Page 48 of Saving Sophia

“I don’t know.”

“You’d be safe,” he said quietly. “You could go back to L.A.”

Was that sadness in his voice? That avocado lodged itself back in my throat. This was all so new and overwhelming, and completely overshadowed by the reason I could never go back to L.A. even if I wanted to. Which I didn’t.

I made a weak little scoffing sound. “And miss Aunt Carol’s grand opening? Not a chance.”

His smile returned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. We got on the freeway, headed away from the mountain, toward the city. “Where are we going?” I asked.

He shook his head in a not-telling motion. “I think you’re going to like it.”

Guilt nibbled on my insides. He was trying to surprise me, and I was ruining it. There was nothing I could do about Hayden’s information in the moment. I would call Callie, make sure she was safe and figure out what to do then. For the moment, I shoved it all down, tied it up with a bow and marked it with a tag that read ‘To Worry About Later.’

Resolved, I reached out and rested my hand on his shoulder, comforted by his steady warmth. “I don’t want to go back to L.A.,” I said, inwardly pleading with my mouth not to screw this up. “And not just because of Aunt Carol’s grand opening.”

His lips twisted into a smile, exposing that dimple in his left cheek. “Is it the clean mountain air?”

“Well—that, and the views are spectacular,” I added, laughing. Here was my chance. I could do this. I took a breath. “Besides, I … think you have another step to show me?” I left my mouth slightly open and dared a glance at his eyes. They lit up like bonfires on a crisp fall night.

Amber Jade beamed her approval.

He grabbed my hand and kissed it, filling me with tingling electricity. I clamped my mouth shut. Best not to push my luck.

* * *

A short time later, we pulled into a public parking lot in a vibrant and busy area with shops and restaurants lining the streets. People sat at tables on outside patios, chatting under colorful awnings.

“We’re a little early.” He checked his watch. “Let’s get out and stretch our legs.”

He opened my door and helped me out, interlacing his fingers with mine. Our hands fit together so naturally. He said he wanted someone to cherish, and that is exactly how I felt. Special. Cherished.

Incredible.

We strolled along, passing music stores, used bookstores, vintage clothing shops, and too many restaurants to count. An old man with a weary face and a striped stocking cap played a saxophone on a street corner, his eyes closed as he connected to his music. Ethan dropped money in the instrument’s open case as we passed.

The city was vibrant and alive, Ethan’s hand was strong and warm as he led me down the sidewalk, and for a moment the box marked ‘To Worry About Later’ shrunk the tiniest little bit.

That’s when I saw them. I was peeking through a window of a store full of half-antiques, half-junk, emphasis on the junk. Behind the window display in a dusty crate that wasn’t supposed to be for customers’ eyes, two tiny heads poked out. One had greasy, straw-yellow hair, the other had none, just rows of tiny holes where hair had once been. My heart gave a familiar thump.

They need you.

“Could we … go in here?” I rested my fingertips on the glass.

“Of course.” He pulled the door open, and we entered the dim shop.

“You don’t want those,” the shopkeeper insisted a few minutes later, glaring at the box he had grudgingly pulled out onto the counter at Ethan’s request. “You a collector? I have four Holiday Barbies, mint-in-box condition. Two ’95s, a ’97, and an ’89. You’d like one of those much better.” He was an older man, with thin, pale eyebrows that arched when he talked and a perpetually sniffy nose. He barely looked at me, but he eyeballed Ethan up and down several times.

“That’s up to her,” Ethan replied mildly, nodding his head toward me.

The shopkeeper tossed a look my way. “They’re very pretty,” he said, then looked back at Ethan. “Valuable too.”

“I’m sure they are,” Ethan agreed. “But she asked about those.” The old man scowled at me and sniffed, his nose flaring.

I stared into the box of damaged dolls, their smudged little faces staring up with hope in their eyes. I counted at least five. One had no legs, but I could already see her in my mind, transformed with a bit of sculpting into a mermaid.

“These are trash,” the shopkeeper said. “You’d be wasting your money.”

I flinched at the echo of my mother’s words.

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