His hands slip lower, cupping my bottom. He whispers in my ear, “I thought we’d never be alone.”
My eyes flash open. Is he joking? I pull back to look at his face and find no trace of humor there.
He squeezes me close.
“Kyle,” I warn, “I’m not really in the mood.”
“Come on, babe,” he complains. “I thought we were going to spend some quality time tonight.”
I press my palms against his shoulders and push as I step back out of his embrace. The sudden distance between us is more than the kind that can be measured in inches.
A biting comment is right on the tip of my tongue, but I force myself to take a calming breath first. I take inventory of my emotions. I expect to feel angry or insulted or even offended. Instead, I feel … disappointed.
Kyle and I have been going out for almost a year. By now, shouldn’t he care more about my well-being than about getting a little action? Especially after the day I’ve had? Even if he doesn’t know the whole truth, he knows I’ve been through a traumatic event. And just when I’d started believing he truly cares about me.
“I’m tired,” I say dispassionately. “I need to go to bed.”
And in that moment I feel my connection to Kyle fade away. All this time and effort I’ve put into him, and it adds up to nothing.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell him.
He gives me a sad, puppy-dog look and I almost want to tell him it’s okay, that he can stay and we can cuddle on the couch. But I don’t think he wants to cuddle, and I know I don’t want anything more than that.
Then he throws me that lopsided surfer-dude smile and says, “Sure thing, babe.”
Before I can even open my mouth to say good night or give him a piece of my mind for calling me babe—again—he’s walking out the front door.
“Good night,” I say with a bit of a bite.
He just waves over his shoulder and disappears into the night.
All I want to do is climb upstairs to my bathroom, run a tub full of steaming water, and soak this night away. But when I close the damaged door and turn back into the house, I see the destruction left in the wake of the giant and I know I can’t leave it such a mess. Mother would be furious.
I take a deep breath, shake off my exhaustion, and begin straightening up. I start in the foyer, righting the small nineteenth-century table that is on its side across the room and re-placing it beneath the big gilded mirror. I adjust the mirror so it’s hanging square once more. There is a crack in the lower right corner and I smile at the thought of the giant having seven years of bad luck. That unluckiness probably started tonight when Gretchen found him and sent him home.
I move on to the dining room, resetting chairs and re-tying drapes. Then to the living room, where the shredded couch cushions need more than just a straightening. I’m taking a bag full of stuffing to the trash chute when I hear a car pull into the garage downstairs.
My heart thuds and my palms turn clammy. I like to think of myself as a strong young woman, prepared to face most anything with calm and poise. Anything, that is, except my mother.
I fight the instinct to run, to escape to my room and pretend it’s all a bad dream. That would only make things worse.
Footsteps on the back stairs echo closer and then the door is swinging open.
Mother steps into the kitchen, looking like a queen. Her icy blond hair is swept into a crisp chignon, her deep purple business suit is still perfectly pressed after a full day of wear, with bold but tasteful jewels around her neck and wrist. No one would mistake her for anything less than she is: perfect.
“Why is the garage open?” she demands. “Are you trying to invite thieves into our home?”
“No, Mother,” I say automatically. I brace myself for the lie I have to tell. “There was a break-in. I was just—”
“What did they take?” She sets her satchel on the counter and strides into the house to inspect.
Dad steps into the kitchen, worry creasing his distinguished, graying brow. “Are you okay, Greer?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” I reply.
He steps close, lifts a hand, and rests it on my shoulder. For a second I think he wants to hug me. And in this moment I would let him.
But then Mother returns. “What was taken?”
“As far as I can tell,” I say, hiding the quiver in my voice, “nothing.”
Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean ‘nothing’?”
I resist the urge to shrug. “I did a cursory inventory when the police were here, for their report, and I couldn’t find anything specific missing.”
She studies me, trying to gauge whether I’m telling the truth, whether she needs to interrogate me about the situation, whether I’m guilty of some minor transgression that requires punishment.
I can’t take the pressure, not after tonight. For the first time in my life, I lift my gaze and look her directly in the eye—not slightly to the left, so it appears that I’m meeting her gaze while avoiding her usual lecture on the importance of eye contact. Staring straight into her suspicious eyes, I say, slowly and carefully, “Nothing was taken. The police think it was vandals.”
When Grace told me about our hypnotic powers, I thought she was being ridiculous. I also thought I would never have reason to use them, even if they were real. I have no trouble getting people to do what I want. Everyone but my mother. So I have to try.
When I see her eyes lose focus and she repeats, “Nothing taken. Vandals.” I feel a giddy bubble rise up inside me.