Naked (4 page)

Sam's heart froze.

She's here.

He hadn't even realized it: Gaia was standing at the register with an overstuffed duffel bag slung over her shoulder. It was almost as big as she was, but she managed it almost effortlessly.

Without thinking, Sam launched to his feet and sidled up next to her at the adjacent counter. Gaia took her coffee and stuffed a dollar into the makeshift tip jar, then let a river of sugar cascade into her cup. She didn't lift her head.

Does she know it's me?

“Uh. . . hi,” he began with a cautious smile. He was worried he might startle her, until he remembered that hardly anything ever startled her.

Gaia turned to him. For the briefest instant her face seemed to tighten; it was as if her skin were stretched taut over those beautiful cheekbones.
But
her blue eyes were like ice.
She blinked, then stared back down at her coffee.

Sam's insides squeezed painfully. He knew he shouldn't have expected her to collapse into his arms. But he wasn't going to give up. “Laundry day?” he asked, glancing at the bag.

The seconds ticked by in silence.

“What are you doing here?” she finally asked, lifting her coffee cup. She blew on the steamy black liquid, keeping her gaze pinned to it. Her voice was flat, lifeless.

“I. . . I have to talk to you,” Sam breathed, leaning across the counter, desperately trying to regain eye contact. He searched for the hint of any emotion. There was none.

Gaia took a sip from the cup, then looked to the clock above the door. “Shit, I'm late,” she mumbled.

Sam spoke to her turned cheek. “Gaia, look at me and talk. This is ridiculous.”

“I'm late,” she repeated—maybe to herself, maybe to him; Sam couldn't tell, and it didn't make a difference. Her reaction to him represented everything he'd been dreading:
an utter coldness, an unfamiliar blank stare.
Sam remembered the first time he'd ever seen her at the chess tables in Washington Square Park: that very first game, when he'd sat across from her and lost track of everything—the game, the rain—and fixated on the few light freckles, on the way the rain drenched her blond hair and dripped from her cheeks.
She looked exactly as she had that day. Just as beautiful. . . just as much of a stranger.

Gaia adjusted the bag on her hip and walked out onto Sixth Avenue with her coffee. Sam blew out a brief disheartened sigh and followed. She was already a few yards down the street by the time he got outside. He caught up and tried to keep pace with her brisk steps.

“What do you have in that bag?” he asked. “It's just . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she increased her speed. “It's nothing. Stuff.”

They flew down Cornelia Street. All the brown-stones were beginning to blur in Sam's peripheral vision.
Thoughts of that runaway train began to creepback into his psyche.
The brakes, Sam. Slam on the brakes.
He froze on Bleecker Street, hoping Gaia would stop with him. But she didn't. Of course she didn't.

“Jesus, will you stop?” he pleaded, swallowing all his pride for one brief moment.

Gaia turned her head back but kept her body moving forward at a steady pace. “I can't,” she called back. “If I'm late to this class again, I'll get reamed. Sorry—”

“I got your letter,” Sam interrupted.

It was not at all how he'd wanted to say it, like an announcement over a high school PA system, but he could think of nothing else that might cut through Gaia's icy veneer.

Gaia hesitated.

“I finally got my computer back...,” he added,“from the shop.” Sam nearly winced at having to throw in a white lie at this point, but he still hadn't told Gaia about the police and his near indictment for Mike's murder. That would mean telling her about Josh's “help” with the alibi, which could lead to Josh's terrorizing boss or
bosses. . .
and that could put Gaia in danger.

She stared at him.

“I barely remember writing it,” she said, stone-faced. “I'd had a lot of wine.” Gaia broke eye contact and looked down at the sidewalk. “It seems like such a long time ago.”

“It wasn't,” Sam said. He moved a few steps closer. “Gaia—”

“I'm sorry,” she said, turning and flicking her finger over her eye. Was she wiping away a tear? Sam felt a bolt of optimism—coupled with shock. The odds of Gaia's crying were considerably low. Practically nonexistent. But maybe she was actually giving in to a feeling. Any feeling was a good start.

“Sorry? Why are you sorry?” Sam asked, taking a step closer. His heart lurched. Her eyes were definitely red and glazed with tears. She
was
crying. He couldn't believe it. Something must be very, very wrong. The nagging guilt he carried around with him at all times suddenly tripled.

“I'm. . . it's just—I'm not trying to be. . . ,” she stammered with a catch in her throat.

“It's
okay,
” Sam assured her. He had no idea what to do. This outpouring and uncertainty were all so new, so disturbing. Without even realizing it, he found himself closing the gap between them, putting his arms around her, bringing her head to his chest and holding her tightly. She didn't resist. . . not exactly. But it was as if every part of her were willing his arms away from her waist.
They were like two repelling magnets.


He pulled his arms away, knowing the moment offered him no other choice than to step back from her. And then they stood in silence, focusing on the smaller details of the sidewalk—the bright red canvas of a baby stroller, the tires of a parked car, looking anywhere but at each other.

“I better go,” she said finally.

“Sure.”

Sam thrust his hands into his pockets and looked away toward the street. He preferred not to watch Gaia walk away again. He'd experienced that enough already.

Close Proximity

IT HAD BEEN A VERY LONG TIME
since Ed Fargo had seen the tops of people's heads. As he hobbled down the hall, struggling on his crutches, he made
sure to avoid everyone's glances
—those stupid patronizing smiles and “okay” signs.
Instead he focused on the parts of the hall he'd never noticed before. There was a strip of black rubber that lined the top of the puke green lockers. There were wads of chewing gum that had probably been stuck atop those lockers for twenty years. Why hadn't he noticed back when he was walking? Had he
grown
since the last time he walked? He realized that quite possibly he had. He found himself literally looking down at a lot of his classmates.

He had only two goals, what with his bag dangling from his right hand, knocking against his crutch with every frustrating step.

1. Keep an eye out for Heather. The inevitable confrontation was fast approaching, and Ed would need to be prepared.

2. Find Gaia. She was the only one in that entire school who would treat Ed like he was Ed. No thumbs-up. No idiotic gawking. No congratulations. Just the usual banter. Business as usual. Ed needed somebody to swat him back to reality. And if there was one thing Gaia was good at, it was that.

Finally,
Ed thought. He managed a grin—not an easy feat, considering the crutches were digging into his armpits and his legs felt like they were about to fall off. But there was Gaia, trying to stuff a huge bag into
her locker as her books fell out on the floor. He took two giant strides, crashing into the lockers with his shoulders—and nearly toppling over—as he landed next to her.

“You are the person I needed to see,” he grunted.

Gaia nodded, smiling tiredly. “Same here,” she mumbled, finally cramming her bag into her locker and slamming it closed. “Say something nice, Fargo. I'm having a lousy life.”

“Something nice, Fargo.”

“You know, I should have seen that coming,” Gaia muttered, but she laughed as she picked up the books that had fallen onto the floor. “If it's going to be something funny, then it should actually be funny. But I asked for something nice.”

“You're the sister I never had?” he offered, with just a hint of sarcasm. It was more of a question than a statement.

Gaia rolled her eyes. “You
have
a sister.” She cracked the locker back open and shoved the books back in, one at a time.

“Don't remind me,” Ed grumbled. He placed his hand on the locker door just above Gaia's head, helping her to hold it firm as she slipped the last book back in.

“Thanks, I think I can handle it,” she muttered as she slammed the door closed once again.

“Oh, right,” he said, matching her tone. “Sorry, I keep forgetting you're a superhero.”

Incredibly enough, his comment actually elicited another smile.
Two for two,
Ed thought.
Not bad for a Monday morning.


“Very funny,” she said, turning to look up at him.

Suddenly the smile dropped from her face.

Ed frowned. “What's wrong?”

But Gaia didn't answer. Instead she just stared at Ed as if he were a specimen from some distant galaxy.

“What's. . . the. . . problem?” he repeated slowly, in case she might have missed some part of the question. He tried to muster a little laugh again. But he was starting to feel a nervous twitch in his stomach.

“Nothing,” she replied finally. She turned away.

“What?” he pressed. “Do I have pen on my face or something?”

“I have to go,” she said. Her voice took on an edge. She stared up at him again, her eyes darting from point to point on Ed's face. “I'm late for MacGregor.”

Now he was officially uncomfortable. “So what? I am, too.”

“Well, I don't want to flunk the class, so . . .” Gaia turned to leave, but he stuck out his left crutch to hold her up.

“Hey. What happened to ‘say something nice'?”

He searched her face, trying to understand her bizarre, sudden shift in personality—although he knew he shouldn't have been surprised. She'd been switching personalities a lot lately, going from sour
and ornery one moment to mysteriously blissful the next. But far more disturbing was that she had stopped being completely honest at all times. Gaia Moore's unflinching honesty, more than anything—
even more than the ass kicking and the Amazonian beauty—
was what separated Gaia from pretty much every other human being on the planet.

“I'll—I'll. . . try to find you at lunch,” she stammered, running her hand through her hair and avoiding eye contact. “
Later,
okay?”

Well. There was clearly no point in trying to understand what was going on here. All he knew was that he was starting to feel awfully shitty. Did this have something to do with his being out of the chair? Was that what was making her so distant?

No. Not Gaia. How could
she
be thrown by seeing him on his feet? She'd seen right past his chair, so why the hell wouldn't she be able to see past his crutches? There was some undeniable energy passing between them, but he couldn't tell if it was positively charged or negatively charged. Gaia wasn't giving him any clues. He'd never had to
ask
for clues before.

“Gaia,” he said, searching for recognition in her eyes. “It's
me. Ed.
You know,
Ed.
The dude in the wheelchair? Same guy.”

But Gaia had no response.

GAIA'S HEAD WAS SPINNING. SHE
found she was royally pissed off, and she had no idea why. All she knew was that her anger was directed at Ed, and Ed was really the only reason she'd even bothered to come to school before heading over to the Mosses' house. It made no sense.

Queen Bitch to the Rescue

Maybe there were just too many thoughts crowding her brain at the same time. There was the horrific encounter with Sam. She didn't want to deal with that. Couldn't think about it now. There was always the absence of her dad.
Avoid that thought at all costs.
There was her new chaotic and absurd emotional status to consider (coupled with sleeplessness),
a condition referred to commonly as insanity
.
That couldn't help.

Was it just the crutches? She hadn't expected the crutches. She hadn't even seen Ed since the day he'd saved her ass in the park. But now, frozen in this goddamn hall, looking up at Ed, face-to-face . . .

First of all, just looking
up
at Ed was undeniably bizarre. Gaia wasn't proud of herself for noticing this. She was ashamed—and that's when she realized she had been mistaken. Her anger wasn't
directed at Ed. It was directed at herself. Because Ed
wasn't
Ed. Of course he was Ed, but he was. . . tall. And he was so much closer. There was something disturbing about being face-to-face, without the chair between them. This Ed just didn't feel as. . . safe.

So she had to leave. She turned—and nearly slammed into Heather Gannis, whose beautiful porcelain face was shriveled like a prune, framed by that shiny dark hair in a portrait of sheer rage.
Perfect,
Gaia thought.
Queen bitch to the rescue.
Never once had she ever imagined she'd be happy to see Heather, but then, today was bringing a lot of unexpected changes. She should just roll with it.

“Excuse me,” Heather spat.

Gaia smiled. “You're excused,” she answered calmly.

Heather took a step back, gesturing with an angry thrust of her arms toward the hall as if to say, “Be my guest.”

Good. Now Gaia was free. She made her way down the hall, making sure not to look back. She tried to force a wave of numbness to take over, but it was no use. The feelings were piling up like cars in a highway tractor-trailer disaster—crashing into her without any warning, flipping her upside down, and burying her under the weight of each new collision. And she felt everything.