Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
This vision of metal death is snatched away as they’re thrown hard to the left.
The car three-sixties across two lanes of heavy traffic.
The shout Mateo tries is cut short by the seat belt pulling taut.
They spin at high velocity for an eternity before jolting to a stop on the shoulder.
The world darkens. A split second of panic that Mateo’s having another episode, but it’s the semi’s shadow as it skids by close enough to roll down the window and touch.
Then they’re in the harsh California sun again.
The world still spinning, Mateo whips his head around to follow the wall of jackknifed semi.
It continues down the freeway in a scream of metal against asphalt.
A few cars make it around the truck like they did, but none so flawlessly.
One makes it under. Which isn’t a good way to go.
The back of his throat gets sour with fear, but he turns to make sure Ophelia’s still whole and buckled in. She is, but she’s not looking toward the squealing and crunching. Her eyes are on Topher, who’s curled into a ball beside Mateo like he expects every impact to be theirs.
“Hey,” she says softly, inscrutable gaze on Topher. “I don’t think we got the curse.”
The concept of sticking around to talk to the police is floated by Topher alone, and the three nos—thanks, Quincy—have it.
Which is why they’re parked at Nystrom Sr.’s office with a despondent Topher unwilling to get out of the car, legs drawn up and forehead against knees.
Can’t blame the guy. The curse is still in play, and it just sent a handful of people to critical care and the morgue.
Mateo’s doing an amazing job envisioning piles of money so he won’t think about how many people just died or how close the crash was to Ophelia’s fragile human body.
He wants to re-up her wards, maybe have a fight about how she shouldn’t be here, but has to deal with this first.
“Heeey. That was … a lot.” Mateo starts.
Topher’s upset about hurting the people around him, so Mateo can’t feed him the platitudes that come naturally.
Instead he says, “This isn’t your fault.
Whatever’s causing this, it’s not you. It’s something happening to you.
The best way to keep everyone safe is to figure out who’s cursed you and stop them. ”
“What if nothing can stop them?” Topher says, and if Mateo wasn’t so close, he would have missed the miserable muffle.
How do you make a sad, soft boy happy?
He has no idea.
Practicality then.
Topher, jelly-limbed and without any sense of rigor, allows Mateo to peel one of his arms away and excavate the side of his face. “That’s not how this stuff works. There’s a reason for what’s happening. If we can find the reason, we can fix it.” Probably.
Topher’s eyes squeeze shut. Mateo’s afraid he’ll need a round two of this not very good pep talk, but then Topher unfurls, lowers his legs, and gives Mateo another of his very intense looks.
This close, the light gray of Topher’s eyes is more pronounced, no hint of blue or green, pupils wide and dark like he’s on something.
Probably near-death fear. But when Topher speaks, his voice is unexpectedly calm and resolute.
“Sorry. You’re right. I’ve been upset and not doing anything for months. That doesn’t help.”
“That’s the spirit,” Mateo says and pats Topher’s knee like Topher’s his new stepson he’s just been introduced to on the day he lost the big game.
At around the third pat, he realizes Quincy is staring at him in the rearview mirror.
Right. The driver can totally hear the words about curses.
Not wanting to deal with whatever judgment might be there, Mateo relegates the paid-driver’s bulk to his peripheral vision.
Whatever. It’s not like he’ll ever see this guy after today.
They pile out of the car.
Ophelia, in a rare moment of delicate compassion, puts her hands on Topher’s cheeks like someone might do before a kiss and commands: “Three deep breaths. In for five seconds. Out for five seconds. Starting now.”
Topher, startled into compliance, does exactly what she says, silently goggling with arms limp at his sides and eyes perfect circles.
That neon flush heats Topher’s cheeks again, and why not?
Ophelia’s terrifying, but she’s also cute, and obviously into this guy who’s obviously into her, which is, like, great.
Probably a conflict of interest or whatever—professionally speaking—but otherwise fantastic for everyone.
It’s this moment Mateo realizes his tongue’s been absently worrying over the tips of sharp teeth. From the near car crash, he guesses, and doesn’t think about the time delay there.
“It’s just a conversation. You can do this,” Ophelia concludes.
“Right,” Topher whispers readily, and Ophelia releases him.
It must be hell to blush that easily and visibly, and Mateo feels a twinge of something that must be sympathy.
Loving Ophelia is like loving a rocket ship.
One day it’s going to shoot into space while shedding noncritical parts that will then hurtle back toward the planet, burn up on reentry, but sometimes take out a cow.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be,” Topher says, and it takes Mateo a confused moment to realize he’s talking to Quincy. It’s the first words Topher’s directly spoken to the man.
“That’s fine,” Quincy says, offering Topher a tissue and then running his paid-driver hands through Topher’s chaotic mess of hair, forcing some order into it. “I’ve got a book.”
Topher, unreactive to the extremely personal hair thing that has scandalized Mateo, nods and they start toward the towering office. But Mateo’s distracted, fully staring at Quincy now, watching the man get back into the SUV.
It’s only then that it occurs to him that Quincy isn’t some random day driver. “Topher, do you, like, know know the driver?”
“Oh, yeah. Yes. Quincy’s worked for me for a few years,” Topher says distractedly, leading them through a heavy door and into a lobby that looks like a Roman statue threw up all over it. Every inch is gray-swirled marble except for the inches that hold a line of security guys.
The rigid postures and serious business vibes bring his attention distressingly back to the fact that he still hasn’t thought of a single thing to ask Topher’s dad.