“Greer?”
Kyle appears in the open front door with worry etched on his handsome face. I completely blanked. When we talked on the phone a few short hours ago, I invited him over for a makeup date after my unexpected departure from dinner at Ahab’s the other night. A sea dracaena climbing out of the bay is a valid excuse, I suppose, but not one I can share with Kyle.
I told him to come over and bring strawberries. Then a six-armed giant showed up at my door. Not surprising that I forgot all about my boyfriend’s visit.
“Kyle,” I say with a forced smile, “I totally forgot about our—”
“What the freak happened?” he shouts.
Before I can answer, he pulls me into a tight hug and squeezes me against his chest. This is an unusual display of emotion from him. I wrap my arms awkwardly around his waist and pat his back.
“I was so worried,” he says next to my ear. “I got here and saw the messed-up door and then the disaster inside and—”
“Disaster?” Oh no.
“Yeah, the whole place is turned upside down,” he says, leaning back. “The thieves must have gone through everything.”
“Thieves?”
I open my mouth to explain. But what can I say? I can’t tell Kyle it was a Gegenees giant, not a team of thieves. I can just imagine the look on his face. Cool, calm, collected Greer has finally gone over the edge. Too much repressed emotion—it had to burst through sometime. Always knew she was destined for the psych ward. No, the truth is unbelievable. Kyle’s answer is so much easier.
Burglary is common enough in Pacific Heights. Some of the city’s wealthiest residents live here, making it a prime target for high-end thefts.
Our security system is top-of-the-line, designed to protect all the priceless antiques and artworks my parents have collected over the years. From the Colonial china cabinet to the Picasso sketch in the library, we have a collection that would make any thief drool.
I’ll be lucky if nothing was stolen in the time the door has remained open since I fled the giant. Maybe it’s not such a lie after all.
“Really?” I reply, trying to sound shocked. “Thieves?”
“I don’t know if anything’s missing.” He reaches up and presses his palm against my cheek. “I thought they took you. You said you were going to be home, and when I got here—”
“I’m fine,” I say. I know I have to stop him when I see the emotion in his eyes. I know Kyle likes me, says he loves me, even. But I’ve never realized how much he actually cares.
“I wasn’t here,” I lie. Anything to soothe the worry from his face. “I had to make an emergency shopping run.”
He smiles, a knowing kind of smile that says he knows how much I love shopping. His eyes scan me and then he frowns.
“In your bare feet?”
Sugar. I glance down, as if I expect shoes to magically appear. I was barefoot when I fled the giant, and didn’t seek out footwear in Gretchen’s loft—combat boots aren’t really my style. And then there was the explosion and, well, I’ve been traipsing across San Francisco in my bare feet.
“Would you believe I’ve taken up barefoot running?” I ask with a laugh. When he frowns harder I say, “No, I didn’t think so.”
“Greer, what’s going on?”
“I, um—” Oh great. I never stammer. I need to think of a reasonable explanation quickly. “I left them in the car, silly,” I tease. “My feet are killing me.”
That last part isn’t a lie, either. But if Kyle thought my calling him silly was out of character, he doesn’t show it.
“Did you come out through the house?” he asks with a frown. “I didn’t hear you.”
“No, I—” Deciding to stick as close to the truth as possible, I say, “I was frightened. I saw the front door as I drove by and was afraid to go inside. I came around on the sidewalk.”
He seems to accept that answer as believable.
“We need to call the cops,” he says, sounding more like a future senator than ever. “They’ll want to file reports, record the damage. Stuff like that. The insurance company will want documentation.”
Sugar, sugar. I don’t want the police involved. I don’t want things messier than they already are. What other choice do I have, though? There is no way I can offer my parents a believable explanation for the damage. Our front door will need to be replaced, it will take our full staff days to restore the interior to rights, and there’s the not insignificant matter of my dented hood.
As much as I don’t relish the idea of lying to law enforcement and filing a false police report, I can’t think of a better option.
“You’re right,” I say. “Let me go grab the house phone and I’ll make the call.”
By the time the police leave with enough fake details to fill a report about the supposed thieves, I’m exhausted and all I want to do is fall into a steaming hot bath with a chamomile fizzy bomb. Kyle walks up and puts his arms around me. I let my head drop onto his shoulder, glad to have someone to hold me up.
I feel a twinge of guilt about Gretchen, who took down both monsters and then went home to an empty house—an empty safe house that isn’t even her home—and who doesn’t have anyone to lean on.
Kyle’s hands slide smoothly over my back and I close my eyes. This is just what I need. A warm, reassuring hug. Maybe a little massage. The feeling that everything will be—