chapter fourteen #3
porch and wave as they leave. Softly, Peter says to me, “Do you trust them?”
“Sure. No. You?”
“I’ll follow them,” Claire whispers. It’s a stage whisper, and it carries across the yard. But Victoria and Sean don’t slow,
and I don’t know if they heard or not.
“You don’t need to . . .” I begin.
Claire slips away. She darts into the shadows and circles around the junk pile. I swear under my breath. Peter seems amused.
“Girl is part eel,” I say, trying not to let the worry that claws my stomach creep into my voice.
“She’ll be fine,” Peter says. “She’ll spend the night in town and be back in the morning.”
“But the void—”
“She’s a survivor. She’s smart. Plus she took the bullets out of Victoria’s gun, so they might need her.”
I laugh.
My laugh dies in the wind, and I listen to waves crash in the desert. I wish I were back in the water. I don’t want to go
in the house. I won’t be able to sleep, not knowing if Victoria and Sean plan to cooperate with the plan or betray us immediately.
It’s a good plan. But I bet there are plenty of people in town who think killing me is an even better plan. I’m glad that
Claire is following them, even though I would have stopped her if I could have.
Standing on the porch, I make a decision. “Grab pillows and blankets. We’ll sleep in the art barn tonight. I’ll leave Claire
a note, in case she comes back before dawn.”
Peter obeys without question, which I think means he thinks it’s the right call.
He comes back with backpacks stuffed with bedding, as well as snacks. I leave a note, deliberately vague and cryptic so only
she will understand, stuck to one of the spines of the puffer fish. We then strap the packs on our backs and head out, after
locking the door with even more care than usual.
We spend the bulk of the journey on the rooftops.
He runs across the roofs in a low crouch, and I mimic him, walking across several of the boards rather than scooting like I usually do.
Peter helps me onto the zip line to cross to the abandoned laundromat, and I help catch him and undo his harness when he crosses.
We move silently and quickly, and I try not to think about how I’ve become used to this life.
Several roofs later, I look back over my shoulder. “Wait,” I say softly. The sun is setting over the ocean. I haven’t seen
that sight in literally years. I can’t remember when I last drove down to the ocean purely to see the play of orange and red
on the waves. It’s more stunning than I remember, even with the void obscuring the actual horizon. Peter says nothing, but
he watches with me. I have tears in my eyes. I wipe them away with the back of my hand.
As the last dollop of sun vanishes, I turn and lead the way across the final rooftops. It’s not too dark yet, though the ground
below us is shadowed. We make it across the roofs as the first stars come out.
Peter drops to the ground, and I join him for the last part of the journey. We skulk through the shadows until we reach the
barn, and then we wordlessly check the booby traps that we’d set around it. None have been triggered. No one is interested
in an old hay barn. We slip inside.
It’s dark already in the barn, but I want the masterpieces exposed. I like the idea of having them around me as we sleep.
By feel, I go from piece to piece and remove the sheets over them. The sheets flutter to the ground as I pull them, and the
breeze whooshes in my face.
Finishing, I look for Peter. His silhouette is barely visible from the stray moonlight that seeps between the boards of the walls.
He hasn’t unpacked the backpacks yet, so I do it by feel, pulling out the pillows and blankets.
I lay the sheets that I’d pulled from the artwork on the dirt floor and then I put the pillows and blanket on top.
Only when I finish do I realize that I’ve put them side by side, whereas we could have easily slept apart or in different corners.
I look again at Peter and then at the blankets.
I can’t move them without being obvious about it. Besides, I’m not sure I really want to be alone asleep in this cavernous
barn, even with the Monets and Rembrandts watching over me.
I am aware of him in the darkness as I kick off my shoes and slide in between the blankets. I didn’t pack pj’s, so I’m sleeping
in my clothes. I hear him lie down beside me.
“Your plan isn’t a permanent solution,” Peter says. “At best, it will buy some time. Keep the void at bay for a few weeks,
maybe a month or two, until people begin to doubt again.”
“Maybe that will give the Missing Man enough time to return.”
Peter doesn’t respond. In the darkness, I can’t guess what he’s thinking. I listen to him breathe. It reminds me of the waves,
the steady crash as the water folds under and embraces itself. At last, he says, “Tell me about your mother.”
I’m startled. He rarely asks about my life before Lost. He’s always about the moment, the now. It’s one of the things that’s
great about him. Everything is about surviving the moment and wringing as much joy out of it as he can.
Lying beside him, I realize I don’t want to think about the past, either. Not right now. It hurts too much. So instead of
thinking and instead of answering, I turn toward where I know he is, I scoot closer until our bodies are touching, and I kiss
him.