It would have been better if I hadn’t done that.
It’s Sawyer’s mother. She takes one alarmed look at me, then hits the gas and pulls up to the back door of the restaurant.
I bite my lip, not sure what to do. In a panic, I make a run for it, down the sidewalk into the neighborhood. “Shit!” I say when I’m far enough away. I keep running, turning the corner, around the block to my meatball truck. “Shit, shit, shit.” And then I’m speeding home as fast as I can so I can get back upstairs, get into my pajamas, and establish my alibi.
Thoughts fly through my head. Did I leave any fingerprints anywhere? No, I was wearing gloves the whole time. But the meatball truck’s engine will be warm. The restraining order police will check that when they come after me, and they’ll know I’m lying. Should I just tell the truth? What’s my dad going to do? I park the truck and throw snow on the hood to make it look like it’s been sitting there all day, which I know is stupid, but I’m not thinking straight, and then I fly up the stairs, hoping, pleading, that there’s no one up there waiting to catch me.
The apartment is empty.
Just as I left it.
I breathe a sigh of relief and hang up my winter things.
Five minutes later, the phone rings.
Twenty-Four
I stare at the phone, and then make a mad dash to check the caller ID. It’s a cell number, no name. The area code is local. And I don’t know what to do. If it’s Mr. Angotti, I’ll die. But it’s probably a telemarketer. But what if it’s not? If it’s Mr. Angotti, I don’t want him to leave a message . . . or worse, try the restaurant line and get my dad.
That decides it. I lunge for the phone and pick it up, forcing myself to control my voice.
“Hello?” I say, like my mother would say.
There is a momentary silence on the other end, and I think it must be a telemarketer after all.
And then, in a puzzled voice, “Jules?”
I die inside. “Yes?” I say, my voice filled with air, not just because of the exertion of lunging halfway across a room.
“It’s Sawyer. Look, what the heck are you doing?”
Now I’m silent. And guilty. But I’m going to fake it. “What are you talking about?”
“My mother saw you.”
“Saw me where?”
“In the parking lot. Tonight. Come on.”
I hesitate. “Dude, I’ve been home sick for two days.”
“I know that. Doesn’t mean you weren’t out in our parking lot twenty minutes ago.”
He knows that, he said. He noticed I was sick. I feel a surge of confidence bordering on recklessness. “You’re sounding a little paranoid, Sawyer. Why, exactly, would I be in your parking lot in the freezing cold when I’m sick?”
“You tell me.”
“This is an extremely weird conversation.”
He pauses, and I think I hear a soft laugh. “Yeah. Pretty weird.” His voice goes back to normal. “So you really weren’t there?”
I sigh. “Oh, Sawyer,” I say, and my voice sounds all throaty—almost sexy, which is, um, new for me. I blink at my reflection in the computer screen.
Now he laughs sheepishly. “Okay, so my mom’s the paranoid one. Sorry about that.”
“Where are you?”
“Ahh,” he says, and I wonder if he’s not sure, or if he’s afraid to tell me. “I’m . . . out. For the moment.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to stalk you. Look, since I’ve got you on the phone,” I say carefully, “I wonder if you’ve given any more thought to the little thing I told you last Sunday. You know, the thing where there’s going to be a crash, and I’m kind of trying to save your life, and you think I’m insane. Because, to be honest, I could really use your help.”
“Jules, no,” he says, and I can hear a hint of annoyance in his voice. “I mean, yes, I thought about it, and no, I’m no longer thinking about it, and it’s really weird and creepy, and I was hoping you’d have moved past it too. And maybe we could pretend it didn’t happen.”
I nod, phone plastered to my ear. “Yeah, that’s what I figured. Okay. Well.” Suddenly I get all choked up, because it’s all so newly real to me, and it’s so weirdly fake to him, and I can’t stop the emotion, because I’m just . . . mired in this. This thing is running my entire life, but it’s just a tiny blip in his. Until one day, bam! And then it’s over for him. None of this is fair in any way.
But I’m determined not to let him die without me making a complete fool of myself in an effort to stop it. I close my eyes. “Well,” I say again, my voice quavering, “I just want you to know that whether you help me or not, that’s okay. I understand. And I’m still going to, ah”—my voice turns to gravel—“do whatever I can to . . .” I can’t say it.
He’s silent, and I wonder if he hung up.
I take a breath. “Are you still there?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Oh.”
There’s a pause.
“Whatever you can to . . . what?” he says.
“Um . . .” I close my eyes. And I figure he’s going to die, so why not? “Save you. Yeah.”
“Jules,” he says again. “You’re nuts.”
“Sawyer,” I reply, and now I’m pissed because he actually said it to my face, or to my ear or whatever. “I’m not nuts. I don’t know what I am, but I’m not nuts. I’m not normally weird, even though this particular episode in our lifelong soap opera seems that way. But I do—I—I do—I care about you. And I’m going to save your life, and you probably won’t even know it, or believe me afterward, either.” I take a breath. “But I can’t not do it. So I don’t care if your father puts out a restraining order on me, or your grandfather breaks my father’s heart after he already did my grandfather in, or whatever. You just do whatever you Angottis have to do to feel superior to the Demarcos until the end of time—that’s just, you know, fine with me, and that’s, like, capitalism and shit. But goddammit, Sawyer, despite all that, I’m going to save your fucking life anyway, because I love you, and one day you’d better fucking appreciate it.”