Page 29 of Under Locke & Key
He’s standing, watching. His forearm rests on the top of his open car door and his expression is inscrutable from across the road, but he gives a little answering wave and then folds his body into his car. Within moments he’s pulled out of the spot and down the street, and I watch until the car fades from view, unsure why I do.
Maybe to extend him the same courtesy?
Maybe just to prolong this moment because all that’s waiting for me upstairs is unpacking and more unpacking. Ugh. Gotta get it over with sooner or later. I trudge up the narrow stairs, slot my old key into the door and step inside my apartment.
Boxes upon boxes, some unpacked and broken down, most still taped up or hanging half open because I needed something but didn’t want to bother with the lot, wait for me.
I suck in a deep breath and stretch my neck to either side, feeling the pull and pumping myself up for the task. Setting a two-hour timer, I get to work in the living room and try to ignore the waiting text message from my mom and the puzzle that is Bryce Dawson.
* * *
“Okay, who died?”Ángel asks on the other end of the call before I can even get a greeting out.
My breath huffs out on an incredulous laugh. “No one. Why is someone dying?”
“I don’t know, why are you calling me at six p.m. on a Saturday night? Why are you calling at all? We communicate through snarky bar visits and memes. This is a new development for me, so excuse the skepticism and concern.”
Dropping back onto my bed, I stare at the ceiling, watching the sunlight retreat out of the room, tugging the shadows along with it so they take up the space where the day has been.
“No one is dead. I wasn’t aware that calling you would elicit such a strong response. I thought we were friends, and friends sometimes do this thing called talking. Mobile devices make it easier when people aren’t in the same room, that’s all this is.”
Ángel’s “Hmm” stretches through the air waves, as if he knows this is bullshit—which it is—but he could at least play along for a bit before he calls me out on it.
“Okay, you caught me.” I sigh.
“Please tell me it’s Keith that’s dead.”
“Nope. Well, not as far as I know since I no longer work at Lakin-Cole or live in D.C. for that matter.”
There’s shuffling on the other end of the line, like Ángel’s dropped the phone and scrambled to grab it. When he responds it’s much closer and louder. Off of speaker, perhaps?
“Rachel,”Ángel says my name like it’s a warning, “spill.”
I regale him with the whirlwind that was my quitting and moving, and the encouraging visit with Sebastian and Farren. Throughout it all, Ángel makes noises at the appropriate times, just listening. I’m so grateful to him. Even though he’s fantastic at listening—an occupational hazard, he’s told me. A lot of people will spill their guts when they’re drunk, and the bartender is usually the closest friendly face—and one that can’t leave. A captive audience for their misery. It’s not until Bryce comes up that Ángel actually gets animated.
“Bryce, huh? Tell me about this guy. Old? Bald? Conspiracy theorist?” There’s a bright quality to his voice and I know he’s eager for information. So, I’ll give him the barest.
“Not old. Not bald. Plus, you know me better than that. I might have been desperate for a job but I’m not stupid. There’s no way I would have agreed to taking this position if he’d been a conspiracy theorist, or had bad vibes.”
“Oooh, so he’s got good vibesandhe’s hot?” The humor in his voice is hard to miss and I hate that he knows me so well.
“When did I say he was hot? Ineversaid he was hot.”
I can hear the pause on the other end of the line, feel the raised eyebrow and the unsaid “seriously?” and Ángel doesn’t let it drop, despite my trying to play it off.
“I’ve watched pick-up line after pick-up line, one disastrous date after another. I’ve dissected each person you met at the bar, and we’ve talked at length about howthis onehad a soft handshake and clammy hands. Orthat onewas twenty years older than you and smelled like his wife left him and took the washing machine so he covered up his bathroom sink wash job with strong cologne.”
He’s not wrong, but I’m not quite sure where he’s going with this and I’m not willing to ask and dig the hole further.
“The fact that you’ve told me nothing about this guy speaks volumes. So, are you going to tell me or do I need to play twenty questions like this is some stupid high school thing?”
Rolling onto my side, I stare out at the lights inside neighboring buildings that have flickered on. I should close the blinds. Heck, I should hang the curtains I have sitting in boxes. I should change out of my sweaty work clothes and take a stinging shower but the bed had felt so good after unpacking that I couldn’t resist.
“Fine. He’s . . . hot.” It’s an understatement but I’m not sure how to sum it up in a way that would capture the reality of the situation.
“Hot, how?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Sitting up, I try to coax myself up to go and shower. It’ll be a good excuse to get off the phone anyway.
