“I mean it,” I say. “Please. Just, like, three more days.”
“Are you going to follow the house rules and stop doing weird shit?”
I hesitate. “I can’t say for sure,” I say quietly. “And I also don’t think I’m crazy, Trey. Not anymore.”
His forehead wrinkles in alarm. “Oh, that’s just great.”
“No, I know what you’re thinking, but I feel perfectly normal otherwise. I think . . . okay, this is going to sound really weird, I know, but I think I’m seeing something that hasn’t happened yet. Something that’s going to happen. Like a psychic thing.” I pause, trying to gauge his reaction. “So when this event does happen . . . it should hopefully all be over for good.” Unless there’s another crash after this . . . . But I don’t say that. I can’t stand the thought of that. Besides, I need to get through this one first.
Trey looks dubious. Finally he says, “How do you know it’s happening on Valentine’s?”
I bite my lip and look down at the carpet. Shake my head. “I’m still figuring it out. But I promise I’ll tell you once I do know. Deal?” Please.
He sighs heavily and throws his hands in the air. “Sure, whatever. Okay. So Sunday, we’re telling Mom.”
I grip his forearms and grin wide. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Just . . . be safe, okay? I’m watching you. Don’t go anywhere without telling me. Or, I know—why don’t you just stay home like you’re supposed to.”
I nod to appease him, and for the first time in my life, I look my dear brother, my best friend, in the eye, and I lie my face off. “I will.”
Twenty-Eight
When I finally get a free minute, I step outside to take out the trash and call Angotti’s using star 67 to hide my number, knowing it’s a lost cause but feeling like I have to try. Luckily, a woman answers.
“Angotti’s!”
“Good evening. I need a reservation for eight people this Saturday night at seven,” I say, trying to sound rich and important.
She nearly laughs. “For Valentine’s Day? We’ve been booked solid for weeks. The only time I have open is at eleven in the morning. I’m very sorry.”
I squinch my eyes shut. “I can assure you we’ll make it worth your while. I need the two window tables, please. Seven p.m. Six forty-five would also work if seven isn’t available.”
She hesitates. “I’m very sorry, ma’am, but it’s really not possible. We’re booked.”
“I’m a big customer,” I say. “May I please speak to the owner? Perhaps we can work something out so I don’t have to take my business elsewhere.”
She clears her throat impatiently, and I know now it’s Sawyer’s mother and I’m toast. “I am one of the owners,” she says, and I hear the authority rising in her voice, yet she remains calm. “And I’m sorry, but as I said, and as I continue to say, we are booked solid. I am unable to fulfill your needs at that particular time. Perhaps you’d like to come in Friday or Sunday evening instead?”
Trey peeks his head out the door and I wave him off. “I’m afraid that won’t work. Thanks anyway.” I hang up before she can respond, and then I go back inside. My mind won’t stop.
• • •
At one thirty in the morning I’m still lying awake, thinking, trying to figure out all the pieces of the puzzle. And all I know is that I just have to try one more time to convince Sawyer to believe me. And there’s only one way I can think of to do that right now.
By two I’ve managed to sneak out without waking anybody up, and I’m standing behind Angotti’s Trattoria, hoping the beat cop doesn’t decide to come by right now. I whip my head around when an icicle crashes off the building, and my stomach buzzes. It’s warming up to the low thirties or so, according to the forecast, and the weekend snow is about to start. Out here, before the snow falls, it’s so quiet that you’d never know we’re in a suburb of the third-largest city in the United States.
I’m standing three feet from the window that will shatter. Four from the tables where the people will be sitting. I can see the clock inside thanks to the emergency lighting, and I synchronize my old Mickey Mouse watch.
Out here, a few feet to the left of the window, there’s an old gas meter and line that goes into the building—something I hadn’t been able to get close enough to see before now—and I guess that the kitchen is on the other side of it. It’s where the truck hits. That explains the explosion. I wonder what ignites everything once the gas flows freely. Or does it happen inside, maybe? I don’t really know. I don’t understand gas lines.
I stare at the back of the building, mesmerized, picturing everything and how it will happen.
In my hand is my cell phone. I’ve been holding it for practically an hour, debating, not daring to intrude again and risk rejection once more. But finally I do it. I have to. I call him, hoping he keeps his phone on all night like I keep mine. Hoping I don’t wake the whole family. Hoping.
It rings five times in my ear, and then it clicks. He says in a deep, sleepy voice, “Yeah?”
“Hi,” I say softly, and I realize I didn’t plan this out. “It’s . . . it’s me. Can you, um, come down? Out back?” I’m an idiot.
I hear a whoosh of breath, and feedback like his phone jostles, like he’s sitting up in bed, like he’s confused and thinking, and I expect a multitude of exasperated questions like “Who is this?” and “Are you insane?” But those don’t come.