Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Having never been further than Mount Rainier National Park, a two-hour drive from his house—forty-five minutes if Ophelia’s driving—Mateo squints in acute goth pain as glittery water and too blue sky make themselves known outside their arrival gate.
Ophelia’s gigantic shades have transformed from hangover-obscuring to correct for the environment.
They follow Topher, who power walks them to the pickup area in front of a line of identical black cars.
His head bobs around on his skinny neck with purpose until a tall, well-built man in a suit steps out of the wall of vehicles.
He introduces himself as Quincy. Amazing lashes and a startlingly dulcet speaking voice.
His suit is department store off-the-rack but tailored.
The kind guys own only on the off-chance they’ll get invited to a wedding. Nice but not nice.
Quincy collects Topher’s expensive-definitely-leather backpack, holds out a hand for Mateo and Ophelia’s very-not-expensive-definitely-vinyl backpacks, and then herds them into a big, organized-crime vibes SUV.
Doesn’t miss a beat when Ophelia holds out a hand like an old-timey starlet wanting assistance and doesn’t react to her gremlin-crawl into the backmost seat.
“We meeting your dad now?” Ophelia asks as Mateo and Topher settle into the seat in front of her, which is super regrettable.
Mateo had been hoping not to sit next to Topher, not sure what to do with himself after the cumulative twenty minutes of handholding.
Not that there was even a reason to be weird about it.
Just two business professionals holding hands while one desperately prays to any gods of aviation he can think of. Standard guy stuff.
Topher’s not making it weird. He’s fighting his seat belt.
“My dad said he’d be available sometime between one and five.” Topher’s putting all his concentration into seat belt buckling because he’s said something insane.
“That’s a four-hour window, hours from now,” Ophelia is incapable of not pointing out.
“Yes. Well. Yes. But he’s busy. I mean, he’s always busy,” Topher flusters. “But he said he’d meet. And I said it was important. Really important. So. So he’ll probably talk to you. I mean, if he’s not too busy. But he’ll really try to, I think.”
Maybe the dad doesn’t believe the curse stuff, but the idea of this frantic baby ostrich of a guy goggling in distress at a parent and getting a four-hour window is pretty shit. Two data points on dad: Wall Street and this. Huge asshole energy. “We’ll make it work,” Mateo soothes.
Quincy pulls smoothly into the line of cars leaving the airport, and Mateo relaxes a little.
The cleanse is keeping things in check, and asking a few questions can’t be that difficult.
Looking around Topher’s house for clues also feels like an obvious thing to do.
Bonus, there’s no chance any of them will get stabbed here, since Dagger Lady’s a state away.
And sure, his mom’s spell book is in his carry-on bag where he’d stashed it last second, but it’s not as irresponsible as it sounds. He’s not going to use it. It’s just not smart to leave it exposed in an unattended house. Everyone’s safer if it’s with him.
“Can you get jetlag from a two-hour flight?” Ophelia asks as they ride the elevator to the lobby.
“They call that a hangover,” Mateo says, double checking that his tie is straight.
They’d hit the magic shop for basic supplies and then their structurally questionable hotel, ninety-nine percent glass folded in a high-gloss accordion shape in an earthquake-prone state.
It hadn’t collapsed on them as they stole a nap in one of the beds of the four-whole-ass-bedrooms suite Topher inexplicably got for just the two of them.
Nap was followed by reapplying protection wards and figuring out how best to look professional but not boring.
All of Mateo’s nice-enough-to-wear-in-a-Wall-Street-setting stuff is second-hand designer, purchased with great persistence of spirit on an auction site for a fraction of their actual price.
Black Alexander McQueen on the legs, black Fendi button-up, and a black Philipp Plein tie—which sounds like a lot of black because it is.
Ophelia only owns gauzy ankle-length dresses that hit the perfect balance of boho whimsical respectability, so she didn’t need to do anything special.
Also, she’s cute, so can roll into most places in a paper sack with live birds in her hair, dropping f-bombs, and it’s fine.
Questions currently thought up to ask the dad? Zero. But at least they look good.
Topher, already waiting in the lobby, raises a hand as they approach.
He’s changed since that morning, the generic tee, jeans, and sneakers traded for a dropped sleeve V-neck sweater, chinos, and wingtip boots, all in gray.
It’s surprisingly stylish and transforms him into the posh rich guy he actually is.
Even the afternoon sun shining through the lobby is interpreting this as a higher form of Topher, casting angelic rays only on him, his near-white hair glowing.
The illusion lasts all of twenty seconds.
Once they’re close enough, Topher speaks in an earnest theater whisper with eyes wide and vibrating at Mateo.
“You look great.” Realizing he’s delivered the comment with way too much intensity, Topher starts to malfunction.
“You both do, I mean. Look great. Not that you looked bad before. You didn’t look bad before now, you looked good then too, but differently good, and now you look like a different, not better but definitely different kind of good, and, I mean—”
“Looking spiffy yourself,” Mateo somehow says to stop this torrent despite never having used the word spiffy in his life. Eager to end whatever either of them is doing here, Mateo puts a hand on Topher’s back and herds him out the exit. “Consensus is we all look amazing so let’s go.”
He’s surprised to see Quincy behind the wheel when they crawl into their ride.
Maybe you rent the expensive rideshare drivers by the day?
Doesn’t matter. He’s gotta think about what to ask a rich old guy about his son being cursed.
Family history? Has he pissed anyone off lately?
Except Mateo’s dragged from his concentration by Topher’s buzzing beside him.
He’s doing that thing where you grasp one hand with the other again and again, like a cartoon worried person or an arthritis flare. Anxious about his dad is Mateo’s guess. Relatable. Mateo always hated talking to his own mom. Only did it when absolutely necessary.
As if that was his dictate and not hers.
Plane-compassion debt still past due, he wracks his brain for something distracting, wishing Ophelia hadn’t again stolen the backmost seat, because she’s better at small talk. Or, not actually better, but not him, so that’s better.
He decides he can ask about Topher’s shoes, which he’s pretty sure are obscure designer and expensive, but Quincy speaks in an unhurried deadpan. “Hold on.”
They all look forward and see a semitruck skidding across every lane of the five-lane freeway, an impassable truck-death-wall hurtling toward them.