Key of Knowledge
Page 64
A knit cap was pulled over her head, a knit scarf wrapped around her throat. She moved quickly, but stopped long enough for a brief and energetic snow battle with the little Dobson boys and their friends.
Her own laughter drifted out to her, and she knew what she’d been thinking, what she’d been feeling.
She was going to see Jordan, to convince him to come out and play. He was spending much too much time closed up in that house since his mother died. He needed to be with someone who loved him.
The past few months had been a nightmare of hospitals and doctors, suffering and grief. He needed comfort, and a gentle, gentle push back into life. He needed her.
She trooped up the unshoveled walk, stomped her feet. She didn’t knock. She’d never needed to knock on this door.
“Jordan!” She pulled off her cap, raked her fingers through her hair. She’d worn it shorter then, a chopped-off experiment she hated, and willed, daily, to grow back.
She called him again as she unzipped her coat.
The house still smelled of Mrs. Hawke, she noted. Not of the lemon wax she’d always used on the furniture, or the coffee she’d habitually had on the stove. But of her sickness. Dana wished she could fling open the windows and whisk the worst of the sorrow and grief away.
He came to the top of the stairs. Her heart did a tumble in her chest, as it always did when she saw him. He was so handsome, so tall and straight, and just a little dangerous around the eyes and mouth.
“I thought you’d be at the garage, but when I called Pete said you weren’t coming in today.”
“No, I’m not going in.”
His voice sounded rusty, as if he’d just gotten up. But it was already two in the afternoon. There were shadows in his eyes, shadows under them, and they broke her heart.
She came to the foot of the stairs, shot him a quick smile. “Why don’t you put on a coat? The Dobson kids tried to ambush me on the way over. We can kick their little asses.”
“I’ve got stuff to do, Dana.”
“More important than burying the Dobsons in a hail of snowballs?”
“Yeah. I have to finish packing.”
“Packing?” She didn’t feel alarm, not then, only confusion. “You’re going somewhere?”
“New York.” He turned and walked away.
“New York?” Still there was no alarm. Now there was a thrill, and she bounded up the stairs after him with excitement at her heels. “Is it about your book? Did you hear from that agent?”
She rushed into his bedroom, threw herself on his back. “You heard from the agent, and you didn’t tell me? We have to celebrate. We have to do something insane. What did he say?”
“He’s interested, that’s all.”
“Of course he’s interested. Jordan, this is wonderful. You’re going up to have a meeting with him? A meeting with a New York literary agent!” She let out a crow of delight, then noticed the two suitcases, the duffel, the packing crate.
Slowly, with that first trickle of alarm, she slid off his back. “You’re taking an awful lot of stuff for a meeting.”
“I’m moving to New York.” He didn’t turn to her, but tossed another sweater, a pair of jeans into one of the open suitcases.
“I don’t understand.”
“I put the house up for sale yesterday. They probably won’t be able to turn it until spring. Guy at the flea market’s going to take most of the furniture and whatever else there is.”
“You’re selling the house.” When her legs went weak, she sank onto the side of the bed. “But, Jordan, you live here.”
“Not anymore.”
“But . . . you can’t just pack up and go to New York. I know you talked about moving there eventually, but—”
“I’m done here. There’s nothing for me here.”
It was like having a fist punched into her heart. “How can you say that? How can you say there’s nothing for you here? I know, Jordan, I know how hard it was for you to lose your mother. I know you’re still grieving. This isn’t the time for you to make this kind of a decision.”
“It’s already made.” He glanced in her direction, but his eyes never met hers. “I’ve got a few more things to deal with, then I’m gone. I’m leaving in the morning.”
“Just like that?” Pride pushed her back on her feet. “Were you planning on letting me in on it, or were you just going to send me a postcard when you got there?”
He looked at her now, but she couldn’t see into his eyes, couldn’t see through the shield he’d thrown up between them. “I was going to come by later tonight and see you, and Flynn.”
“That’s very considerate.”
He raked his fingers through his hair, a gesture she knew reflected impatience or frustration. “Look, Dana, this is something I have to do.”
“No, this is something you want to do, because you’re done with this place now. And everyone in it.”
She had to keep her voice low, very low. Or it would shrill. Or scream. “That would include me. So I guess the past couple of years haven’t meant a damn thing.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” He slapped one suitcase closed, fastened it. “I care about you, I always did. I’m doing what I need to do—what I want to do. Either way it comes to the same thing. I can’t write here. I can’t f**king think here. And I have to write. I’ve got a chance to make something of myself, and I’m taking it. So would you.”
“Yeah, you’re making something of yourself. A selfish bastard. You’ve been planning this, stringing me along while you planned to dump me when it was most convenient for you.”
“This isn’t about you, this is about me getting out of this f**king house, out of this goddamn town.” He rounded on her, and the shield cracked enough for her to see fury. “This is about me not busting my ass every goddamn day working in a grease pit just to pay the bills, then trying to carve out a few hours to write. This is about my life.”
“I thought I was part of your life.”
“Christ.” He dragged a hand through his hair again before yanking open a drawer for more clothes.
He couldn’t be bothered to stop packing, she thought, not even when he was breaking her heart.
Her own laughter drifted out to her, and she knew what she’d been thinking, what she’d been feeling.
She was going to see Jordan, to convince him to come out and play. He was spending much too much time closed up in that house since his mother died. He needed to be with someone who loved him.
The past few months had been a nightmare of hospitals and doctors, suffering and grief. He needed comfort, and a gentle, gentle push back into life. He needed her.
She trooped up the unshoveled walk, stomped her feet. She didn’t knock. She’d never needed to knock on this door.
“Jordan!” She pulled off her cap, raked her fingers through her hair. She’d worn it shorter then, a chopped-off experiment she hated, and willed, daily, to grow back.
She called him again as she unzipped her coat.
The house still smelled of Mrs. Hawke, she noted. Not of the lemon wax she’d always used on the furniture, or the coffee she’d habitually had on the stove. But of her sickness. Dana wished she could fling open the windows and whisk the worst of the sorrow and grief away.
He came to the top of the stairs. Her heart did a tumble in her chest, as it always did when she saw him. He was so handsome, so tall and straight, and just a little dangerous around the eyes and mouth.
“I thought you’d be at the garage, but when I called Pete said you weren’t coming in today.”
“No, I’m not going in.”
His voice sounded rusty, as if he’d just gotten up. But it was already two in the afternoon. There were shadows in his eyes, shadows under them, and they broke her heart.
She came to the foot of the stairs, shot him a quick smile. “Why don’t you put on a coat? The Dobson kids tried to ambush me on the way over. We can kick their little asses.”
“I’ve got stuff to do, Dana.”
“More important than burying the Dobsons in a hail of snowballs?”
“Yeah. I have to finish packing.”
“Packing?” She didn’t feel alarm, not then, only confusion. “You’re going somewhere?”
“New York.” He turned and walked away.
“New York?” Still there was no alarm. Now there was a thrill, and she bounded up the stairs after him with excitement at her heels. “Is it about your book? Did you hear from that agent?”
She rushed into his bedroom, threw herself on his back. “You heard from the agent, and you didn’t tell me? We have to celebrate. We have to do something insane. What did he say?”
“He’s interested, that’s all.”
“Of course he’s interested. Jordan, this is wonderful. You’re going up to have a meeting with him? A meeting with a New York literary agent!” She let out a crow of delight, then noticed the two suitcases, the duffel, the packing crate.
Slowly, with that first trickle of alarm, she slid off his back. “You’re taking an awful lot of stuff for a meeting.”
“I’m moving to New York.” He didn’t turn to her, but tossed another sweater, a pair of jeans into one of the open suitcases.
“I don’t understand.”
“I put the house up for sale yesterday. They probably won’t be able to turn it until spring. Guy at the flea market’s going to take most of the furniture and whatever else there is.”
“You’re selling the house.” When her legs went weak, she sank onto the side of the bed. “But, Jordan, you live here.”
“Not anymore.”
“But . . . you can’t just pack up and go to New York. I know you talked about moving there eventually, but—”
“I’m done here. There’s nothing for me here.”
It was like having a fist punched into her heart. “How can you say that? How can you say there’s nothing for you here? I know, Jordan, I know how hard it was for you to lose your mother. I know you’re still grieving. This isn’t the time for you to make this kind of a decision.”
“It’s already made.” He glanced in her direction, but his eyes never met hers. “I’ve got a few more things to deal with, then I’m gone. I’m leaving in the morning.”
“Just like that?” Pride pushed her back on her feet. “Were you planning on letting me in on it, or were you just going to send me a postcard when you got there?”
He looked at her now, but she couldn’t see into his eyes, couldn’t see through the shield he’d thrown up between them. “I was going to come by later tonight and see you, and Flynn.”
“That’s very considerate.”
He raked his fingers through his hair, a gesture she knew reflected impatience or frustration. “Look, Dana, this is something I have to do.”
“No, this is something you want to do, because you’re done with this place now. And everyone in it.”
She had to keep her voice low, very low. Or it would shrill. Or scream. “That would include me. So I guess the past couple of years haven’t meant a damn thing.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” He slapped one suitcase closed, fastened it. “I care about you, I always did. I’m doing what I need to do—what I want to do. Either way it comes to the same thing. I can’t write here. I can’t f**king think here. And I have to write. I’ve got a chance to make something of myself, and I’m taking it. So would you.”
“Yeah, you’re making something of yourself. A selfish bastard. You’ve been planning this, stringing me along while you planned to dump me when it was most convenient for you.”
“This isn’t about you, this is about me getting out of this f**king house, out of this goddamn town.” He rounded on her, and the shield cracked enough for her to see fury. “This is about me not busting my ass every goddamn day working in a grease pit just to pay the bills, then trying to carve out a few hours to write. This is about my life.”
“I thought I was part of your life.”
“Christ.” He dragged a hand through his hair again before yanking open a drawer for more clothes.
He couldn’t be bothered to stop packing, she thought, not even when he was breaking her heart.
