by Ani Keating
“What? What do you mean?” My eyes start to prickle. Javier has never been mad at me before. Not once in four years. He stalks toward me and lowers his mouth to my ear.
“You like the American billionaire fantasizing about you, don’t you? You like the idea of his eyes looking on you even after you’re gone.”
I start to shake my head but stop. He has spoken the truth although it has nothing to do with Hale’s money. It has everything to do with Hale himself.
“As I thought,” Javier says.
“Javier, no. I didn’t do this for his money or because he is American. I guess I—”
He puts one paint-stained finger on my lips. “Don’t finish that sentence. I think I know. But this isn’t the time to get more attached, Isa. If we have thirty-two days left as a family, we shouldn’t waste them with strangers. There are lots of those, sweetheart, but you only have one family here.” His voice loses the anger and becomes soft.
Tears roll down my cheeks. He wipes them away with his index finger and pulls me into his arms. The homey smell of paint and peppermint surrounds me. He presses his lips on the center of my forehead where my dad used to kiss me. Silent sobs crash against my rib cage so violently that I can’t make a sound.
When the sobs turn to tears, I perch on his painting stool, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.
“Did you decide what you’re going to do?” Javier says, folding cross-legged on the floor.
It takes me a moment to remember what he is asking. “Oh, yeah. I can’t face it, Javier. I can’t walk on that stage, with all those parents around.”
“Maria and I would be there.”
“No, you both need to work. I’m not messing up your lives too.”
His eyebrows furrow until they become a paintbrush. “All right, we’ll just throw you a little party here next Sunday.”
I start to protest but my phone rings in my pocket. Reagan.
The moment I answer, she squeals. After several falsettos, I surmise that she has a job offer as a research assistant at Oregon Health & Science University, testing models for behavioral therapy. Finally! Something right for one of us.
“So, we’re going to Andina for drinks. Dad’s treat,” Reagan announces with finality. “Bring Javier too. It’s the last thing Dad’s paying for. And we can all use a drink. Or six.”
* * * * *
Andina—Portland’s crème de la crème Peruvian restaurant—has a din loud enough for conversation to blend in with the crowd, but not so loud that we develop laryngitis from screaming. Reagan has saved us a spot in the downstairs lobby. We order sangria, mojitos and ceviche. One mojito in, Reagan peers at me with narrowed eyes. I gulp my sangria. Every time she has that look, it involves an idea like bungee jumping.
“Isa, I’ve been thinking,” she starts with an ominous tone. “Why don’t you just stay illegally? It’s better than an empty home. You’d give up science but…” She trails off with a shrug.
Truth be told, I’ve thought about it. Maria could find me a cleaning job at the hotel. But my science dream would die.
“I’m thinking about it,” I mumble and down the rest of my sangria, filling up the goblet again.
A sultry tango tune starts—“Sentimientos”—and Javier leans in. “Let’s dance. Before you get completely plastered.”
Javier has something that most American men don’t—rhythm. He can dance, and he’s good at it. I never understood the aversion American boys have to dancing. I love Argentine tango.
After four years of doing this, we dance close-embrace. Javier’s T-shirt is level with my eyes, and I notice some small paint stains. On him, they look distinguished, not dirty. After two more songs, we head back to the table—Javier walking, me waddling.
“Javier, you need to teach me how to tango,” Reagan demands as soon as we sit down. She looks blurry around the edges. “Isa is a horrible teacher. I end up leading her.”
Javier laughs, and they’re off planning while I tackle a mojito. I chug it, almost inhaling the crushed ice at the bottom.
A clearing of the throat distracts me from my assault on ice. Bloody hell, I know that sound. I blink through the haze and there he is in all his glory. My Mr. Hale. Tall, absurdly beautiful and pinning me with his sapphire gaze. I think my mouth is closed but I could be wrong.
“Elisa.” He nods—a quizzical note in his voice.
“Hello, Mr. Hale.” Ugh! My words sounded like a garbled sigh, whether from the sight of him or the drinks I’ve quaffed, I don’t know.
“What are you doing out in this weather?” He speaks slowly, as though he is addressing someone who is mentally challenged.
“Technically, we’re not out,” I argue and laugh. That last mojito suddenly doesn’t seem like such a good idea. “Oops! Sorry, you meant not at home. Well, we came here to get drunk. Ethanol-induced neurotransmitter excitation.”
“I see.” His voice becomes clipped, and his eyes sweep over Reagan and Javier. A flash of anger strikes in their depths as though he holds the two of them responsible for this poor decision—or for the rainstorm. Some still-sober neurons remember table manners, and I introduce them. Reagan is regaled with a formal nice-to-meet-you, but Javier only gets a curt nod.
“How are you getting home?” Hale asks, strangely looking at Javier.
“I’m driving.” Reagan raises her hand. “I’ve only had one mojito and my car is right outside.”
Hale looks like he does not like that plan at all. A deafening clap of thunder chooses this moment to boom. Hale’s jaw clenches, and his right hand curls into a tight fist.
“Sir, the Tokyo clan has arrived,” a familiar deep voice says quietly. Only now, I notice Shaq’s twin a few feet to the right of Hale. Despite his formidable size, he has the kindest brown eyes I have seen on a stranger. “They’re waiting in your private room.”
“Thank you, Benson,” Hale answers, fixing his eyes on me. They lighten as always, and his fist relaxes. “Are you all right?” he asks in a husky voice, as though we are all alone.
Perhaps it’s that tone or his probing intense eyes but his question cuts through the alcohol daze and in this moment, I want to be. I want to be a normal American girl, with parents, a blue passport and a bubbly giggle who can answer his question with a true yes.
“There are about seventeen answers to that question in a dichotomous key, Mr. Hale,” I answer, forcing a smile.
He holds my gaze for a moment, and I stare back. How did all my euphoria disappear so completely? Suddenly, I don’t want him to see this part of me.
“Good night, Mr. Hale,” I tell him, my tone more abrupt than I intended.
His jaw ticks once and he turns his sniper eyes on Javier and Reagan. He glares at them with what can only be described as dragon wrath.
“Good evening to you all.” He nods formally and makes to leave, but then pauses.
“Be safe,” he says to me, with those same intense eyes. Benson steps to the side moments before Hale turns like he already anticipated the movement. I stare at Hale’s broad shoulders and narrow hips as he climbs the stairs to the private dining rooms. Then I chug Javier’s mojito and Reagan’s leftover sangria and start chewing on ice.
Chapter Twelve
The First Goodbye
I wake up Sunday morning, feeling like Johnny Cash, with no way to hold my head up that doesn’t hurt. According to Reagan and Johnny, a beer for breakfast helps. Who am I to question them? I go to the fridge to get one of Reagan’s loyal Coronas. I sip it from the bottle at our kitchen table, mortified when I think about last night. Who knows what Mr. Hale thinks of me now? I have no doubt I disappointed him, slurring, barely vertical and with more moods than Sybil.
The real question is, why do I care so much? I have no business having such strong reactions to a man I barely know, in a land where I barely exist. I need to do something
about this. Maybe break my femur so that the painting never happens. Femurs take thirty days to heal, for sure.
Reagan comes to the kitchen in her workout clothes—Union Jack shorts, a pink sweatshirt and sneakers, which she insists on calling jumper and trainers. “Hey, lushie. How are you feeling?” She laughs. The sound makes my head throb.
“Very sorry.”
She sits opposite me at the kitchen table with a mischievous look. “Your cell rang four times last night, so I picked up,” she says in a singsong voice.
“Oh God, was it Eric?” If he has ruined another protein batch, I will castrate him.
“Nope.” She takes a deep breath for dramatic effect. “Aiden Hale.”
A long moment of silence follows this announcement in my head. Slowly, I muster all my strength to form an articulate response.
“Huh?”
Reagan laughs again. “Yep. Five minutes after you passed out. He wanted to see if we made it home all right. He said your phone and address were in your presentation materials.”
My pulse starts a jagged rhythm. “Did he say anything else?”
“No. Just thank you and hung up.”
I can’t understand the dejection that grips me. What was I hoping he would say to Reagan? I am completely mental.
“Isa, I think he likes you. Granted, he has weird ways of showing it, but why would he give a damn otherwise?” Reagan says with certainty.
Every hungover brain cell wants to believe it. Except, there is one small problem. Reality. And I didn’t have a chance to tell Reagan yesterday about my new modeling job. The more I tell her, the more her eyebrows disappear into her red curls.
“Well, that may explain why he called to check if you made it safe and scratch-free, but it doesn’t explain why he was so pissed. It seemed out of proportion for whatever it was.”
“I don’t know. He’s a rather intense bloke. Every reaction seems magnified in his case but I have no idea why.” Take when he enters a place. We all look around, but he is hypervigilant. Personal space: we all need it, but not with his radius. Privacy: he seems to raise it to isolation.
“I wonder if he’s that intense with all the good things too.” Reagan snickers and wiggles her eyebrows.
I remember the heat of his gaze at Paradox and suppress a shiver. I’m not ready to tell Reagan about that. In fact, I shouldn’t be thinking about it at all. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. What can I do with thirty-one days?”
“I can think of plenty of things to do with a man like Hale for thirty-one days.” Reagan giggles again.
I press the cold Corona bottle to my cheek.
“Thinking about your period works too.” Reagan winks. “Or you can practice your speech with me.”
“My speech? What speech?”
Reagan’s mouth pops open. “Isa, when was the last time you checked your email?”
“Before my stereochem final. Why?”
She gasps. “Holy shit, you don’t know. You’re valedictorian. Number one in our class. I think it’s customary that you speak at graduation.”
I’m surprised by how unconcerned I am with this information. Yes, I have strong grades, but I have no intention of giving a speech in front of proud parents when mine are… Someone else should do it, with parents there who will glow and remember.
“I better check my email, then. I’ll figure something out.”
Reagan eyes me suspiciously. I put on what I hope to be a solid, albeit hungover, poker face. She pats my hand and pushes away from the table.
“Best of British luck, then. Pip-pip.” She laughs and heads out for a run.
I stumble to T. rex and open my inbox. Sure enough, there is the valedictorian announcement from President Campbell. I write back.
Dear President Campbell,
Thank you for the honor accorded to me by Reed College. Unfortunately, I will be unable to speak at graduation. If it is a requirement that I do so in order to obtain my accolade, I hereby relinquish it.
Sincerely,
Elisa Snow
I shut down my computer and grab my ancient camera. My mission today is simple: take as many pictures of my life here as possible.
Chapter Thirteen
Hale Storm
It finally gets dark, and I can’t take any more pictures. At least I’ve documented Powell’s City of Books even if I won’t be here to read its one million volumes. I head back home for Sunday RED night—Reagan and Elisa Dinner night. Reagan’s Rule Number One: break the streak for no bloke. Obviously, she’s the only one restrained by that rule.
As I turn the corner to our apartment building, the first thing I see is a black, presidential-looking Range Rover SUV parked not on the street but over the sidewalk and flush with the stairs. It’s practically a barricade. Calico, my neighbor’s rescue cat who is not actually a calico, is eyeing someone inside the car with wrathful eyes. I go to scratch his ears but the SUV door opens. I freeze. My knees lock, and my heart claws in my chest. Because out of the SUV, uncoiling gracefully, comes my Mr. Hale. But not my Mr. Hale.
He looks forbidding. His eyes are glacial blue, paler than usual. He stands taller, tenser, more angular—as though every cell in his body is straining to contain a force within. This is not the dragon. This is whatever dragons are afraid of.
“Elisa.” He does not give me his customary nod, and his voice is Kasia-cold. Thinking of Kasia, I realize why he is livid. Feign must have torpedoed the painting.
“Mr. Hale. This is a nice surprise. Have you been waiting long?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, I had no idea you were coming. Is everything all right?”
“There are about seventeen answers to that question in a dichotomous key, Elisa.”
Heat burns my cheeks—nothing less than I deserve—so I start to babble. “That bad, huh? May I recommend hot chocolate instead of sangria? The theobromine—”
“Why is Brett Feign trying to convince me to use his protégé, Harvey Sellers, for your painting?” His voice cuts me off like an ice blade.
Bollocks! Sweat gathers in my armpits and my stomach clenches violently. He must have offered Feign an enormous amount of money for Feign to take this risk. But I can’t take any chances with Javier’s life—even if my instincts tell me that Hale would not hurt him.
“What do you mean?” I hedge, wishing for nothing more than a Margaret Thatcher voice but sounding instead like Snow White by the wishing well.
He gazes at me until I reach potassium. Then something changes in his eyes. They lose their icy regard and zoom in on my face like a camera lens.
“What are you hiding, Elisa?” he asks. The change is there in his voice too. For the first time, it is not cold. It’s calculating, with a warm undercurrent.
In that moment, I want to tell him my secret. I want to tell him everything about me. But I can’t form the words, and I finally understand why. Because the moment Hale knows, it becomes real. He has become the fantasy, just like this land once was. And he will be one more thing I have to lose.
“I don’t know why Feign is asking you to use Harvey Sellers.” I can’t look at him and lie, so I start worrying my camera’s strap around my wrist.
“Maybe you know this then. Why is there no record of anyone named Harvey Sellers anywhere? No personnel files, no bank accounts, no driver’s licenses, no addresses, no credit reports, nothing. It’s almost…as if he does not exist.” He speaks in a steady, measured tone—the way a chess player moves the pawns before playing the queen.
“In fact, Elisa, the dearth of information on Harvey Sellers is even more absolute than information about you. Then I remembered you said that CIS keeps immigration records sealed. So I became suspicious, Elisa. Very suspicious.”
He lowers his head and his eyes come level with mine. Moth and flame. I can’t even blink. When
I don’t say anything, he goes on.
“But then last night, I found my clue in the most unexpected place.” He pauses again, and I sense he just played his queen. My breathing grows shallow and I think wildly of a hummingbird with broken wings. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
I shake my head.
“Don’t you? Well, let me see if I can help you. I remembered what Kasia Moss told me the very first time I laid eyes on you. Do you remember?”
“I remember seeing you.” I say the only truthful thing I have spoken for a while.
If he heard the softness of my voice, he shows no sign. “Kasia Moss said that the artist uses only black, white and gray in his paintings. Is that ringing any bells?”
I nod.
“Imagine my surprise when I saw those very same colors staining the T-shirt of your tango partner, Javier Solis, last night.”
Checkmate! Javier’s paint stains—I never thought they would be the telltale clues.
“Can you explain the coincidence, Elisa?”
“No, I cannot.” I speak the truth because I really can’t explain. It is not my secret to tell.
He nods as if he already anticipated my answer. “Why is it that a woman with a four-point-oh GPA, who has invented a highly complex protein, and who has an IQ score of one-sixty, is unable to connect these dots?”
“How do you know my IQ score?”
“Arthur Denton gushed about you. Impressive, indeed. It explains your invention, your GPA, your ability to calculate dichotomous keys on the spot and your contribution at age sixteen to a paper called ‘The Hunger Genome’ authored by Peter Andrew Snow for the Cambridge University Press.”
At the sound of my father’s name, I gain some strength. “You take a lot of liberties with other people’s privacy, Mr. Hale, yet you seem to guard yours so closely. I’m sure you have your reasons. I’m really curious about them but I won’t probe. Maybe you should afford the same courtesy to others?” My voice is strong but my stomach is churning. Beads of sweats tickle my spine.
