Page 46 of Again with Feeling

But what I wanted to do was send Will Gower in with his .38. He’d fire off a few warning shots, and the police would run for cover, and in the chaos, Will would get Dexter and Dan (God, I even hated that they both had names that started with D) to a private airfield, and they’d fly to Mexico. And Will Gower would find the serial killer, and Dexter and Dan would open a little hotel on the beach, and The End.

The story, which had seemed electric when Hugo and I had been brainstorming, felt dead now—limp, cumbersome, cold.

Why?

I tried to be rational about it. What had changed? I mean, it hadn’tonlybeen Hugo’s idea. I’d been part of it too. I’d even been excited about it. But now, when I thought about writing that scene—about having Dexter watch his life fall apart again because he kept trying to solve his problems the same way, because he didn’t know how to break the cycle—cold sweat dampened my tee, and little black spots whirled in my vision.

No answer came to me. Nothing I could put into words, anyway. Just my anxiety building in my chest until I finally set the laptop aside, pulled my favorite blanket over me, and lay back to concentrate on my breathing.

It’s called meditation, for your information.

I knew it was a dream even while it was happening; lucid dreaming, I believe it’s called. I was in the dark, in the brush and brambles of Pershing Square. But I wasn’t Dexter Drake. Or maybe I was, but I was also Vivienne Carver, and I was watching the police drag Jane away. Police lights flashed and spun. I wanted to shout. I wanted to move. But that particular paralysis of dreams held me, kept my throat shut, and I knew they were taking her away, and I’d never get her back. She was getting smaller and smaller, farther and farther away from me. And then a gunshot—

I jerked awake. I was hot under the blanket, and dizzy, but my sweat was the clammy sweat of a nightmare. Kicking the blanket off me, I sat up, gulping in air. The house was dark, and the only light in the den came from the lamp next to me. How long had I been aslee—uh, meditating?

My phone said it was almost eight, which seemed impossible. The dream had been so short.

The sounds of movement came from upstairs, and I froze. My brain began to piece together items from my lucid dreaming: the police lights flashing might have been headlights sweeping across the den’s window, and the gunshot must have been a door closing. For another moment, I listened to the footsteps overhead. Then I got to my feet and went to investigate.

I didn’t bother turning on any lights. In my stockinged feet, my steps made less than a whisper on the thick rugs. When I reached the second-floor landing, I could see the light under Bobby’s door. What were the odds the killer had come after me, determined to finish the job, and walked right past me in the den in order to rummage around in Bobby’s room?

Pretty low, I decided.

Bracing myself for another encounter with Kiefer, I rapped on the door. Be nice, I told myself. Smile. He’s Bobby’s friend, so you’re going to figure out how to make things work, even if hewants to talk about—what did young people want to talk about? Music, I decided. Even if he wants to talk about, um, Hannah Montana. Wait, would Kiefer even know who Hannah Montana was? Maybe I should go back to my room, do some research on my phone, find out what the cool kids are talking about these days. Heck, I could even wait for Keme to get back—

“Yeah?” Bobby called, and the sounds of movement continued.

For about five seconds, I thought about running away. No plans. No luggage. Just me, possibly a bindle—

The door swung open, and Bobby stood there. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light, but I knew his silhouette, knew what it felt like to be near him, knew how he took up space, the sounds he made that were just his body existing in the universe. Then I could see him. He was still dressed in his cute little number from earlier today: the white tank, the black shorts. He’d changed into sneakers—not any of the expensive ones he collected, but workhorse New Balances that he used when he needed a pair he didn’t mind getting dirty. (Well, not too dirty. I mean, he still cleaned off all the scuffs.) The outfit left a lot of Bobby to look at. A lot of golden skin. A lot of muscles. And the way he was standing, arms folded, did, um, things, to his arms. And his chest. And his shoulders. And did you know a neck can be, like, veiny and weirdly strong and suddenly you think you might have a thing for necks? I heard the direction my thoughts were taking and decided the only safe spot to look at was his ear. (I mean, my God, have you seen his eyes?)

“I thought you were asleep,” Bobby said. And then, “I woke you up.”

“It’s okay. I was having a bad dream. Also, as soon as I said that, I realized it made me sound like I was five years old, andI want to retract it. Wait, let me start over. I heard an intruder, and I came up here to beat him up.”

He didn’t exactly smile, but he did cock his head. “Are you okay?”

“Oh great. I mean, kind of facing crippling uncertainty about this stupid story with Hugo, and doubting all my artistic instincts and, you know, my life choices in general, and operating at about a 9.7 on the Barkhausen scale.”

Bobby said, “What?”

“It’s a scale I made up to measure my anxiety by how much I want to scream into my pillow. This little interaction just bumped me up to a 9.9, in case you’re wondering.” Since that didn’t leave Bobby much room in the way of a response, I decided to just jump into the rest of it. “I, uh, wanted to check on you. I mean, not right now. Because I thought you were an intruder.”

“And you were going to fight me.”

“Beat you up,” I corrected. “But, you know, in general I wanted to check on you.”

He didn’t say anything.

“About the other day,” I said.

He still didn’t say anything.

“When, you, um—”Had a panic attackfelt like too much, so I finished. “—you know, when the Jeep rolled.”

“When you were forced off the road and almost killed,” Bobby said.

“That.”

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