“Hello, sleepyhead,” she said, then cringed.
Why had she used such a term of endearment? But he grinned lopsidedly at her and shuffled to the cabinet, took down a mug. She already had the coffee brewing.
“Hello, yourself,” he said, pouring a cup. He was in khaki pants and a black T-shirt. Sunshine splashed on his bare arms and she tried not to stare at their muscular luster.
“How did you sleep?” she asked, testing the waters.
He ran one hand through his hair, which was sprouting curls all along the underside. She remembered how she’d spent all summer keeping track of those curls as they grew longer from the start of the season to the end, until they almost reached his shoulders.
“Pretty good. Had some whacked-out dreams though. Being chased all night.” He slouched casually into a kitchen chair, sipping his coffee.
“Mack didn’t wake you? I took him for a walk and he heard an animal in the woods and started barking.”
“Erm. No. Don’t remember that.”
“Want eggs?”
“Sure,” he said, happily, spreading his long legs out.
She took eggs and milk from the fridge, placed them on the counter, and scoured the cupboards for spices. Whatever was in there was years-old but she supposed was still usable.
“I’m not sure how to tell you this.” She started cracking eggs into a bowl. “But you sleepwalked into the living room last night.”
She turned to catch his face as his hand stopped with his mug halfway to his mouth. “I did?”
“Yeah.” She placed the eggshells inside of a small food bin her grandmother had always kept on the counter. “I brought you back to bed. I wasn’t sure what else to do.”
He raked one hand through his hair again, staring at the table. Its plastic covering was sunshine yellow with a tiny-flower pattern. Her grandmother had probably had it for thirty years, and it showed, dotted with tiny holes and stains.
Why hadn’t she considered how shabby and elderly the house looked before she invited Heath here? But she supposed shabby accommodations were better than catching a virus.
“Oh, man,” he said, dully. “I’m sorry. I have a history of that but haven’t done it in at least eight months.”
“Yeah, it was kind of strange.” She shrugged, laughing a little. “It really took me by surprise.”
“Damn, Romy.” He stared at her apologetically. “If I’d thought I still did that, I would have warned you. No wonder I had so many weird dreams last night. It’s this pandemic, I guess. And coming here. Where everything happened.”
He distractedly sipped more coffee, then leaned into his mug.
“That’s actually why I began seeing Loretta—that’s my therapist. I used to sleepwalk all the time when I was with Tara but it settled down after I began talking to Loretta. She said it can be triggered by stress.” He squinted at her. “Did I say anything?”
“Something about it being your fault. Whatever it was, you didn’t say. Just, like, ‘it’s my fault.’”
“Hmm, yeah. Tara always said I would talk a lot of nonsense.” He shook his head. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m told I’m a compliant sleepwalker. She never had trouble getting me back to bed.”
“Nope,” Romy smiled. “You followed me like a little lamb.”
Ugh, why was she always using such corny expressions around him? Sleepyhead? Little lamb? She needed to control whatever this idiocy was that seemed to take over in his presence. He was only a guy. Nothing that special!
Mack trotted into the room and stood by her at the counter, clearly wondering if anything she was making was for him. “You had your breakfast, boy,” she told him.
“Come on, Mack-a-roo,” Heath said. “Let’s go for a quick walk and let Romy cook in peace.”
After breakfast, they sat on the windowed porch, staring out at the woods. She was getting better about looking at them now. Not like she had a choice; she couldn’t avoid looking at one entire side of the yard.
Heath’s phone dinged and he looked at it. “I signed up for Patch alerts for the town,” he said. “I need to figure out if I can do any work while I’m here. Even a few weeks with no money is going to set me back.” He stared at his phone for a bit, reading. “There’s a town council meeting tonight. How to deal with the pandemic. Also, looks like New York City is under lockdown.”
“Lockdown?”
“Yeah, no one can leave their home.”
“Oh my God.”
Romy was horrified. Seems like they could be in the country longer than they’d anticipated. They’d gotten out in the nick of time. But she couldn’t stop thinking about everyone still there.
And what about Bill? It was seriously worrying her that he hadn’t gotten in touch yet. Had he died? What obligation did she have to try to track down people who knew him? What if he had family who was wondering where Mack was? And how could she even get Mack to them in this mess?
As if sensing her thoughts, Mack looked up from where he sprawled on the wood-beamed floor, gave a couple of whistling whines, and laid his snout on his paws, which were almost as big as Romy’s hands.
The town council meeting was in the red brick town hall on Main Street. Despite growing up here, Romy had never had occasion to be in the town hall. It was a thing reserved for adults.
Heath parked the truck and as they walked through the parking lot, they put on their masks. About a quarter of the people heading into the squat brick building also had them on.
Heath cast a glance her way and she could read the look in his eyes—trepidation. He had a dramatic past here—easily one of the most dramatic. While most of the town felt terrible for him, thanks to news articles about him rushing to the pool and frantically bringing Misty to the surface and giving her CPR, some people, Romy knew, remained unconvinced that he couldn’t have saved her if he’d really wanted to. He was a lifeguard, wasn’t he?
Now here they were headed into a town hall meeting that could contain those who still saw him as “the boy who didn’t save Misty Glass.” Impulsively, she reached out and touched his arm. His conical white mask prevented her from seeing his full expression but his eyes crinkled a little.
Inside, the metal folding chairs were all placed several feet apart. Social distancing was becoming a familiar term. There were about fifty people there. Several community leaders took their turns at a lectern. The gist of their speeches was they were keeping on top of announcements from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and tracking case numbers.
Thus far, there had not been one positive case reported in Glass Town, though the capital, a twenty-minute drive away, had reported several cases, which meant Glass Town had to remain vigilant.
Businesses could make their own decisions about whether masks were required inside but they were encouraged. A local doctor outlined typical symptoms of the virus: high fever, cough, chills, headaches. He also warned, ominously, that one could be a positive carrier and have no symptoms whatsoever. A representative for a local nursing home announced the home was in lockdown, no visitors were allowed. At all.
At the end of the meeting, Romy and Heath stood at a bulletin board. Heath put up several business cards, and took down the number of someone offering workspace.
“Romy!”
Surprised at the sound of her name, Romy turned to see Gillian Frenetti, her best childhood friend. Romy hadn’t seen her since high school graduation. Gillian, like Avery, had hardly changed. She’d gained maybe ten pounds but otherwise had the same amber-brown shag-cut, the same pleasant and slightly exotic features, almond-shaped brown eyes, well-defined lips.
How Gillian recognized Romy with a mask on was a mystery. Must be her bangs again.
“Hey, Gilly. How are you?”
Seeing Heath, Gillian’s look of intrigue was horribly blatant on her unmasked face. “What’s going on?” she asked. “You leave the city?”
“Yeah, we both did.”
“Jessica, was it?” Heath said. Romy sensed he was pretending not to remember her name.
“Gillian.” She scowled a little, then looked back at Romy. Her expression screamed, Are you two sleeping together?! Worried she might be so crass as to actually inquire about this, Romy volunteered, “We both live in Brooklyn and thought we should get out for a bit until this thing passes over.”
“It’s nuts, right?” Gillian stepped back from them. “Should I get a mask? I have no idea. I can’t find them!” She seemed oddly excited about the whole thing, as if the pandemic was a lunar eclipse or category-five hurricane, a freakish and awe-inspiring display of nature’s power.
Through the parking lot, the trio made small talk until Gillian veered off to her car. While on the surface the entire mini-reunion was banal, and they kept their discussion to the repercussions of the pandemic, underneath rippled a dark undertow.
Gillian had been friends with Misty. In general, high school students who were two grades apart didn’t hang out together but the two girls lived next door to each other. Misty had also babysat Gillian and her younger brother. So when Misty died, Gillian had been extremely distraught. She had also, more than once, made it clear to Romy that she thought Heath wasn’t as innocent as he appeared.
A big reason that Romy had spent her freshman summer hanging out by herself at the country club pool was that Gillian lived across town and both were too young to drive. They would bicycle to see each other but each settled into a routine of hanging out at watering holes closest to their homes. Then Romy, after developing a fixation on Heath, lost interest in biking miles to see her friend.
After that night, Romy had folded in on herself, become a near-recluse, and didn’t participate in the staples of high school life—football and basketball games, dances, parties, proms. She’d stayed home and perfected her drawing, took college-level design courses, and learned design software programs. High school life was an unfortunate but necessary irritant.
In this small town, no one seemed ambitious for anything other than to procure secure employment, get married, have kids, buy a house. Like millions of artists before her, Romy couldn’t wait to “get out”—out to somewhere that allowed, encouraged, and even rewarded artistic expression.
Heath started the truck and it wasn’t until the first traffic light that he said anything.
“So, Gillian Frenetti,” he said. “You’re friends with her?”
“Sort of. We were good friends until I became a sophomore. Then I… began concentrating on other things.”
As they were at a stoplight, he turned to stare straight at her. “She’s a big reason the cops kept questioning me.”
“Um, what? So you do know her.”
“Of course. Just pretended I didn’t. She lived next door to Misty. The older brother of one of my friends was a cop, and he told me she went to them more than once, telling them she’d heard Misty and me arguing right before she drowned. If it hadn’t been for the surveillance camera, who knows what would have happened to me.”
“Sorry,” Romy said, unsure of what to say. Gillian had expressed the same sentiments to her, and Romy remembered how ashamed it had made her, knowing the truth, knowing Heath had nothing to do with Misty’s death. Another reason Romy had pulled away from Gillian—pulled away from everyone.
The truck started again, and Heath went on, “I mean, Misty and I were teens. I’m sure we had an argument or two. But nothing so loud her next-door neighbor would have heard it. She was making stuff up about me. Trying to get me blamed for what happened.”
“I wonder why.”
“I think I know why. I think she had a crush on Misty. Lots of people did. Girls, boys. Old people, children. Animals even. I’m not kidding. One time, she rescued a baby squirrel. Fed it with a syringe for a few days. Then it wouldn’t go away. Lived on her terrace and would come up through her window. Like she was Snow White or something.”
He chuckled—his face soft with a fondness for the memory.
Romy stared out the window at rolling farmland, every fiber of her wanting to scream out what her teenage self had done. She’d killed Snow White! Her chest felt near to exploding with the confession. She’d been fourteen when it happened, and she hadn’t done it on purpose. It was quite possible there would be no legal repercussions.
But everyone in the town, everyone who knew Misty, even those who didn’t, would hate her. She’d have to leave town, sell her grandmother’s house. No sense in owning a house you could never come to ever again. Maybe people would throw stones at it—or her. Or both.
And Heath.
He would despise her.
He’d been nice to her. The only boy in high school who had been nice to her, who saw her, acknowledged her, was interested in her as a human being.
She’d repaid this kindness by killing his girlfriend and unborn child. Because she was petulant, immature, jealous. Delusional. Delusional that a teen boy on the cusp of adulthood would want a relationship with a child.
A part of her wanted so badly to confess, to see the poison in his eyes, hear the rage in his voice. Another part of her, equally as strong, couldn’t bear the idea of it.
She was too much of a coward.