The Bones Beneath My Skin Page 11

  He didn’t hear what Alex said, but he had a good idea.

  He was still crouched, blinking slowly, when they came back out. “Time for lunch, huh?” she said. “I think we should probably have more bacon, just to make sure this morning wasn’t a fluke.”

  She was standing off the back deck, staring up at the sky. Alex and Nate were watching her. Nate had spent the last couple of hours trying to gather his thoughts, trying to put everything in order so it made some sort of sense. He was missing large pieces, pieces that he’d likely never know. At least not with things how they were now. He didn’t regret making the phone call to Ruth. But he wasn’t going to tell Alex about it either.

  If Alex was telling the truth, if what Art was saying was possible, then there would be a trail. Somehow. Whoever her parents were. Whoever Alex was. Whoever she was.

  “Your last name isn’t Delgado, is it,” he muttered, not looking at the man standing only a few feet away.

  “No.”

  “Is your name even Alex?”

  There was a brief hesitation. Then, “Yes.” And, “Her name really isn’t Artemis Darth Vader. In case you were wondering.”

  Nate turned slowly to gape at him. “Did you just make another joke?”

  “Of course not.”

  “That… sounded almost like a joke.”

  “I told you, I don’t make jokes.”

  “He’s funny only sometimes!” Art called up to them. “And usually he doesn’t even mean to be.”

  “See? Now that I believe.”

  Alex scowled. It was starting to get familiar.

  And it shouldn’t be. Nothing about this should feel familiar. That way lay danger. This was temporary. All of this was temporary.

  This time yesterday, he was just outside of Roseland, wondering if Big Eddie’s Gas and Convenience was still there. He was driving toward the mountains, getting ready to hunker down and lick his wounds, to deal with all that he’d done to get to this point. He was going to drink himself into a stupor for a few days, feel a little sorry for himself. And when he was done, he was going to pick himself up and gather up all the pieces that had broken off, try to see if there was any way to fit them back together.

  These people, this man and this girl, didn’t fit into any of that.

  And how that burned. There was a maddening itch just below his skin that begged to be scratched, to demand the truth. Oh, he’d believed what Alex had said while braiding Art’s hair. For the most part. He was good at picking through bullshit, setting aside truth from untruths. But the vagueness of it all was driving him up the wall. He was sure the scenarios running through his head were far more outlandish than reality. Mysteries, when solved, usually ended up disappointing. When the spotlight shines down, when all the shadows melt away, all that’s left isn’t going to be as impressive as the secret made it seem. He’d been here before time and time again. He’d always forced himself to remain pragmatic, even when he was a kid.

  Still. What if…

  “How long?”

  “How long what?”

  He didn’t look at Alex, trying to sound nonchalant. “How long have you been on the run?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m trying to get to know you, man.”

  “Why?” And that sounded infinitely more suspicious.

  “You’re staying in my cabin,” Nate said, irritated. “I think I’m allowed to ask questions.”

  “Do you ever not ask questions?”

  “No. Never.”

  Art bent over, picking up a rock and staring down at it as she bounced it in her palm.

  “A week,” Alex finally said.

  That… didn’t sit right with Nate. “And how long have you been here?”

  “Here.”

  “Yes. Here. On the lake. In my cabin.”

  “Fucking reporters,” Alex muttered.

  “I heard that.”

  “You were meant to.”

  “Be nice!” Art said without looking. She bent down and picked up another rock. The waves lapped at the shore. The sun was shining. There were barely any clouds in the sky. It was a perfectly normal day.

  “Five days,” Alex said.

  Nate finally gave in and glanced at him.

  He was watching Art. His arms were crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his shirt straining against his biceps. He was scowling, of course, because that was most likely the default expression on his face. The scruff on his cheeks and neck was a little thicker than it’d been the day before. He didn’t seem the type to grow a beard. Nate thought he would have shaved every day as part of a strict, regimented routine. He’d get up even earlier than Nate was used to. He’d do sixteen thousand push-ups. He’d eat thirty hard-boiled eggs. He’d drink coffee as black as his soul. He’d glower at everything while he watched the sunrise, contemplating whatever it was men of his caliber did. After, he would shower, using shampoo that probably smelled like medicine. And once finished, he would floss and brush his teeth. Finally, he would shave. Any hint of facial hair would be gone by 6:00 a.m.

  But here he was, stubble on its way to becoming something more. Nate had never been able to grow a beard. It’d always come in patchy and wiry. He’d had a goatee in college, something he’d been proud of at the time. In retrospect, it was a wonder he ever got laid with that thing.

  It didn’t matter, though. He didn’t know this man. He didn’t know this girl. And they didn’t trust him. Alex had said as much. Not that Nate had given them any reason to, but still. Art wasn’t… normal. At least not like any other ten-year-old he’d ever seen before. Maybe she was older than she claimed to be. Maybe she was Alex’s young teenage bride, and they were on the run from irate parents that—

  “How did you get shot?” he blurted.

  The scowl deepened. “It was a mistake.”

  “How does one mistakenly get shot? Did you shoot yourself?”

  Alex turned slowly to look at him.

  “Right,” Nate said hastily. “Stupid question. Of course you didn’t shoot yourself. What was I thinking? I’ve seen you handle a gun.”

  Alex looked back to where Art was continuing to pick up rocks.

  “So, I guess we’re not going to answer that question, huh?” Nate asked.

  “I told you. It was a mistake.”

  “Yes. You did say that. Which… doesn’t really say anything at all. Must have happened a while ago, though.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s healed.”

  “Rubber bullet.”

  Nate blinked. “Oh. Right. I guess that—huh. So you got shot mistakenly while rescuing Art from people who want to get her back, and they carried guns with rubber bullets instead of real bullets because…”

  Alex didn’t take the bait.

  “That must have hurt.”

  Alex grunted.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re aggravating?”

  “No,” Alex said. “No one. Ever.” Then he walked down the steps off the deck.

  Nate stared after him. “Was that another joke? Because if it was, you have a terrible sense of humor.”

  Alex didn’t acknowledge him. Nate thought that was rude. He watched as Alex approached Art. She didn’t look up at him, but Nate thought she knew he was coming. When he stood beside her, she showed him the rocks she had in her hands. “Which ones?” she asked. “Because some of them are better than others, but I like this one because it’s pretty.”

  He reached down. “This one. And this one.”

  “But not the pretty one?”

  “No. It wouldn’t bounce right.”

  “Oh. Because it’s not flat enough?”

  “Yes.”

  “So that means I can keep it.”

  Alex sighed. “How many rocks have you kept so far?”

  “Today? Or since we’ve been here?”

  “Art.”

  Her face scrunched up. “Seventeen.
”

  “You can’t take them all.”

  “Seventeen isn’t all the rocks, Alex.”

  “You know what I mean. If we have to go, we can’t take it all. There will be some things we’ll have to leave behind.”

  Art glanced back at Nate. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. “Maybe. But not now. Not yet.”

  “Not yet,” Alex said quietly.

  “Okay. Now show me. You promised.”

  “Did I?”

  “Alex! Don’t be mean.”

  “Never,” he said, and for some reason, Nate believed him.

  They walked closer to the water. The beach was rocky, tufts of grass growing through the stones. Alex hovered right behind her as she carefully stepped on the rocks, hands ready in case she slipped. She didn’t. He stopped her before she could get any closer, telling her he didn’t want her to get her shoes wet.

  “Because the world would end if that happened, right?” she asked him.

  “Do you want me to show you this or not?”

  “Yes.”

  He picked a rock from her hand. “See how I’m holding it? You need to let it rest against your thumb and pointer finger.”

  “Like this?”

  “Almost.” He reached down and fixed her grip. “There. That’s better.”

  “Feels a little weird.”

  “Does it?”

  “Yeah. Rocks are strange.”

  “You don’t have—it’s fine. You have a good hold on it?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay. Watch me. Watch my arm.”

  She did.

  He brought his arm back, then swung it out in a flat arc. He let go of the rock. It skipped along the surface of the lake. Nate counted. Of course he counted. It was what you were supposed to do when skipping rocks. One. Two. Three. Four five sixseveneight—

  It splashed and sunk below the surface.

  “Wow,” Art said, sounding suitably impressed. “That was a good one.”

  And it was. Nate remembered standing in almost that exact same spot, doing that exact same thing with his brother. They’d do it until their arms were sore, making a game of it, trying to outdo the other for hours. His brother always won. Always. Oh sure, Nate would get a few good skips in, but Ricky had been better at it. He’d never been mean about it, not really, but he’d gloat, sure. They were kids. That’s what kids did.

  After—when they’d found him, when his parents had walked into the cabin and found Nate and his boyfriend in flagrante, Nate had returned home to DC, tail between his legs, the sting of his father’s words and his mother’s silence still piercing his skin again and again. He’d heard the anger in his father’s vitriol. He’d seen the look of shock and horror on his mother’s face.

  He’d thought about telling them before. He had. He really had. But he’d been living on the other side of the country, and it’d just… gotten away from him. But when he had thought about it, it’d made him feel itchy. A little queasy. He didn’t know how they’d take it. They weren’t religious. Oh god no. They’d only been to church once, some midnight mass at Christmas that they’d never done again because it was late and boring. Even his father had said so.

  And, if he really thought about it, had he ever heard his parents say anything about gay people? He didn’t know if he had. Of course, that hadn’t meant a damn thing. Not in the long run.

  They’d caught him, though, and at the worst possible time. He’d felt that nauseous slick twist in his stomach when they’d first walked in the door, and they had just stared at each other for a long minute. He’d found his voice first, telling them it wasn’t what they were thinking (it was), and if they would just let him explain (they didn’t), everything would be fine.

  His father had started yelling.

  His mother hadn’t said a word.

  He’d fled.

  Three days after he’d flown back to DC, his brother had called.

  “Is it true?” he’d asked.

  “Yes,” Nate had said, because there was no way around it. And he was tired. He was so goddamn tired, and he just couldn’t find a reason to lie.

  “Why?”

  “Why didn’t I tell you?”

  “No,” his brother had spat. “Why are you like this?”

  Nate had closed his eyes.

  He’d hung up on his brother a few minutes later, cutting him off mid-shout.

  Nate had spoken to him twice more. The first was to tell him their parents were dead and that there were services that could come in and clean crime scenes, all while Nate struggled to not hyperventilate. The second time, of course, had been a couple months later.

  “The cabin,” he’d said, the same brother who had laughed when he’d skipped a rock six times once, telling him he was getting better at it. “The truck. That’s yours. Nothing else.”

  “Oh,” he’d said. “Oh.”

  “You’re not getting anything else. Don’t try and fight me on it.”

  “I won’t.”

  Rick had given Nate the attorney’s information and then hung up without saying goodbye. He didn’t scold Nate for not coming to the funeral. Nate hadn’t expected that. He’d been waiting for it, for some sign that things could be different now that they were gone, that maybe Rick could think for himself, could—

  But there’d only been the dial tone in his ear.

  He watched as Alex repositioned Art’s arm, pushing her elbow down just a little bit. She nodded, eyes narrowed slightly in concentration. She listened to every word he said. Nate couldn’t take his eyes off them.

  “Okay,” Alex said. “You’re good to go.”

  He stepped back.

  And she hurled the rock.

  One. Two. Threefourfive—

  “Whoa,” she breathed as the rock disappeared into the lake. “That. Was. Awesome.” She threw her hands up in the air, pigtails bouncing as she jumped around. “Did you see that? Alex! Did you—Nate! Nate, did you see what I just did?” She looked up at him still standing on the deck. She was smiling.

  Alex looked at him too. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t scowling either. It was… different. For just a moment.

  “Yeah,” Nate said, voice hoarse. “Yeah. I saw it. You did… It was good.”

  She immediately demanded they do it again.

  And they did. For two more hours.

  Nate watched them the entire time.

  chapter eight

  Three days later, nothing had changed.

  Well.

  Maybe that wasn’t entirely true.

  They existed here in his cabin, the three of them.

  Nate would wake early, not able to sleep in no matter how hard he tried. His body had been trained to be up by five at the latest. He had no real reason to be up before the sun, but there he’d be, blinking slowly in the dark, the only light from the clock radio on the nightstand beside him, the numbers burning a dim green, switching from 5:01 to 5:02 even as he watched.

  And he’d lie there, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the cabin settle quietly around him. He’d think the muddled thoughts of those still waking up: What do I have to do today and Where am I? and Oh, that’s right, that’s right, everything is weird and different. I’m in Oregon. I’m in a cabin in the woods with people I don’t know who are running from something they aren’t explaining—

  Everything would be startlingly clear then.

  Alex was always up and in the kitchen before he was.

  The second morning after Nate had arrived at the cabin, Alex hadn’t said anything as Nate had come into the kitchen. He’d been drinking coffee at the window, staring out at the sky as it began to lighten. Nate made his own cup of coffee, pulling the mug down from the cabinet, mixing in two spoonfuls of sugar. They stood there, not speaking until Art came out an hour later, blinking blearily.

  The third morning, Alex had grunted something that could have been hello, but Nate was mid-yaw
n when it’d happened, so he missed what was said. He had muttered something in return and gone to the coffeepot.

  His mug was already sitting on the counter next to the sugar bowl.

  He paused. Then he shook his head and went about making his coffee.

  The fourth morning, the mug had been ready and waiting for him, still steaming, sugar mixed in.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Alex grunted in return.

  Art went through the books quicker than Nate would have expected. She didn’t seem picky, not necessarily perusing until something caught her eye. Instead, she’d finish one, put it back on the shelf, humming to herself under her breath before picking the next book. There was no order to the books; his mother had said she was going to organize them one day, maybe by author or subject or something to give some sense of order. She’d never done it. The L’Amour books were always together, though. They’d been Nate’s, his mother not quite understanding his fascination with them. He was surprised she hadn’t gotten rid of them after they’d found him in the cabin.

  It was just another thing he would never know the answer to.

  Art and Alex were outside again, skipping rocks on the lake, when Nate made a decision.

  He could hear them through the open window. Art was laughing, and Alex was being Alex and saying as little as possible.

  He went to their room.

  His room, he reminded himself, because this was his cabin.

  He ignored the tiny twinge of guilt.

  The door was shut. For a moment, Nate wondered if it would be locked, which would be ridiculous, of course, because the bedroom doors didn’t have locks. His dad had said they didn’t need them, that nothing good ever happened behind a locked door.

  And Nate, curious bastard that he was, tended to agree with that, much to his chagrin.

  He stopped in front of the door, cocking his head. Listening.

  He could hear Art.

  They were still down by the lake.

  He pushed the door open.

  The room was sparsely furnished. There were the two twin beds separated by a small wooden chest. The beds were made immaculately, the matching green comforters pulled tight and folded underneath the mattress. Nate and Rick had shared this room when they’d come here for the summers, Nate always taking the bed closest to the window. Art would fit just fine. For Alex, on the other hand, the beds would be too small.