23. In Which Aiden Finally Caves
IN WHICH AIDEN FINALLY CAVES
I ’m just about to leave my office when my phone rings.
? * It’s been a long day, mostly because the image of Juniper asleep in my bed keeps popping into my mind at the most inconvenient times—not an angelic sight, but more like the troll beneath the bridge, her mouth gaping open, emitting a faint snore that likely came from how congested she was after all that crying.
Her hair was a messy shock of pink spread all over my pillow.
There was nothing particularly beautiful about the visual.
And yet I’m still thinking of it eight hours later. I’m still half wishing that I could return home and find her in the exact same spot.
I shake my head, trying to banish the image. It’s tempting to ignore my ringing phone so I can leave faster, but I answer anyway, primarily to distract myself.
“Hello,” I say, wedging the phone in between my shoulder and my ear so I can finish getting my papers into my bag.
“Hi.” The voice is familiar but only just; I pause, waiting for the caller to go on. “This is Gus Flanders, from Namaste?”
“Oh,” I say, frowning. “Hello.”
“Hi,” he says again. “Uh, I called because I was concerned about Juniper.”
My hand freezes in the process of shoving a book in my bag. “What do you mean? Concerned how?”
Gus sighs. “She rushed out of here a bit ago after—after—we had a conversation that I think upset her?—”
“What did you do to upset her?” I say, abandoning my bag. I let it fall to my desktop before straightening up and holding my phone in my hand.
“I didn’t do anything,” Gus says. There’s an affronted note to his voice, so I rein in my quick temper.
“Sorry,” I say, forcing myself to breathe. “Just tell me what happened, please. Why are you concerned?”
Another sigh. “She was asking me about someone who used to come to the studio?—”
“Sandra von Meller,” I cut in as my pulse trips. I start pacing the length of my small office.
There’s a brief silence, and then Gus says, “Yes. I guess you’re aware of all that?—”
“I am,” I say impatiently, still pacing. “Go on.”
“I told her that Sandy was seeing someone. An older guy; a teacher, I think. And then Juniper started talking to herself about fuchsia sweatshirts and ran out and?—”
“Hold on,” I say. I’ve frozen in place, two steps away from my office door. “She was seeing a teacher? ”
“I think so,” Gus says. “So I told Juniper that and she started muttering to herself—she sounded unhinged, really—and then she ran out before I could stop her. I’ve been trying to get a hold of her, but she isn’t answering.”
Crap. Crap .
I fling my office door open and begin sprinting down the deserted hallway.
“Tell me exactly what Juniper was saying.” If she was thinking about a teacher, would she have come here?
Just barged on over without a plan? What was she going to do—ask everyone she could find if they were sleeping with their students?
“She said something about fuchsia sweatshirts. Fuchsia hoodies.”
“Fuchsia hoodies,” I repeat as I turn a sharp corner and continue on my path to the front entrance.
I rack my brain. Does that mean anything to me?
Sandy was wearing a pinkish-purplish hoodie in one of the pictures her mom showed us; would that be considered fuchsia?
I guess I’m not entirely clear on what fuchsia looks like.
And what about magenta; are they the same?
“What else?” I say, because this is getting me nowhere. My feet echo against the tile as I shoot across the foyer before bursting out of the front doors. I need to check the parking lot; I need to know if Juniper is here. Her yellow clunker will be easy enough to spot.
“Nothing else,” Gus says, sounding regretful. “That was it.”
“Thanks,” I say, my voice breathless and distracted. I hang up without saying goodbye, craning my neck this way and that as I search for Juniper’s car.
The parking lot in front of the school is about half-full, but there’s not a single yellow car to be found.
The air I’m dragging into my lungs is knife-sharp and painful, but I don’t slow down.
I hurtle down the length of the building, red brick a blur in the corner of my vision, and then turn the corner, emerging into the back lot.
This is the only other place she could have parked; if she’s here, I’ll know.
This lot is emptier, dotted with a few generic sedans. Red, silver, white, black, black, dark green? —
Yellow.
There it is.
A yellow VW Beetle, bumper tilted askew, patched with duct tape.
It takes me an impressive six seconds to reach the car on the other side of the lot.
I lean down and look through the windows, checking to make sure she’s not there, but it’s empty.
There’s nothing inside that gives me any hints or clues, either; no scraps of paper with her exact location, no conveniently placed pictures of the culprit.
I stand up straight again, pushing my hand through my hair and looking around while I catch my breath.
Rocco and the cross country team are down at the bottom of the hill, running the track that circles the football field.
I can ask him later if he knows anything about Sandra or any teacher she might have been hooking up with; right now I just need to find Juniper.
So even though I’m still breathing hard, even though the autumn air is harsh in the back of my throat, I turn around and begin running again, toward the school this time.
The halls are mostly empty; students have long since left, except for those who are doing clubs or practices.
I slow down as I pass open doors, not bothering to be inconspicuous as I stick my head in each classroom.
But look as I might, I can’t find Juniper, and ugly pictures are beginning to form in my mind’s eye.
Juniper charging recklessly to accuse someone in person—some massive, faceless figure that overpowers her with ease.
Juniper unconscious, bleeding, or worse.
Juniper on the floor of the forest by Solomon the Spud?—
“Stop it,” I hiss to myself as I continue to hunt through every hallway I come across. “Just stop it ? — ”
But I freeze in my tracks, tripping over my own feet and stumbling to a halt as I pass by the large library window. I blink my eyes rapidly, trying to confirm what I see, before spinning on my heel and bolting to the entrance.
The librarian isn’t at her usual desk, which I’m beyond grateful for. I speed past the shelves, row after row, before the lone figure I saw through the window becomes visible once more.
It’s her. It’s her.
The most powerful sense of relief floods through me, a rush that leaves me lightheaded and struggling for breath. And maybe it’s not just relief; it’s something more potent. A contradicting tangle of frustration and solace, the desire to shout and the desire to hold her close.
She’s crouched down, or maybe sitting—I can’t quite tell through the stacks—but I recognize the strips of her that I can see. I recognize the flash of bubblegum pink and the blur of yellow that’s most likely her favorite yoga tank.
Less familiar to me is her posture, though; as I round the last row of shelves separating us, I see finally that she’s seated on the same step stool I used last time we were here together. Her head is bowed, her shoulders slumped in defeat.
A spark of something hot ignites deep in my chest as I stride toward her. Juniper is not a woman who should ever look so crushed.
“What are you doing here?” The words burst out of me well before I’ve reached her, but I don’t stop moving.
I continue my approach until I’m standing right in front of where she’s perched on the step stool, looking up at me, her chin set defiantly even as her eyes flash.
The corners of her lips curl down ever so slightly, and crap , I want to kiss them.
I want to shake her for coming here so recklessly.
But I want to kiss her for being safe.
I pull in a deep breath, turning away from her as I begin to pace.
I need to get my head on straight. “I don’t care what Gus or anyone else tells you,” I say finally, spinning on my heel to glare at her.
“I don’t care if he delivers you the killer’s name and address and social security number all wrapped in a pretty bow.
You don’t just rush over recklessly, without a plan, without telling someone first—me!
” I throw my hands in the air. “Without telling me! Where’s your sense of fear? Where’s your sense of safety?”
“It’s here!” she says, surprising me as she shoots to her feet.
She returns my fire with her own, her fists clenched at her side.
“Why do you think I’m hiding in the back of the library like a coward?
Because I was scared, Aiden. Because I saw him and I realized and I didn’t know what to do, so I—I—I hid.
” A muscle jumps in her jaw, her blue eyes glossy.
“I wasn’t stupid.” She steps closer and lifts one hand, jabbing me painfully in the chest with her pointer finger.
“I wasn’t reckless.” Another jab, even harder this time.
“So don’t yell at me when it’s already been a crappy week?—”
And I can’t. I can’t do this anymore, I can’t stop this, and I don’t want to.
My hand lifts of its own accord to grab the finger that’s jabbing me, a move so sudden she stops speaking. I close the distance between us in one step.
And then I crash my lips down on hers, swallowing the rest of her words.
She gasps into my mouth, but there’s no hesitation in her response.
She’s kissing me back in point-two seconds, her hands fisting in my shirt and yanking me closer, a storm of lightning in my veins at her eagerness, because good grief— she kisses me like she’s been waiting forever to do it.
I let go of her finger and grasp her face in desperate hands, tilting her head left, right, up, searching for the perfect angle?—