A Want So Wicked (7 page)

CHAPTER 12

M
arceline opens the door, and I hear her crunch down on the rest of her peppermint, the noise loud enough to make me think she cracked a few more teeth in the process. I turn to ask if she's okay when I see her looking past me. I follow her gaze, and see Abe standing on the sidewalk, facing her house with his hands casually in the pockets of his black pants. He's devilishly handsome with a crisp white T-shirt, his hair brushed to the side. When he sees me, he offers a subtle wave. I smile.

“Go on now,” Marceline says, putting her hand on the small of my back to usher me out. “No one can help you, child. It's up to you. You have to follow your Need. It's the only way to remember.”

I turn back to ask her again about the Need, but she closes the door, the lock snapping shut. For a moment, I stand there, facing the house—swaying a little on my feet. Her story of the Forgotten seems ridiculous outside of her small living room. I almost wonder if all of this is part of a hallucination. Just then, Abe calls my name.

“Thought maybe you'd want to hang out before work,” he says as if that's a completely normal reason for him to have tracked me down at the house of the town psychic.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask, stepping off the patio to make my way toward him. The air is heating up as the afternoon quickly approaches.

“Was it a secret?” he asks.

“No.” I'm embarrassed as I answer, knowing that I was hoping to hide it from him. It makes me think of the memory I had in Marceline's living room about lying to someone I loved. Fresh hurt opens in my chest.

Abe's eyes check me over when I reach him. He brushes the back of his finger over my cheek. “You were crying,” he says, shooting an alarmed look behind me. “Did she hurt you again?”

“Nothing like that,” I say, afraid to tell him why I'm really here. Afraid to tell him about the stories, especially since I refuse to believe them myself. “I just wanted to ask her why she attacked me.”

“And?”

“It was an accident.” I shrug. “Case closed, I guess.”

Abe watches me, a small smile crossing his lips. “You are a terrible liar, Elise. But if you don't want to tell me, that's fine. Just know that you can.”

“Thanks.” I rub my face, trying to get my bearings now that I'm outside.

“She gave you a mint?” Abe asks, sounding amused. I turn quickly to him.

“You know about that?”

He grins. “She gives everyone a mint. How else will they believe the garbage she tells them? I just hope you didn't eat the whole thing.”

I shake my head. “No, I didn't. But I am a little foggy.”

“Here.” He offers his hand to me. I catch his gaze for a second, his expression sweet. Inviting. I let him take my palm and feel instantly better.

When we get to the car, I'm back to myself—or a slightly calmer version. Marceline's stories are pushed away, almost silly now. What was I thinking, listening to a psychic? I'm embarrassed for myself.

I turn the ignition of Lucy's car, but there is only a series of metallic clicks. “Not now,” I say, and groan. I try it again. This time I get nothing.

I glance over to Abe. “You don't happen to be a skilled mechanic?” I ask.

“See this face, Elise,” he says, using his finger to circle his features. “Do I look like the kind of guy who can fix cars?”

“No,” I say, sounding disappointed. “You're way too pretty to get dirty.”

“Exactly. You should call home.”

I fish out my phone and dial the house, but it rings without anyone picking up. I try Lucy's cell, but she doesn't answer that either. It's still too early to call my father, so I'll have to wait until his services are over. Great. What am I supposed to do until then?

“No answer?” Abe asks.

“Nope.”

“Huh. Well, I live close. You can come to my house, at least until your dad can pick you up.” He raises his eyebrow as he looks over, and I have to smile.

“Is this just a clever ruse to get me to come home with you?”

“You think I tampered with your spark plugs and unhooked your home phone line? That's at least two steps further than I would go for a girl. So what's it gonna be, Elise? Hang out in front of Madame Marceline's house for all to see, or come check out where I live?”

“When you put it that way . . .”

I grab my purse, locking the car door before pulling my hair into a low knot to keep it out of my face. But as we start to walk, Abe reaches over to undo it, letting the strands cascade down my back.

“I like your hair better like this,” he says, running his fingers over it. And then he smiles to himself and we walk toward his house.

 

As we tread the cracked cement pavers to Abe's front door, a sudden nervousness starts to twist in my stomach. This is the first time I've gone home with a guy—technically. But I have other worries. Lots of them. Marceline's story tries to come back into my consciousness, but I push it away. It's ridiculous.

“Welcome home,” Abe says as he opens his front door. I meet his eyes, feeling a bit uncertain. His gaze is steady and intense. And after a long moment, I walk inside.

The living room is small, dark even in the afternoon light. It smells mildly of smoke, not cigarette, but campfire or wood stove. The furniture is old, the carpet is worn, but the house is tidy and well kept.

But I do notice one thing: There are no pictures—a complete contrast to Marceline's cluttered living room. Abe's walls are naked, even though there are rectangular outlines where I believe frames used to hang. Goose bumps rise on my arms as a chill runs over me. I'm about to ask Abe about the spaces when he tosses his house keys on a table next to the door, making a loud clang. “Drink?” he asks.

Abe's demeanor is different, almost angry. Bitter.

“What's wrong?” I ask, setting my purse on his couch. Abe pauses in the archway between his living room and kitchen, hanging his head.

“You don't like it,” he says quietly. “You don't want to be here.”

I'm a little taken aback by his statement. “What do you mean? I like it. I'm glad you asked me over.”

Abe doesn't move at first, but then he straightens and leaves the room. I hate that he's suddenly insecure, and I wonder if I've done something to cause it. The light of the refrigerator illuminates the small space in the kitchen, and then Abe comes back with two sodas.

He hands me one, and then motions to the couch. When we're next to each other, Abe lounges back, stretching his legs under the coffee table. He sips from his drink, the silence going on too long.

“I grew up in this house,” he says finally. “Have been here all my life.”

I look sideways at him, the darkness in the room playing across his features, shading his eyes. “Does your dad live with you?” I ask.

“No. No,
querida
. It's just me. And now you?” He turns to smile at me. “You're welcome to spend the night.”

“That is very gracious.”

Abe sets his drink down, pausing as if lost in thought. “Elise,” he says. “You know I like you. I think you like me. Why are you dragging this out?”

I laugh nervously. “I'm not dragging anything out. We just met. I'm a cautious girl, I guess. Maybe you haven't wooed me properly.”

“Interesting point.” He stretches his arms over his head, letting one fall behind me on the couch. “How about I take you to a party with me tonight? As my date. I'll give you lots of reasons to be with me. I can be very convincing.”

“I'm sure.” Just then my phone vibrates in my purse next to me, and I grab it, happy for the distraction. It's Lucy. My entire body is on pins and needles right now, the conversation making me uneasy.

“Missed your call,” Lucy says the minute I click the phone on. “What's up?”

“Your car won't start,” I say. “Is Dad there?”

She exhales. “That thing is such trash. Yeah, he just got back. Dad!” she yells off the line, and I wince. She could have at least covered the receiver.

When my father gets on the phone, I tell him that I'm at Abe's and give him directions. He doesn't sound entirely pleased that I'm at the house of a guy he already assumes I'm dating. But I'm relieved when he says he's on his way.

When my father arrives and beeps the horn, Abe walks me to the door. He's been silent during the entire ten-minute wait.

“Thanks for coming over,” he says quietly, as if still self-conscious. “Sorry it wasn't more exciting.”

Abe seems so disappointed that I impulsively hug him, wrapping my arms around his waist as I rest my head on his chest. I feel him relax, his cheek on the top of my head. Sadness fills me, as if it's spreading from Abe's body to mine. But before I say anything, the car horn beeps again, and I pull away.

When I get outside, I tell my father that I was picking up Abe for lunch when Lucy's car died. I don't mention the fact that it's in front of a psychic's house, hoping he won't notice. I'm not sure how I'll explain it if he asks, because Abe's right—I'm a terrible liar.

Oddly enough, Lucy's car purrs to life the first time my dad turns the ignition. He shoots me a pointed look, as if asking me what I've
really
been up to all morning.

But just being close to Marceline's house again has put me on edge. I remember our conversation, the fear and grief I felt. The story she told can't be real. Because if I believe her, I have to believe that I'm not human. And I just can't accept that.

 

After we get home, I take a nap—sleeping off the residual effects of the mint—and then shower for work. As I stand at the bathroom mirror with my hair twisted up in a towel, I notice the dark circles under my eyes. I feel like I haven't slept in weeks, as if I'm . . . The thought sticks in my head, making tears gather. It's as if I'm wearing away.

I sniffle back the start of my cry and find Lucy's makeup bag. I dab on her concealer, even a little eyeliner. Anything I can to look normal. When I'm done, I'm better. Not great—but better.

I walk out and find my dad in the kitchen making an early dinner, a red dish towel hanging over his shoulder. “And the dead have risen,” he says without looking up. He's been using that same joke for years, but it's suddenly not very funny. “How was the nap?” he adds.

“Refreshing.” I pull out the pitcher of lemonade and I pour myself a cup, sipping slowly. “So . . .” I start. He side-eyes me.

“What?”

“Abe asked me to a party tonight.”

“I'm not sure I like it, Elise. I knew you'd date eventually, but he just seems too experienced for you.”

“That's just a rumor. I mean, Lucy doesn't even know him. I want to go to a party, Dad. And Abe's a gentleman. Completely, I swear.”

My father looks doubtful.

“What if I bring him to church?” I offer. “If he can sit through your sermon he has to have pure intentions. No one else would subject themselves to that sort of torture.” I smile. My father takes a lot of pride in his sermons, but I can't help it—they're boring. So Lucy and I tease him about it sometimes.

“Sunday,” my father says, as if it's settled. “I'll expect you and your . . . guy friend in the front row. Paying very close attention.”

“Wow,” I say. “What will you ever do if I get a
boy
friend?”

“Fret.”

I sit down and wait for dinner, clicking through the laptop that Lucy left out. The bookmarked page is WebMD and I worry again about her cramping.

My father sets a plate of pasta in front of me before sitting. “Have you or your sister tampered with the security alarm?” he asks.

“Uh, no. Not that I know of.”

“Doesn't set anymore.”

I widen my eyes as if that's fascinating and take a bite of food. It sounds to me like the gods of sneaking out have smiled upon Lucy.

“Have you been taking your vitamins?” my father asks.

“Yes,” I mumble, knowing that the vitamins won't help. I quickly compliment my father on his ever-improving culinary skills, determined to not think about Marceline's stories.

“They say good cooking keeps teenagers home more often,” my father says. He pauses, staring into his plate. “You know, Elise. I've been thinking about what's happening with you—the out-of-body feeling.”

I look up. My father doesn't even know half of what's wrong with me, but he might still have answers. Better and more rational ones than an old psychic's.

“I think it could be delayed grief from your mother's passing,” he continues. “Or even this move from Colorado. Maybe it was too sudden. I should have thought it through longer.”

“Dad,” I say, reaching for his hand. “This isn't your fault. Lucy and I could have dug in our heels and demanded to stay in Colorado, but we didn't. So if I'm emotionally scarred for life, you're not the one to blame.” I smile, unable to let him beat himself up. “It's Lucy's fault too.”

He chuckles, telling me to finish my dinner. It's difficult at first, but I swallow it down, along with my fear. I wish I could talk to him about the Forgotten, but I know he'll be disappointed in me for going to the old woman in the first place. My father grows silent. Thoughtful.

“Elise,” he says after a long moment. “Do you remember what your mother used to say near the end, when she was very sick?”

Pain aches in my heart, reminding me of the loss. “She said life was too short to mourn the dead.”

He nods. “Your mother—she lived life to the fullest. Every second of it, even when—” He chokes up and stops talking, waiting for the grief to pass. “She loved you girls,” he says after a moment. “And I know she wouldn't forgive me if I made you unhappy with all of my rules.” He reaches to tug on his lip, sniffling back his cry. “Am I doing all right, kid?”