Chapter 6 #2
How did you know we were here? I snap at him, getting to my feet. What, are you stalking me or something?
No, I have better things to do with my time, I’m afraid, he says without missing a beat. However, I did get a call that a car had parked at the school after hours.
Figures. You can’t do anything in Cape Breton without everyone finding out.
Alistair goes on, I assumed—wrongly—that it was a bunch of teenagers coming to spray paint the side of the gym again, he pauses, as his eyes dart back and forth between Alba and I. But this is much, much worse. Why are you both in that snowbank?
Because I was trying to prove a point, I say, as I straighten my jacket back into place.
I can feel that my hair is a tangled rat's nest, and it makes me want to throttle Alba all over again. I make a desperate attempt to try and smooth it down with the back of my hand, but it’s not as subtle as I hope, because I see Alistair’s eyes dart up to my hair.
About something reckless, no doubt, he says, seemingly unable to pull his gaze away from my hair. You look like something the cat dragged in. His accent is so rich when he says this, it almost sends a shiver up my spine.
Almost.
Before I can acknowledge that particular comment, Alba pipes up, still on the ground but pointing towards the shed, She was trying to prove that she could still climb up onto that roof.
We have a silent conversation with our eyes—mine screaming, Traitor, you absolute traitor, I will kill you for this! Her eyes reply with a smugness that radiates towards me in crashing waves, That’s what you get for being so stubborn.
So, Alistair says, clapping his hands together and interrupting the silent conversation between Alba and I, We won’t be doing that, will we? I thought you were a little speed demon; didn’t realize you had a thing for heights too. I can’t tell if his tone is serious or mocking. It might be both.
Yeah, well, I’m not afraid of heights or speed, I say in the haughtiest tone I can muster with my hair looking like this.
I wouldn’t say I’m particularly skilled at quippy comebacks—normally I rely on my charm to get me out of these situations.
But it’s like I can barely string together any coherent thoughts around this guy, let alone spit out a complete, rational sentence.
And I don’t particularly want to dwell on why exactly that is.
Am I free to go, officer? Alba asks, finally standing up from the snowbank and intentionally not looking at me.
Alistair snorts at the title, but nods his head. Of course, Miss Landry, I can see you were only doing some bystander intervention work here tonight. You’re cleared of all charges. His tone is definitely sarcastic now, and Alba laughs a deep belly laugh.
Again, I feel that pang in my chest. Maybe these two really are friends. Something about that leaves the taste of betrayal in my mouth.
Alba saunters off to her car, giving me a look over her shoulder that I can read instantly: Find your own ride home. I feel an immediate sense of panic. If she leaves me here with this stupid, sarcastic, jackass cop I will pummel her into a snowbank—again.
I start to walk as fast as I can without running towards her car, but Alistair stops me by stepping into my path and tilting his head to try and catch my eye.
You, on the other hand, Little Miss Quick, are not free to go, he says, and I know he’s half serious. Alba has practically jogged to her car and is already reversing out of the parking lot.
Well, it looks like I’m in need of a ride anyway, I say, giving my cousin the middle finger as she speeds off. I turn to Alistair, and in my most sickly-sweet tone I ask, What can I do for you, officer?
He glances at me with that perceptive look again, his head tilting to the side, and I get the distinct sense he sees through all of my feigned bravado.
Were you really going to climb up there? He gestures to the roof of the shed.
Well of course not, I would never do such a thing, I say, adding quickly, I mean, you don’t have any proof, do you? I feel pleased with myself for that one rational thought at least, but it doesn’t last long.
Well, actually I do. I have an eyewitness—your cousin—who told me that was your intention.
Seriously, Alba, an eyewitness? I scoff, but he doesn’t even acknowledge what I’ve said and keeps barrelling on.
The motive and means are clear. You admitted to me the other day this was something you did when you were growing up.
That it’s currently pitch black outside provides the perfect opportunity for a crime, he pauses, and I’m sure he sees the wheels turning in my head as I try to figure out any sort of reply.
I realize my mouth is hanging open and I snap it shut.
He sighs, then asks, So why, ‘Just Florence,’ were you going to climb up onto the roof?
I never admitted that’s what I was doing, so I can’t answer that, I say as sweetly as I can. I’m certain the face I’m making isn’t sweet at all.
He exhales—very loudly, I might add—and rubs a gloved hand through his hair. It somehow looks better after he’s tousled it.
Okay, hypothetically speaking, if you were going to climb up there, how exactly would you do that?
I bite my lip as I weigh my options. He’s probably got a reason for asking me that’s not only his never-ending curiosity.
Well, I mean, what do I know? I haven’t done that in about fifteen years. But if I were to do it, I sigh and walk over to the dumpster. He visibly tenses at this. Relax, I’m not actually going to climb up there. I can’t help but huff in annoyance at this.
I would climb up on top of the dumpster and then, probably, jump up and grab that ledge. Then I would, theoretically of course, pull myself up from there, I say, looking back at him. His expression isn’t disbelieving exactly, it’s something more like bewilderment if I had to guess.
You would grab onto the lip of the roof—which is covered with icicles. He gives me a pointed look before adding, And just, pull yourself up?
I shrug. Seems easy enough, doesn’t it? I can tell by the look he gives me that he doesn’t like it, but he does believe me. Something about realizing I don’t have to prove that I’m telling the truth makes my shoulders relax.
He blows out a breath, the cold air visible even in the darkness.
He shakes his head again, then tilts it to look up at the roof.
Well, I get the sense kids these days aren’t brave enough to pull themselves up here—or have better ways of occupying their time.
But I’ll probably talk to the school about getting this garbage container moved farther from the building.
Ugh, you’re such a fun-sucker, I say without thinking. He bursts out laughing. The sound sends a feeling through me that I can’t quite name. Like a splash of cold water on a warm day; surprise mixed with something else.
To you, I guess I probably am, he raises an eyebrow at me and then gestures towards the police car. Come on Red Sizzler, I’ll give you a lift.
WHAT’S WRONG? ALISTAIR ASKS ME with a sigh a few minutes later, as we creep along the highway. I’ve been bouncing my leg up and down incessantly and clearly he’s noticed.
You are driving, I say, closing my eyes and trying to do some deep breathing, The slowest anyone has ever driven. It honestly makes me feel on edge.
Have somewhere you need to be tonight, Florence?
I don’t. It’s a weeknight in rural Nova Scotia in the throes of winter—there is truly nowhere anyone needs to be tonight, or at least not with any real urgency. But of course, I can’t say that.
Don’t you ever break the rules, even a little bit?
Break the law, you mean? He gives me a sideways look. No. Not unless someone’s life is at risk. But normally in policing that kind of thing is reserved for officers who are working undercover. We have to get permission ahead of time, too.
Okay, well, do you ever do anything fun then? Anything spontaneous? What’s the last wild and crazy thing you did?
He shifts ever so slightly in his seat, and I can tell this is getting to him. A part of me wonders if he feels harshly judged for always being a goody-two-shoes, but mostly I feel elated to finally have the upper hand for once.
This isn’t about that incident on the roof of the post office, is it?
Well, there goes my upper hand. If it wasn’t dark and he wasn’t driving, I think he would have seen my jaw hit the floor. How did he figure that out?
What, I stammer, are you talking about?
If you had asked me, Fast Florence, why I reacted the way I did to you nearly falling off that roof and splitting your head open on the pavement, I would have told you that my little brother once fell off a ladder when we were kids.
He’d taken it out of the shed by himself to try and get a football—a soccer ball, as you’d call it—that was stuck in the gutter of our house.
By the time I realized where he was, his foot was already slipping.
He looks over at me as he says this last part, his gaze hard, but I see the flash of worry in his eyes.
I had to watch him fall. And it was not a pretty scene, I’ll tell you that for free, he says, before rolling his neck and adding, Finn’s still got the scars to prove it. And I’ve kind of had a thing about ladders ever since.
I feel a twinge of shame creep up my neck. I’ve spent the past two days stewing over his reaction to this, when he had a perfectly good reason. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to tell this story to Alba, she would never let me hear the end of it.
I’m sorry, I say, my voice quiet. I kind of have a reputation for acting first and thinking later. Anyone from Christmas Island would tell you that about me. I try to laugh it off, but it comes out hollow.
He gives me another look and I realize we’re finally pulling into the B&B’s driveway. Thank god.
That’s not really what anyone says about you, for the record.
I really don’t want to know what people are saying about me these days: that I’ve abandoned my roots?
That I still can’t face my mother’s death?
That I stormed out of her funeral, never to be seen again for a decade?
I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me and I wonder why he said it.
But Alistair’s tone was kind, which only confuses me. I don’t dare ask him about it, though.
He puts the car into park, and I undo my seatbelt.
Well, thanks for driving me back here, I say, climbing out of the car. I feel desperate to get away from his intensity and incessant line of questioning.
Don’t be too hard on Alba for driving off, I think she means well.
Given that he saw us physically fighting in the snow, he should know Alba doesn’t mean well. I choose to ignore his suggestion completely. There’s a thirty per cent chance Alba and I will be going for round two the second I step foot in her house.
Well, thanks again, I say, my hand ready to close the car door. And Alistair?
Yes, he says, sighing with frustration, and there’s enough trepidation in his voice that I know he’s mentally preparing for whatever I’m about to say. I wait until he looks up at me before I plaster on another aspartame smile.
If you want to get anywhere tonight, for the love of god officer, drive a little faster.
And with a wink, I slam the door shut before he can reply.