chapter fifteen
It’s like kissing sunlight. His lips are warm and soft, and I feel his body against mine. His hands are in my hair and then
on my face, cupping my cheeks.
For an instant, I am not lost.
But then he draws back.
I feel his body shift away, and I’m cold. Air drifts between us. He doesn’t speak. I hear him turn, and I think his back must
be toward me. I reach toward him but stop before my fingers can brush his skin.
I touch my lips and feel more alone than I did before.
I lie still and stare at the dark rectangles that I know are the masterpieces. I imagine that I’m on that ship in the Sea
of Galilee, and I’m pulling on the rigging with my full weight, waiting for the clouds to break, waiting to be saved, trusting
I will be saved. I listen to Peter’s breath as it slows. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in . . . I mimic that, trying to
will myself to sleep within the rhythm of his breath.
I dream of the crash of waves and the feel of water on my skin and the softness of Peter’s lips. I don’t wake until dawn.
Sunlight pierces the slats of the barn, and I am looking up at the Rembrandt from within the tangle of blankets.
Peter is awake beside me. He’s propped up on one elbow and is looking down at me.
I remember the kiss, and my eyes fix on his lips.
I force myself to meet his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.
I could joke, laugh it off.
I could explain myself, though I don’t have a decent explanation.
I could pretend it didn’t happen.
I could ask him what he’s thinking, why he kissed me back and why he pulled away.
I could ask if he still thinks I’m beautiful and clever and funny, or if he ever did.
I could ask if he wants to kiss me again.
I don’t do any of these things. Instead I draw my knees up to my chest and hug them. He’s still looking at me, so I look at
the Rembrandt. “That’s Rembrandt.” I point to one of the figures on a boat. “He painted himself into the painting. There are
fourteen figures. Jesus, twelve disciples, and Rembrandt.”
“Had a high opinion of himself.”
I point to a Picasso. “That one was dumped into the trash after its theft, but the dumpster was empty when it was searched.”
I point next at a golden, glittering portrait of a woman, a painting by Klimt. “Nazis stole that. Confiscated it. It was supposed
to be donated to a gallery in Austria, I think, but it never made it.”
“You know all of these?”
I study the sparkling gold in the Klimt painting. “Saddest thing about stolen art is that only the thief can view them. They’re
meant to be seen.”
“You’re seeing them.”
“Yes.” He’s not looking at the art; he’s looking at me. I want to ask him what he’s thinking, but I’m a coward so I don’t.
“You’re an artist.” It wasn’t a question.
I shrug and wish I’d chosen another topic. “I’m not a Rembrandt or Picasso. Not even close. For a while, I tried to find a job as a graphic artist . . . but I wasn’t lucky.”
“You should paint here.”
“I’m painting the house. Or I plan to.”
“You should paint this.” He gestured at the masterpieces on the wall. “You have time. You’ve bought yourself time.”
For an instant, I am tempted. I think of the attic room and my vision for it, filled with easels and paints. But it’s not
realistic. “If Victoria and Sean don’t change their minds and raise a mob instead, and if I had a century or two worth of art classes, then yes, but you said yourself the lie wouldn’t buy much time.”
“I can’t help with the art classes.” Shedding the sheets, he stands. He’s shirtless and as stunningly beautiful as the masterpieces
around him. “But I can check on the existence of a mob.” After an instant’s hesitation, he holds out his hand. I take it,
and he draws me up. I’m standing close to him. His body feels warm. He’s looking at me, and I wonder if he’s thinking about
the taste of my lips the way I’m thinking about his.
If he wants to pretend it didn’t happen, then . . .
No.
I am not going to feel like a teenager, awkward and wondering what he thinks of me. I tilt my head up and look directly into
his eyes. “If I kiss you again, will you turn away from me?”
His eyes widen slightly. He licks his lips. I can tell that every muscle in him is tense as if he wants to run, and I suddenly
feel like I want to laugh. He can’t be afraid of me. I’m the most powerless person in this entire town. I have less information,
less experience, less everything than anyone here. Yet he’s looking at me as if I’m a rattlesnake. Except I don’t think he
wants to run from me.
I take a step closer, experimentally.
He flinches back.
And then it’s suddenly not funny. “It’s okay. We can pretend it didn’t happen. Let’s go find Claire.” I start to turn away, and he catches my arm. He draws me closer, and then he’s kissing me.
I sink into his arms, and he melts against me.
The barn door bursts open. “Peter! Lauren!” Claire races in. “Victoria and Sean did it! And people believed them and it worked! The void is back where it belongs. Everyone’s gathering in the streets. They’re actually having a party. There’s music.
And food. And a man is making balloon animals!” She holds out a pink balloon dog. One leg has popped, but the knots keep the
rest intact.
“That’s great, Claire.” I try for a cheerful tone.
She lowers the balloon animal. “Were you two kissing?”
“Um . . .”
“Yes,” Peter says. He picks up his trench coat and throws it over his shoulders. Hurriedly, I stuff the blankets and pillows
into the backpacks. I feel my face blushing as red as a stop sign.
She looks from one of us to the other. “You don’t look happy about it. Were you doing it right?”
Peter stomps past her. “Yes.”
I pause to throw the sheets over the masterpieces. By the time I’m done hiding them, Peter is on the rooftops. “Where are
you going?” I call after him.
“I’m going to find the Missing Man,” he calls back.
“But you hate him,” Claire says. “And he hates you.”
“I have to ask him a question,” he says. He then races across the rooftops, leaving Claire and me behind on the ground.
Midday, I swim in the ocean again and hope the water will calm the endless please find him, please find him, please find him .
. . that is stuck on repeat in my brain.
The blueness fills my eyes, and the water caresses my skin.
I breathe in the saltiness and feel it seep into me, soothing me.
Around me, the fish brush against my legs.
I feel them nibble and then dart away, like tiny kisses.
I think about how Peter said he couldn’t find the Missing Man, and I wonder if that means that Peter lied or if it means that he will fail.
I dive under the waves, open my eyes, and feel the sea sting my eyes and see the orange, yellow, and pink coral with the blue, silver, and striped fish.
I burst out of the water and swim back to shore, where Claire is building sand castles out of wet desert sand and lost utensils.
Peter hasn’t returned. But the void is back on the horizon, nearly as far away as it was. So I try to take solace in that
fact and not think about Peter or the Missing Man. Or Mom. I haven’t let myself think about her lately.
In the late afternoon, Claire and I head out to scavenge for dinner. She’s delighted with a box of macaroni and cheese, even
though we don’t have milk or butter, and I find an avocado, an unopened package of American cheese, and a stale tortilla,
which I envision transforming into an okay quesadilla. We wait until nearly dark to eat, in case Peter comes back. But he
doesn’t.
In the shadows of the kitchen, we eat what we found then heat up the leftovers from Sean’s meatloaf and pair them with an
apple. The apple has a bite out of it. I cut that part off and wash it thoroughly. It makes a decent dessert.
At night, I tuck in Claire with her teddy bears plus Mr. Rabbit. I kiss each of them on the forehead and then I retreat to
my bedroom. It feels extra quiet, and I’m extra aware that the closet is empty. It takes me a long time to fall asleep. Eventually,
I do.
I wake in the night to the sound of a creak. I freeze and then I slither out of bed. We have a plan for intruders: I get low
as fast as possible, and Peter— But Peter isn’t in the closet. I creep to the corner of the bed and peer out. There is a silhouette
in the doorway. I see the shape of a man in the moonlight, a coat swirling around him. “Peter?” I whisper.
“I didn’t find him yet.” Peter slips into the closet without another word, and he shuts the door. I stand in the moonlight and feel as if a wave is crashing inside me. He didn’t find him, didn’t find him, didn’t find him. Slowly, I climb back into bed.
At least he hadn’t lied.
“Missed you today,” I say.
No response.
“You know, you don’t have to sleep in the closet. There’s room here.” As soon as I say it, I wish I could draw the words back
as if they were in a balloon on a string.
I don’t want a relationship.
I don’t want to lead him on.
I don’t want to be alone.
He doesn’t come out. So it’s a moot point. Eventually, I fall back to sleep.
I wake slightly when I feel the bed sink down. Wrapping his arm around my waist, he lies quietly beside me. And we both sleep.
In the morning, there’s an indent on the pillow where he lay. I rise, shower, and dress and head to the kitchen, where he
usually is in the morning. Only Claire is there, perched on the counter, scrounging through a bag of airline peanuts. “He
left again,” she says. “I don’t know why you want the Missing Man back. Don’t you want to stay with me? Don’t you like me?”
She has tears on her long eyelashes.
I hug her and feel as if my heart is shattering. “Of course I like you.” I have a burst of inspiration. “Maybe when Peter
finds the Missing Man, he can send you back with me.”
Claire wipes her eyes with her fist. “Really?”
I hesitate but only for a few seconds. I don’t think she notices. “Yes.”