Inherit (4 page)

Nevaeh rolls her eyes. “You are so stupid, Wren! Why wouldn’t I believe it? You two have been like star-crossed lovers forever, and now you end up together over a flat tire and a ride home.” She pulls our linked hands up to her chest so she can clutch at her heart and sigh dramatically. And she notices the number. “You got his number!” she shrieks, then lowers her voice. “You dirty dog! So are you two going on a date? This is so good. Did I ever mention what a d-bag JR was? I’m so happy for you!”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned it, but listen—” But she prattles on about how perfect Jonas and I are for each other and how stupid I was for thinking he actually meant anything by the whole debate thing because it was an
assignment
for Christ’s sake, and how we’re the turtles of love and it’s a miracle we wound up together before we both wound up in nursing homes. “Vee!” I finally break in. “Good god, listen to me!” She swallows whatever she was going to say and looks at me expectantly. “It’s not Jonas that I thought you wouldn’t believe. Not Jonas. Okay?”

I want to tell her, but it’s all so weird. So I just hold out the coat.

She flicks her long black hair off of her shoulder and runs her fingers over the velvet, her nail polish sparkling like mad. “You sprung for the coat? Wasn’t it, like, three hundred dollars?”

“I didn’t buy it,” I whisper.

“Jonas got it for you?” She licks her lips nervously; it’s Nevaeh’s go-to tick.

“No.”

“JR?”

“No.”

“Then, where did it come from?” She draws her hands off the jacket and folds them in her lap like a demure schoolgirl.

“It appeared. In my truck.” I look at her face and hope, because she is the most logical person I know, that she will give me a logical answer that will not freak me out.

“JR is stalking you,” she says slowly. “He wants you back, and he left it in your truck. That’s it.”

“Isn’t it a little creative for JR?” I run my hands over the adorable silver owl buttons my ex definitely would have made fun of.

“It makes sense. He has the money. He wants you back. He knows your truck, and he can probably hack into your email and get your passwords. He probably trolled through your information and picked it up so he could use it to win you back.” Her high, smooth cheekbones flood with color and her eyes snap like she’s solved a mystery. “That explains it. Just give it back to him and tell him you don’t need his gifts because you and Jonas pulled your heads out of your asses and are together now!”

“That’s not all.” Nevaeh purses her lips at me, expectant. “We pulled over to let the fox pee, and it came out of the woods with this.” I hold the wad of money out and her mouth falls open so wide I can see her molars. “Jonas and I went to look in the woods to see where the fox might have picked this up, and when we got back, there was a new tire for my truck, the exact right size and everything. He wanted to put it on, but I made him throw it in the bed.”

Nevaeh snatches the roll of money out of my hands and examines it. “Is it counterfeit?”

“How would I know that? Anyway, I have no idea where this stuff came from or why, and it’s freaking me out.” Goosebumps prickle on my arms and up and down my spine.

“What did Jonas think?” She puts the roll of money on the bed between us.

“First he guessed JR, too. Then he said the fox.” I glance over at the sleeping bundle in the laundry basket.

“The fox? What could the fox have to do with this?”

“Jonas said it’s a lucky fox.”

She considers this with squinted eyes and a quick lick of her lips. “That makes no sense. But nothing makes any sense.”

We lie back on my bed for a few minutes, and I’m falling asleep even though I want to stay up and solve this puzzle.

“Wren, I’m going to get Zivalus home. Call me tomorrow, okay?”

I nod and the last thing I remember is Nevaeh’s long, warm fingers tucking the covers under my chin before I fall into a deep sleep populated with sly foxes and forests with reaching, scratching black tree limbs.

Chapter 4

I wake up with ten minutes before my shift at the diner starts. The laundry basket Vee blanketed for the fox is empty, so I race through the house, looking for nibbled couch cushions or gnawed chair legs, but I come up short. Bestemor is singing something in Norwegian, and her voice warbles and dives like a flock of sparrows. I follow the sound to the kitchen where she sits with a bowl of steaming oatmeal dusted with brown sugar and a cup of strong, black coffee.

Despite the lost fox, I’m drowned in a rush of relief, heavy as an anchor dropped from my floating body. I can finally relax after being adrift in this deep sea of worry for so long. “Bestemor, did you see a—”

The fox stands on the faded black and white checked linoleum next to my grandmother, tearing at a chicken leg with delicate snaps of its shining white teeth.

“Loki?” She drops a hand to brush her fingers over the fox’s head. I’m half afraid it’s going to bite her, but it nestles its head against her hand and scores another major point in my book. Anything that loves Bestemor is cool with me. “She’s enjoying her breakfast with me.”

I stare at my grandmother’s softly lined face. Her eyes, light and clear blue, are lucid today, but she’s not asking the obvious questions; where did the fox come from? How are we going to take care of it? Where was I last night?

“You named it?” I grab a glass of milk and chug it to keep my stomach from growling until I get a lunch break at work.

“Of course. A pretty girl like this one can’t go around without a name, can she?” she coos to the fox who pauses to rub a head against her ankle.

“Are you sure it’s a girl, Bestemor? And isn’t Loki a male god’s name?” I rinse the glass and throw it back in the cabinet. I have no chance of getting a shower, but I have to get dressed. I can make it to work in five minutes, but I don’t even have that now. Tony, my boss, will have a field day lecturing me on timeliness and responsibility. Saturday is
not
the day to show up late. I wish I’d gotten up earlier.

“I’m sure she’s a perfect little girl. And Loki is a brilliant little trickster’s name. Come and have breakfast,
elskede
. You’re wasting away.” She reaches out and pinches my hip with strong fingers.

“I want to, but the time.” I point to the rooster clock on the wall and sigh. “Clock’s dead. It’s not nine. It’s actually almost ten thirty and I’m late.”

Bestemor turns her wrist and glances at the delicate gold watch on her arm. “The clock is right,
skatt
. Come, eat.”

“I’ll be right back.” I run to my bedroom and the red digital numbers read three minutes after nine. I pick the clock up and shake it back and forth, like it’s an Etch a Sketch, and wait for the numbers to change back.

They don’t. I check my cell, two watches caught in the brambles of my jewelry box, and my computer.

Despite solid, irrefutable evidence, I can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong, but I have time now, so I sit at the table with my grandmother and the fox, who looks at me with unreadable eyes that calm my racing heart.

I lift spoonfuls of oatmeal into my mouth mechanically while Bestemor sings to the fox, some low, haunting lullaby. She shoos me away from the dishes and I walk to my room to get ready.

I have time for a long, hot shower. I have time to pull on my ridiculous work outfit; cat’s eye glasses, a poufy, itchy crinoline, a hot pink poodle skirt, a sweater with pearl buttons, and shiny black penny loafers. I work weekends and some nights at Tony’s Drive-In, a 50s style restaurant where waitresses skate out to your car with food or you can eat inside in deep booths and listen to the juke boxes play authentic 50s hits. It’s hokey, but it’s a hugely popular place, and the tips help us keep our heads above water.

I usually don’t have the luxury to do my makeup, but since time somehow unwound itself today, I take a minute. I mix two concealors to get the right skin tone; being half Japanese means that there’s not really a makeup that works perfectly for me. My eyes are almond shaped and dark brown, almost black. I have no real cheekbones to speak of, since my face is so round and kind of flat. But I have good plump lips and a cute nose. I wish my teeth weren’t so crooked and a little whiter, but braces and whitening strips don’t take priority on the budget right now.

Good makeup can exponentially help with tips. I like what I’ve done and smile at my reflection, but my smile freezes in place.

I lean closer to the mirror and pull my lips wider.

My teeth look different.

I move my head side to side, but I can’t shake it. My twisted front tooth is still slightly turned, but not nearly as much. My bottom four front teeth look like pickets in a newly built fence instead of a dilapidated, forgotten one. And they are blindingly, new-snowdrift white.

I stalk to the kitchen and grin at my grandmother, an unhappy stretch of my lips. “Look, Bestemor. Look.” I point at my teeth.

“Lovely,” she smiles. She pats my cheek. “You’ll be late if you don’t leave soon,
elskede
. Loki and I are heading to the garden. I have a feeling that she’s going to take care of our mouse problem, aren’t you,
kjaere
?” She leaves a moist kiss on my cheek and putters out the screen door with the spry fox at her heels.

I stomp out the urge to call my grandmother back and demand she look at my teeth again. She’s singing with such contented happiness, my heart won’t let me stop her. “Be careful!” I call as I scoop up my keys and grab my purse and change of clothes for after work. “That fox might have rabies or something!” My warning feels equal parts mean-spirited and self-defensive, because, wary as I try to be, Loki is wiggling into my reluctant good graces.

She laughs and my feet stick to the floor so I can listen better. It floats light as a swarm of bubbles, that good, clear sound I haven’t heard in so long. Her next words are clear and sweet. “Loki doesn’t have rabies, Wren!”

“Be careful!” I repeat. The fox hasn’t given me any reason to suspect it will be violent or sick, but there’s something about it I can’t put my finger on.

My shift at work starts out with three full booths waiting, and tables rapidly filling as soon as I get my order tablet out. People whir in and out like clockwork cogs until one smiling, eating family or couple looks just like the next. Tips clog my money pouch, weighing it down so much I have no choice but to cash in all the ones for twenties in the middle of the biggest lunch push. I end my shift with a decent roll and one last, lone diner.

“Ugh,” I groan. “Pammy, please take him for me.” Pammy is the owner’s daughter, and she’s perpetually sweet and helpful. I pray she’ll take pity on me and cover the booth until Macie, my replacement, shows up.

“I would, but I have to help Jimmy with fountain. Cadence had three vans pull up, full.” Jimmy and Cadence are Pammy’s younger sister and brother; she’s nice, but she’s not about to ditch family to help with my one lone customer.

I drag over to the booth, my feet two achy bricks, my skirt sticky with dribbled hot fudge and smeared with crusty hotdog sauce, and my mascara runny from sweat, making my eyes sting closed.

“Welcome to Tony’s. Can I start you with something to drink?” My tablet is flipped open to a new, clean page and I’m staring at it so intently, I don’t immediately notice who’s at my booth. “JR?”

His smile is too bright, too white, too arrogant to pull on my heartstrings anymore. But I can’t deny that he is good looking. In a totally shallow, superficial way.

“Miss me, Wren? I’ve been thinking about you.”

So typical of JR to elongate my workday, mess with my head, and make me drool all at once. Why was I such a sap for guys with silky black hair, wide grey eyes and intoxicating smiles?

“I was thinking about leaving work sometime this hour, so what do you want to drink?” I tap my pen on my pad to keep my shaky feelings steady, an emotional metronome I need to put my faith in right now.

“Mmm, how about a chocolate milkshake?”

I glance at the fountain and absorb Pammy and Jimmy elbow-deep in ice-cream floats, shakes, and egg creams. Shakes are long, laborious drinks that Jimmy, the shake master, usually makes quick work of. If I have to make one myself, it’s almost guaranteed it’ll explode on my shirt and I’ll wind up with frostbitten fingers.

“Just get a soda,” I beg.

He smiles and a dimple creases his cheek. I feel my heart patter in my chest, a wild rhythm I can’t put the brakes on. “Fine. I think you just like telling me ‘no.’ Am I right?”

I chew on the edge of my pen and debate asking him about the gifts. He probably won’t give me a straight answer anyway. “My truck got a flat.”

“If you’d stuck around, I would have bought you a new car for your birthday, Wren. Something that’s not a pile of rust.” His eyebrows rise in invitation. “I’ve been with a few other girls, but I can’t seem to shake you.”

I ignore his last comment. “I looked at this vintage coat that you would have hated. It was super expensive.” I watch his eyes roam over my tight sweater.

“You need to update. A girl as hot as you doesn’t need all that hipster vintage crap. Plus that, they sell that shit at such a huge markup. It’s highway robbery. Don’t get suckered.” He puts a hand out and grabs my fingertips. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. I’ll take you to a real restaurant and we can hang out and talk. What do you think?”

I’m not even going to ask about the money. He had no hand in any of this. “Do you want a drink or not?”

“Are you coming out with me or not?” His thumb slides over my knuckles.

“Can’t. Bestemor’s home alone.”

“She’s fine. You baby her.” He tosses it out casually, but the edge in his voice is granite hard. JR was never good at sharing, and one thing he hated was sharing me and my time, even with my aging grandma whose mind is slowly eroding.

“She’s not fine.” I stop because my voice is betraying what I don’t want to come face to face with; Bestemor is in a downward spiral, and soon there may not be anymore lucid moments at all. “I wish you could understand how not fine everything is.”