not in my world,” Seth replies.

“You’re in my world now, Angel Boy. We have conventions here,” I adjust my pillow, fluffing it. “There are rules.”

“If I’m bothering you, I can
go,” he tests.

I watch as Seth fades around the edges, shimmering as he disappears. 

I groan. “Forget it.”

In the next moment he’s clear again, a smile curving his lips. “I brought something for you,” he says, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “I left
it on your dresser.”

“But I was just. . . .” I roll over, and there, positioned carefully on top of my dresser, is a long-stemmed white rose, perfect and proportional. The air escapes my lungs. I toss my covers aside and climb out of bed. I grasp the stem
between my fingers, cautious, but there are no thorns. I bring the petals to my nose and breathe deeply.

“Where did it come from?”

Seth smiles.
“A garden.”

“
A
garden?”
I repeat, raising an eyebrow.

He laughs.

“You think you’re so clever,” I mutter. “It mu
st be nice, conjuring up whatever you want whenever you want it.”

“It has its perks.”

I climb back in bed, crawling beneath the covers. Seth lies down beside me.

I yawn.

“Well, I wish I could do it. You know . . . when there’s something I need.” I hesita
te. “We’ve had to pawn or sell just about everything we’ve ever owned. We can’t keep
anything
. It’s like, Mom gets a job, and things look really great for a while, but then something goes wrong: something that seems unpredictable but at the same time isn’t
surprising at all.
Cutbacks.
Layoffs.
Winter.
Whatever.
And no matter how hard we try, we can never get ahead. It’s like, we’re not meant to, or something. We’re destined to rent crappy houses and scrape up change to order from dollar menus for the rest o
f our lives.” I let out a tiny laugh, amused by my uncharacteristic willingness to tell Seth every secret I’ve ever kept.

“That must really suck,” he says quietly.

“It does. For once, I’d love for something to go right. I swear, when I have money one day,
I’m going to be such a hoarder. I’m not going to buy anything. I’m going to save every last penny.”

“Or you’re going to spend every last penny on everything you’ve ever wanted,” he counters.

“Only if there’s money to blow.”
I stifle another yawn and move c
loser to Seth. I lay my head on his chest, nestling in the crook of his arm, and let my eyes drift shut, breathing evenly.

There’s a dull explosion, a low rumble, as if something clattered to the floor, distant.

I bolt upright, concentrating on the room,
struggling to listen over the sound of my manic heartbeat.

Someone is in the house
.

“Are you okay?” Seth asks, propping himself up with his elbows.

“Did you hear that? That . .
. banging
noise?” I whisper. My throat is dry
and scratchy and the words barely make it past my lips.

He shakes his head. “It’s quiet. You’ve been asleep.
For an hour at least.”

“No I wasn’t. We were just talking.”

“Yes,” he assures me. “You were.”

This doesn’t stop my pulse from pounding in my ears.

“There was this . . . crashing sound,” I explain. “Like something fell over. It came from somewhere in the house.”

“Genesis, I’ve been lying here the whole time. I haven’t heard a thing. Believe me, I’d know.”

“But I could’ve sworn. . . .”

“Were you dream
ing?” he asks.

I wrack my brain, forcing it to replay the moment, but I don’t remember dreaming anything. If I was, it’s already forgotten.
“Maybe.”

But it was so real.

Seth watches me for a moment, studying my face,
then
rolls off the bed. “I’ll look arou
nd. Okay?”

I bite into my lower lip, nodding, grateful.

I follow Seth into the kitchen and we look around, searching for anything that seems out of place. Not quite right. We move to Mom’s bedroom. I open the bathroom door, flip on the light, and peek ins
ide. Seth opens the hall closet.
Nothing.

“Maybe you were right,” I tell him, tumbling onto my bed. “Maybe I was dreaming.”

He lies down beside me, and intertwines his fingers with mine. The anxiety begins to disappear, radiating in waves as it releases fr
om my body, lifting, leaving it peacefully satisfied. I let go of a sigh as Seth brushes his thumb over mine, gently caressing it.  

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he whispers.

He moves in, closer, lips pausing inches from mine.
Wraps his arm around m
e, pulling me into him.
I let out a quick gasp of air.

“I dream about you,” he murmurs, eyes grasping mine.

“You don’t sleep,” I choke, feeling a delirious passion coursing through my veins.

“I dream about your smile.
About touching you.
I dream about bei
ng with you. Like this.”

His warm hand slips beneath my tank top. He runs his fingers along my skin, tracing circles on my back. Tingles race up my spine. I feel him everywhere.

His lips brush against mine, and I drink him in, quenching a desire I didn’t r
ealize I had.

He runs his fingers through my hair and I find myself tugging at his shirt, pulling it over his head. I want to feel him, to feel his skin next to mine.

“Is this a bad time?”

“Holy
Sh
—,” I jerk away from Seth, startled by the sound of the
voice.

“Joshua,” Seth growls, pulling himself away from me. “How many times have I told you . . . ? What are you even
doing
here?”

Joshua, Guardian Joshua, is standing in my bedroom, hand shoved deep inside a box of Cracker Jacks.
“
Just stopping by to check on things.”
He crams a fistful of the caramel popcorn into his mouth. A few pieces miss and fall to the floor, scattering.

“Things are fine. Clearly,” Seth says through clenched teeth.

Joshua snickers. “Genesis, how are things g
oing?” He asks, chewing.

I force a smile, pulling my comforter tighter around my body, feeling exposed.
“Fine.”