Chapter Nine

I woke up alone. Sometimes when I open my eyes in a strange room, in an unfamiliar bed, in a hotel in a foreign country, I have the sensation of not knowing where I am. But today was different. It was as if my brain had so immersed itself in Marcus, that when I finally awoke, I expected to still be entangled with him.

Only he wasn’t there.

On the pillow was a folded sheet of paper.

No food in the house. Went for coffee. Hope to be back before you wake up. Besos.

He’d also drawn a picture of a key opening a lock.

I instantly stared at my ring, touching it, spiraling it around my finger. I swore I could still feel Marcus’s fingers intertwined with mine. I could picture how he looked at me, and hear the way he moaned my name. I was so used to the scenes behind my eyelids being bloody bathrooms or tearful memorials, but this—it was a mental vacation on a beach in Tahiti. I could relive something that made me tingle in the sunshine.

I reached for his pillow, still dented from his head, still smelling of his skin, and my chest actually clenched with need. I’d heard the feeling described in books and movies, but I’d never actually experienced it. Even back in Brazil when I told Marcus I loved him, I meant it, but it didn’t feel like this. It felt like the only love I knew—the I-can’t-live-without-you and please-don’t-let-anything-bad-happen-to-you type of love. This was different.

I rose from his bed, the room feeling eerily empty. I missed him. I could practically hear the walls settling in the quiet. My bare feet landed on the cool floorboards as I tugged at the T-shirt I was wearing. It was soft, white, and said “Fly Emirates” on the front, though Marcus swore it was a Real Madrid fútbol shirt. (It had some player’s name and number on the back, so I believed him, but to this American, it looked more like a crummy airline commercial.) Still, I didn’t care. I loved that it was his and that it smelled like a laundry detergent I’d never used before. I was never giving it back. This was going in my suitcase. It made every other set of pajamas I owned seem like an itchy burlap sack.

I hugged my arms around my chest as my eyes flittered across the room. For a house that had been recently searched and sealed by the Boston Police Department, his room seemed remarkably undisturbed. There was a desk pulled out from the wall, with colored pencils and Post-its scattered below it. Some drawers hung open in his dresser with T-shirts overflowing, but overall, it was as if I was staring at an ordinary messy boy’s room. I crept toward a tall wooden bureau, curiosity piqued. Is there any girl who wouldn’t look around her boyfriend’s room if he left her alone after the night we had?

I slipped my hand into the top drawer. It was already open, so I told myself it wasn’t really snooping. Inside, was a collection of socks, mostly black, and a stack of boxers. Utterly boring. I tugged open the second drawer, surprised by how heavy it was. The dresser must have been an antique, and I wondered if his family had a habit of collecting furniture souvenirs from their travels, much the same way my parents did. The drawers held T-shirts, and it was clearly where Marcus had plucked my Real Madrid shirt from last night. He’d probably take a few of them with him back to Europe, given that none of us had exactly packed for the rest of our lives. We were all due for a few outfits that weren’t paid for by Julian.

I yanked at the third drawer, feeling like my sneaky expedition was about as interesting as a romp through a staged Ikea display. The drawer fell open, and I heard an object slide forward. I peeked in, and there, beside a poorly folded sweater, was a large space that looked as though something had been removed—something that could fill more than half of the drawer. In its place was a single artifact, or more accurately, a craft.

I reached in and lifted what appeared to be a small three-dimensional house, its sides crossed-stitched with yarn over a plastic frame. The pitched roof was constructed of dark chocolate fuzzy thread, the sides were golden yarn, and the front had two little white windows. It was clearly crafted by a child. In the center, on both sides, where the home’s doors would be, were two photographs. One was of Marcus and Antonio as children opening presents in front of a Christmas tree, the other was of Marcus’s entire family, posed politely with big smiles and dressed in their springtime best (maybe Easter). I looked on the bottom of the house, and the name “Marcus” was scrawled in Sharpie with the block-letter penmanship of a very young boy. He’d made this—a happy family home. Something neither of us had.

The Reys hopped from country to country, language to language, culture to culture, like every other Dresden family. And I guess we all had the same dream—a normal home with a pitched roof and our happy family gathered inside. If I hadn’t entered Marcus’s life, if I’d never tripped Wyatt Burns in the cafeteria, if I’d never spoken to Marcus at the grocery store on Mother’s Day before my world turned upside down, would Marcus still have his normal family? Would the Reys have been able to save Dresden and their reputations? Did I take all of this away from him?

“I was seven when I made that,” said a familiar voice from behind me. I turned to see Marcus, and the instant smile that broke across my face was embarrassing, but I couldn’t help it. I was so happy he was back, and not because of the two coffees in his hands, or the brown paper bag that smelled of bagels. I just needed to see him, to see we were still the same.

“You’ve clearly been hiding your artistic talent.” I waved the little house.

“I can make macaroni necklaces, too.” He gave a teasing smirk. “And I’ve brought comida. Sorry I was gone when you woke up.”

I took the coffee from his hand and breathed in the steamy aroma that was the trademark of Boston’s college scene. “Apology accepted.”

He pecked my lips. It felt so normal, like this was something we did all the time. Wake up, smiling and alone, with plenty of time to enjoy a cup of coffee and a quiet breakfast. If we were back in the East Sussex compound right now, Charlotte would be spouting the latest news about Urban’s whereabouts and the Dresden corporate shutdown, while Keira would be reciting comments from her social media feeds, all while Marcus and I continued to scour surveillance footage for our missing parents.

But not here, not this morning.

“How are you?” he asked, with a look that suggested he wasn’t inquiring about the comfort of my pillow.

My brain flicked back to last night, pulling up images of his body with mine. My cheeks blushed.

“Good.” I sucked my lips between my teeth. If I could pull up images of him, that meant he could pull up images of me. What was he thinking? Did he feel like this? I knew this wasn’t his first time. He’d had a girlfriend before; she wasn’t a Dresden Kid (thank God!) so I didn’t know her, and she lived in Denmark (or so he thought), but still. This wasn’t new to him.

But it was to me.

Maybe it didn’t mean as much, maybe it wasn’t as big of a deal to Marcus. The second time you ride your bike isn’t exactly as memorable as the first.

“You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want to wake you,” he explained. “And I remembered you love bagels, and the ones in Europe—”

“Are not even bagels,” I cut him off, shaking my head. “Don’t even call them that. It’s an insult to the entire city of New York.”

“We have good croissants over there,” he said, defending his home continent.

“Stick with that.” I took the bag from his hand. Just the smell made my eyes flutter back and my mouth water. “But there’s nothing like a real, honest to goodness everything bagel with cream cheese.”

“I’m glad you like it.” He nodded to the four-poster queen. “Breakfast in bed?”

I plopped down, trying not to think about what had happened on this bed last night, or else my cheeks might actually catch fire. I pulled his gray comforter over my crossed legs to hide the fact that his borrowed T-shirt wasn’t very long, and I wasn’t wearing shorts. In the light of day, my bare legs felt very exposed. I felt exposed.

I unwrapped the wax paper, and bit into the thick bagel. Somehow it wasn’t until the crumbs tumbled onto my lap, the cream cheese smeared my lips, and the seeds caught in my teeth that I realized it was impossible to eat an everything bagel politely in front of your boyfriend. With every chew, I could feel poppy and sesame seeds burrowing farther into my gums and sticking to the valleys between my teeth.

Chew, chew, stick, chew, chew, stick…

I rubbed my tongue against my teeth, which felt bedazzled by seeds. If I ignored them, I’d look repulsive every time I spoke, but if I shoved my finger into my mouth to pick them out, I’d look gross and tacky. What was worse was that I was just now realizing I didn’t have a toothbrush at his place, and in comparison, Marcus was eating a lemon Danish that probably made his teeth gleam citrusy fresh.

I sucked at my teeth, praying for a superpower that could vacuum seeds from oral crevices. Only nothing budged. I sucked again, my cheeks puckering.

I’m making this worse. I must look like a freak. I am the least sexy person to have ever walked the Earth.

I couldn’t do bedrooms in the light of day.

“Bagel okay?” Marcus asked, eying me curiously.

“Uh-huh.” I hummed, trying to not open my mouth. He finds my chewing disgusting. He probably can’t believe he ever kissed this.

“My mom has clothes in her closet if you want to borrow something,” he offered.

“I’m sure she’d love that,” I replied sarcastically. Finally, I felt a poppy seed release from my front teeth. One down…

I’d only met his mother once, and she’d been wearing a tailored designer outfit with sky-high heels while possibly planning to kidnap me and kill both my parents. I doubt she wanted me to share her sweaters. But she was also the woman pictured in the tiny craft in Marcus’s drawer. We knew two entirely different people.

“My mom wouldn’t mind,” he said. “At least I don’t think so…”

I wondered if it was because he was starting to realize he never knew his parents to begin with. All we knew were the people our parents pretended to be.

I nodded to his dresser. “It looks like they took something out of one of your drawers.”

“You were going through my things?” He raised an eyebrow, feigning shock.

“It was already open.” My shoulders pressed high as I gave an innocent look. “Do you know what they took?”

“Photo albums.” He looked toward the drawer. “I noticed they were gone last night. Every picture of my family from Costa del Sol, Berlin, and D.C. Looks like my childhood’s gone.”

“Sorry.” I reached for his hand, all of the seeds in my teeth no longer seeming important as I looked into his eyes. It didn’t matter what I thought of his parents or his brother, pictures are what you take in a fire.

He stared at our hands, his thumb fiddling with my ring. He’d played with it much of the night while his fingers were locked with mine, while his lips touched me. I could still picture every moment. A shy smile slipped onto my face.

“I’m so happy you’re here.” He looked up at me, then his gaze shifted to my mouth. “Uh, you have something in your teeth.”

Gee, thanks. My chest collapsed.

I dug my tongue into my gums once more, cringing with humiliation, as I heard a sudden rattling echo from downstairs. Marcus did, too. We both turned toward the hallway.

The thudding grew louder, sounding metallic.

He squeezed my hand tighter.

It was the front door.

Someone was trying to open it.