Angel

by L. A. Weatherly

Page 34

 

  My muscles were rigid. “I have no idea, and I’m not going to try. I wish it would just go away. ”

  A commercial came on; when it ended and the show came back, the actress was gone and a comedian came onto the stage. I could feel Alex’s gaze on me. “I don’t know if ignoring it is going to work,” he said after a pause. “I mean it’s there, protecting you. It’s a part of you somehow. ”

  “Well, I don’t want it to be,” I said. My voice was shaking. “God, Alex — one of those things destroyed my mother’s mind; one’s ruined Beth’s life. I hate it that I have something like that inside of me. So, no, I’m not about to contact it or make friends with it, or whatever. No way. ”

  “OK,” he said. “Sorry. ”

  I didn’t say anything. I stared at the screen, listening to the audience laugh at jokes that didn’t seem remotely funny to me.

  Alex glanced at me, his blue-gray eyes concerned. “Listen, I didn’t mean to upset you or anything. This all must be —” He shook his head. “I can’t even imagine what this must be like for you. ”

  And it helped, somehow, just knowing that he had thought about it, that he realized how hard it was. I sighed. “The thing is . . . I feel so completely human. I know I’m not; I know that. But inside, I just feel normal. I mean, OK, maybe I’m sort of weird, but still normal. ”

  He gave a slight smile. “You’re not weird. ”

  “Oh, please. ” I rolled onto my side to face him. “Listen, when you saw the — the angel hovering over me . . . ” I trailed off, not even really sure what I wanted to ask.

  “What?” he asked. His dark hair was almost dry now, looking soft and tousled.

  I shook my head quickly. “Nothing. ”

  Alex hesitated, studying me. “Look, do you want to change the subject?”

  “To what?”

  “I don’t know. ” He motioned toward the TV. “We could talk about this comedian; he’s supposed to be getting his own sitcom soon. ”

  I snorted and rolled onto my back again, propping myself up onto the pillows. “Yeah, if anyone’s left to see it. Alex, doesn’t it drive you insane, knowing all of this when the rest of the world doesn’t?”

  He shrugged as he leaned back against his own pillows, resting an elbow behind his head. “Sure. But, you know — it’s just how it is. If I thought about it too much, I’d go crazy, so I don’t. ”

  That sounded like pretty good advice, to be honest. As the comedian went on with his routine, I felt the tension inside me loosen a notch. “What’s his sitcom supposed to be about? Do you know?” I asked finally.

  We watched the rest of the show, chatting sometimes about the guest stars and the jokes. When it was over, we went to sleep. It felt weird sliding under the covers with Alex in the next bed — so intimate, even though he was about ten feet away. Once we were both settled, he switched off the light, and the room plunged into blackness.

  We lay there in silence for a while. The absence of light was so total that I couldn’t even see his bed. “Alex, do you think the angels are right?” I said quietly. “Do you think I really can destroy them somehow?”

  His voice sounded deeper in the darkness. “I hope so. God, I really hope so. ” There was a pause, and then he said, “Good night, Willow. ”

  “Good night,” I echoed.

  I lay awake for a while, listening as his breathing grew slower, more regular. As I fell asleep, my hand seemed to creep up of its own accord to touch my arm, stroking the softness of his T-shirt. I drifted off feeling the warmth of Alex’s energy wrapping gently around me.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Alex and I headed back to the garage to find out about the car. Though it was only ten o’clock, the day was sticky with humidity already; my hair up under the baseball cap felt damp and heavy. As we walked the half mile or so, we talked about the heat, whether the car would be ready that day, the too-sweet motel donuts we’d had for breakfast. Neither of us mentioned how things had shifted between us, but it was there, anyway. Things just felt a lot more relaxed, as though we didn’t actually hate each other now.

  But then, as we started to cross the concrete forecourt to the garage, a feeling of foreboding gripped me and I stopped short. “Wait a minute,” I said, touching Alex’s arm.

  He glanced down at me. He was wearing a burgundy T-shirt, and the hair at the nape of his neck was curling slightly from the heat. “What?”

  I shook my head, still gazing at the garage with its bright sign and plate-glass windows. It had seemed fine yesterday, but today I had the weirdest feeling about it — nothing I could put my finger on, just a really strong sense that I shouldn’t go inside. “I — I better go back to the motel,” I said, taking a step backward. “I’ll wait for you there, OK?”

  Alex’s eyebrows drew together. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Just — I don’t think I should go in there. ”

  He glanced over at the garage, frowning. “OK, here. ” He dug in his jeans pocket for the plastic card key. “I’ll be as fast as I can. ”

  “Thanks. ” I took the card key. “Listen, have them check out the Mustang’s air filter while they’re at it, OK? I think it might need a new one. ” Then I turned and started walking hurriedly back up the road, glad for the sunglasses that covered half my face.

  It was so quiet out, with only the occasional car speeding past. After I’d been walking for about five minutes, I heard a new noise: rhythmic footsteps striding behind me, growing closer. Hugging my elbows, I peered over my shoulder. It was Alex. I felt my shoulders relax; I waited for him to catch up.

  “You were right,” he said as he fell into step beside me. “There was a guy in there wearing a Church of Angels cap. ”

  I heaved out a breath. “Oh, God. Do you think he saw me?”

  Alex shook his head. “I don’t think so; he was talking to the mechanic when I went in. The Mustang won’t be ready until around noon tomorrow,” he added. “He found a garage that has the right bolts, but he won’t be able to get them until this afternoon. ”

  Tomorrow. I rubbed my arms. “So . . . I guess we’ll just wait in the motel room, then. ”

  “Yeah, I guess,” said Alex. He was walking with his hands stuck in his back pockets; his legs were so much longer than mine that he took two steps to my every three. “It’s not exactly safe for us to go sightseeing, even if there was anything worth looking at around here. ”

  We got the motel room for another night and headed back to it. As Alex swung open the door to the room, something occurred to me. “Hey, what’s your last name, anyway? I just realized I don’t know. ”

  With a wry smile, Alex took his wallet out of his jeans pocket; opening it, he pulled out a few pieces of ID and handed them to me. “Here, take your pick. ”

  I flipped through in amazement. A California license for Alexander Stroud . . . a Michigan license for Alex Patton . . . an Ohio license for William Fraser . . . I started to laugh. “God, you’re like James Bond,” I said, handing them back to him. “What’s your real, actual last name?”