The Angel
Page 85
Wesley stared at the bed and noticed something strange about the covers. Light streamed in through the window and revealed a thick layer of dust on the coverlet of her perfectly made bed.
And the truth shocked Wesley like snow falling in the middle of summer. The bitter, beautiful truth.
“Oh, my God…” Wesley breathed out loud, hope welling high and hard in his chest. His rumpled sheets. Nora’s dusty covers. “Nora’s been sleeping in my bed.”
“Actually, Wesley,” came a voice from behind him, a voice as cold and cruel as winter, “she’s been sleeping in mine.”
* * *
Michael woke up at midmorning to the sound of hooting. Actually, not quite hooting but his mind couldn’t think of a better word for it. This hooting seemed to originate from a Griffin and not an owl. And this Griffin apparently was perched on the roof above Michael’s room. Michael had crawled from Nora’s bed and back into his own at about five that morning. After their threesome last night, after Griffin had actually watched him having sex with Nora, Michael worried he wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye for a few days. But Griffin didn’t seem to be nearly so concerned with morning-after awkwardness. He also didn’t seem particularly concerned with gravity.
“Griffin?” Michael called up to the roof, where Griffin stood shirtless in the sunlight hooting and hollering in some sort of celebration. “What are you doing?”
“Six years, Mick!” Griffin called back. “Tell me I’m awesome.”
“You’re awesome,” Michael said without reservation. Awesome and amazing and smart and funny and sexy. But he kept all those adjectives on the inside. “What’s six years?”
Griffin strolled forward on the roof casually, as if gravity didn’t apply to him. Bending over, Griffin grasped the edge of the roof and lowered himself through the window and into Michael’s bedroom.
“Six years today, Mick.” Griffin grinned so broadly his smile eclipsed the sun. “Six years today I have been clean and sober. Not a drop of alcohol. No drugs. Nothing.”
Michael couldn’t help but smile just as broadly back. He threw his arms around Griffin in a spontaneous hug but as soon as he felt Griffin’s warm body against his, his heart raced and blood started going places he didn’t want blood going. Michael pulled back immediately and took two big steps back.
“That’s incredible. I’m so happy for you. You should celebrate,” Michael said quickly, trying to cover his nervousness.
“I am. Always do.”
“How?”
Griffin grinned. “New tattoo. I add on to my ink every year.”
“Awesome. So you’re going into town?” Michael hoped Griffin would invite them into the city with him. Six years clean and sober—Griffin shouldn’t celebrate that alone.
Griffin shook his head. “Nah. Spike—she does my ink—she’s coming here tonight. Tattoo party. And guess who else is invited?” Michael shook his head. “You are, Mick.”
“That’s fantastic. I can’t wait to watch.” Michael knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“Watch?” Griffin stepped past him and into the doorway of Michael’s room. He leaned against the door frame and gave Michael a long, meaningful look. Michael couldn’t quite make out what the meaning of the look was, but he sort of wished Griffin would look at him like that forever. “You’re not just watching, Mick. You’re getting one too.”
Griffin winked at him and left the room, still hooting in unabashed joy, a sound that lifted Michael’s heart so high that he almost didn’t hear what Griffin had said.
Once alone, he remembered.
Michael raced to the hallway. “Wait! Griffin? I’m what?”
20
On the subway, Suzanne found a safe spot on an empty seat and pulled Nora Sutherlin’s medical file out of her messenger bag. She’d read it last night outside Kingsley Edge’s house. She’d read it again at her apartment. After two readings she still didn’t know what to make of it.
The file began with Eleanor Schreiber’s results from a physical she’d taken before starting her freshman year at NYU. A basic physical for insurance purposes, all it revealed was a healthy eighteen-year-old girl with low cholesterol, low blood pressure and some mild hay fever. The only note of interest was that young Eleanor had refused a pelvic exam. The little scribbled note had raised Suzanne’s hackles. Why would she refuse a basic pelvic? Suzanne had immediately assumed the worst: STI…pregnancy. Maybe even evidence of an abortion. But a few pages later she’d found something that blew all her dark theories out of the water. At age nineteen, Eleanor Schreiber had apparently partied too hard one night and passed out drunk. She’d woken up with a frat boy on top of her. The file contained notes from a rape crisis counselor who’d been brought in to talk to Eleanor before, during and after the exam. Apparently the counselor hadn’t gotten to perform her duties that night, as a note on the chart testified:
Patient said she doubts the young man sexually assaulted her. Claims she vomited on him during the rape attempt. Dismissed by the patient once her priest, Father Marcus Stearns, arrived. Patient clearly suffering from severe denial.
But young Eleanor hadn’t been in denial. The doctor’s report not only showed no presence of trauma or fluids, but an intact hymen as well. At nineteen years old, Eleanor Schreiber was still a virgin. Suzanne knew she should have stopped reading there. To read another woman’s medical file seemed such a gross invasion of privacy it turned her stomach to even have it in her hands. And yet she couldn’t stop, even after learning that teenage Nora was not lover to Father Stearns, or anyone for that matter.
And the truth shocked Wesley like snow falling in the middle of summer. The bitter, beautiful truth.
“Oh, my God…” Wesley breathed out loud, hope welling high and hard in his chest. His rumpled sheets. Nora’s dusty covers. “Nora’s been sleeping in my bed.”
“Actually, Wesley,” came a voice from behind him, a voice as cold and cruel as winter, “she’s been sleeping in mine.”
* * *
Michael woke up at midmorning to the sound of hooting. Actually, not quite hooting but his mind couldn’t think of a better word for it. This hooting seemed to originate from a Griffin and not an owl. And this Griffin apparently was perched on the roof above Michael’s room. Michael had crawled from Nora’s bed and back into his own at about five that morning. After their threesome last night, after Griffin had actually watched him having sex with Nora, Michael worried he wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye for a few days. But Griffin didn’t seem to be nearly so concerned with morning-after awkwardness. He also didn’t seem particularly concerned with gravity.
“Griffin?” Michael called up to the roof, where Griffin stood shirtless in the sunlight hooting and hollering in some sort of celebration. “What are you doing?”
“Six years, Mick!” Griffin called back. “Tell me I’m awesome.”
“You’re awesome,” Michael said without reservation. Awesome and amazing and smart and funny and sexy. But he kept all those adjectives on the inside. “What’s six years?”
Griffin strolled forward on the roof casually, as if gravity didn’t apply to him. Bending over, Griffin grasped the edge of the roof and lowered himself through the window and into Michael’s bedroom.
“Six years today, Mick.” Griffin grinned so broadly his smile eclipsed the sun. “Six years today I have been clean and sober. Not a drop of alcohol. No drugs. Nothing.”
Michael couldn’t help but smile just as broadly back. He threw his arms around Griffin in a spontaneous hug but as soon as he felt Griffin’s warm body against his, his heart raced and blood started going places he didn’t want blood going. Michael pulled back immediately and took two big steps back.
“That’s incredible. I’m so happy for you. You should celebrate,” Michael said quickly, trying to cover his nervousness.
“I am. Always do.”
“How?”
Griffin grinned. “New tattoo. I add on to my ink every year.”
“Awesome. So you’re going into town?” Michael hoped Griffin would invite them into the city with him. Six years clean and sober—Griffin shouldn’t celebrate that alone.
Griffin shook his head. “Nah. Spike—she does my ink—she’s coming here tonight. Tattoo party. And guess who else is invited?” Michael shook his head. “You are, Mick.”
“That’s fantastic. I can’t wait to watch.” Michael knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“Watch?” Griffin stepped past him and into the doorway of Michael’s room. He leaned against the door frame and gave Michael a long, meaningful look. Michael couldn’t quite make out what the meaning of the look was, but he sort of wished Griffin would look at him like that forever. “You’re not just watching, Mick. You’re getting one too.”
Griffin winked at him and left the room, still hooting in unabashed joy, a sound that lifted Michael’s heart so high that he almost didn’t hear what Griffin had said.
Once alone, he remembered.
Michael raced to the hallway. “Wait! Griffin? I’m what?”
20
On the subway, Suzanne found a safe spot on an empty seat and pulled Nora Sutherlin’s medical file out of her messenger bag. She’d read it last night outside Kingsley Edge’s house. She’d read it again at her apartment. After two readings she still didn’t know what to make of it.
The file began with Eleanor Schreiber’s results from a physical she’d taken before starting her freshman year at NYU. A basic physical for insurance purposes, all it revealed was a healthy eighteen-year-old girl with low cholesterol, low blood pressure and some mild hay fever. The only note of interest was that young Eleanor had refused a pelvic exam. The little scribbled note had raised Suzanne’s hackles. Why would she refuse a basic pelvic? Suzanne had immediately assumed the worst: STI…pregnancy. Maybe even evidence of an abortion. But a few pages later she’d found something that blew all her dark theories out of the water. At age nineteen, Eleanor Schreiber had apparently partied too hard one night and passed out drunk. She’d woken up with a frat boy on top of her. The file contained notes from a rape crisis counselor who’d been brought in to talk to Eleanor before, during and after the exam. Apparently the counselor hadn’t gotten to perform her duties that night, as a note on the chart testified:
Patient said she doubts the young man sexually assaulted her. Claims she vomited on him during the rape attempt. Dismissed by the patient once her priest, Father Marcus Stearns, arrived. Patient clearly suffering from severe denial.
But young Eleanor hadn’t been in denial. The doctor’s report not only showed no presence of trauma or fluids, but an intact hymen as well. At nineteen years old, Eleanor Schreiber was still a virgin. Suzanne knew she should have stopped reading there. To read another woman’s medical file seemed such a gross invasion of privacy it turned her stomach to even have it in her hands. And yet she couldn’t stop, even after learning that teenage Nora was not lover to Father Stearns, or anyone for that matter.
