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“Look,” she says, hoping it's not obvious that she's been practicing this speech during every free minute she's had during the last two weeks. “You can just leave me here.”
He murmurs a small protest when she turns her whole body to face him across the bed, to put some distance between them, but his eyes are open and he's smiling at her indulgently; he knows she has to get it out, though they both know it won't make any difference.
She sits up and pulls the sheet up around her so he won't be distracted. “I really don't mind. I promise I would tell you if I did. It's 100% fine with me if you want to go home for Thanksgiving. Alone.” She looks at him with as much hope as she can muster.
Yeah, he's not going for it. “It's Thanksgiving,” he says, as if that is the obvious and only answer.
“That's what I just said.”
“We're together. This is a thing.” She wrinkles her nose and looks away, the way she does whenever he starts throwing around terms that are dangerously close to relationship. “I'm not leaving you alone on Thanksgiving. And,” he says, anticipating her next pitch, “I can't stay here with you. My mom would be crushed.” He's already told her that two of his three brothers actually can't come home this year, or so they claim.
“You're a busy guy,” she points out. “A grown man, almost.” He chuckles at that. Good. “Haven't you ever missed a holiday because you were working?”
“Yeah,” he admits. “But I'm not working.”
She rolls her eyes. “You could say that you're working.”
“That would be a lie.”
“Come on, take a walk on the wild side,” she says.
“Not on Thanksgiving,” he says firmly.
He's testing the boundaries, testing her boundaries, because, yeah, she could just give in, or she could say, you know, this was a bad idea from the start. Maybe this has just run its course. Oh, did you think this was serious?
There's a third option, of course. She could finish the argument in one solid blow if she wanted, just tell him one or five or ten of the real reasons she's reluctant to go with him, and he would look at her with such sympathy, such pity, and he'd instantly concede. He'd probably apologize for even asking. Game over. Boundaries demolished.
However, over the last few months it's become apparent that, for some people, near-death experiences could bring on a desire to live each moment like it's the last, etc., etc., which would seem to include spending time with loved ones. Like family.
It's safe to say that her own brush with death didn't have the same effect.
So she thinks about all of her options, but in the end, she just sighs and says, “24 hours. Tops.”
“Thank you,” he says, as if he understands the effort it took for her to pull that last punch, though of course he couldn't possibly comprehend what she's holding back.
He seems to have decided not to ask those questions after the first fifteen times she dodged them, and she had liked that he noticed and eventually stopped pushing it. She'd given him the barest of outlines (Iowa, cult, escape) and asked him to keep it confidential, and he'd been kind enough not to pry, though she knew curiosity had to be eating him alive.
She knows the lack of interrogation isn't due to loss of interest; if anything, he is an inescapable presence in her life these days, taking over a couple of her empty drawers, using her toothpaste, complaining about the absence of food in her refrigerator. Any second now she's going to stop finding these things endearing, and his presence will stop being a comfort and start being an irritation, but this is the pleasant part, the initial infatuation, and she's trying to keep it going for as long as she can.
He is seriously pushing his luck with this meet-the-parents business, though.
*
“So,” she says, as the plane ascends. “Prep me. I'm not good with parents. Terrible bedside manner.”
“Yeah, I've noticed.” He pretends to wince when she punches him on the arm. “Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath. “They know we worked together, but they don't know you were my boss. My dad's pretty big on rules.”
“Makes sense.” She traces a line on her own forehead in the shape of his most visible scar. “They know about those?”
“I can't hide the scars,” he says. “But no, they don't know what happened to me, or what could have happened.”
“Do they know what happened to me?”
He shakes his head. They have an unspoken agreement never to discuss it, and she thinks she might like him a little more every time he steers away from the subject.
“Do they know you saved my life?”
He hesitates for half a second before he says, “Only figuratively.” She glances over at him; he's grinning like a giant cheeseball.
She says, “It's not nice to lie to your parents, Weston,” but she smiles back at him, like a giant cheeseball.
Meeting the parents. Bantering. What's next, matching Christmas sweaters?
*
La Jolla is obscenely beautiful. Mike's parents live in a house large enough to accommodate their sons, with enough bedrooms left over to exile any unmarried traveling companions. That's fine by her; she can pretend to be normal for 24 hours and then she can get the hell out of there, with or without him.
When Mike introduces her, she smiles dutifully down at Marilyn Weston, who can't be more than five feet tall and regards her with a friendly expression that barely conceals a familiar tinge of suspicion, a certain wariness that she recognizes from half a dozen similar occasions long ago, half a dozen other mothers.
After all, they're practically living together, aren't they? Seems like he only goes back to feed the dog anymore. Doesn't she like dogs? Shouldn't he have introduced her to the family before he basically moved in with her? What does he really know about her, anyway? Where is she from? Who are her people? And isn't she, you know, a little older? She's heard one side of a couple of phone conversations; Mike's already fielded some of the standard questions, and his mother will probably get to the rest before he leaves.
This only ever happens once. They always learn. Mothers don't like her, instinctively, and she's not crazy about them, either.
Mike's father is easier, as other people's fathers often are. He's not much of a conversationalist, but he allows her to sit on the other end of the couch and watch the football game in silence while Mike helps his mother in the kitchen.
“Mike's brother and his wife are coming soon,” he says during a commercial break. “That should take some of the heat off you.”
She smiles at him like she doesn't know what he's talking about, but she can tell that he sees right through it, so she drops the act. She supposes he's heard the other side of those phone conversations, and maybe a few more that she doesn't know about. “Soon,” she repeats. “Good.”
He nods, and they return their attention to the game.
*
She's headed to the kitchen to volunteer her assistance, though her own Thanksgivings typically involve leftover pizza or TV dinners, but she stops in her tracks when she hears his mother say, “I just think it's a little weird. I'm entitled to worry about you.”
“Come on,” he says, as he peels potatoes, by the sound of it.
She considers retreating; eavesdropping is rude, but curiosity wins out over propriety every time, so she lingers in the hallway and just hopes that no one catches her there. His father should be planted on the couch at least until the next commercial.
“You're basically living with her, and you brought her home for Thanksgiving, but you don't know anything about her? Does that seem normal to you?”
She can practically mouth the words. But you know what? He made his bed. This wasn't her idea. Let him figure out how to explain it.
“Mom,” he says. “We worked together.” Joe Carroll, she wants to add, and you have no idea what it was like. Actually, he had told her that the story hardly made a blip on the West Coast's radar before it was supplanted by a kid falling down a well or whatever the next lurid melodrama had been. Of course, his attack hadn't made the news anyway, and the FBI had managed to keep her name out of most of the papers. “I told you. I know everything I need to know.”
“Does that sound like you? You're the most naturally curious person I've ever met.” She's got a point. “Just be careful, that's all I'm saying.”
“Don't be ridiculous. You make it sound like she's going to kill me in my sleep.”
“Well, not tonight, anyway,” Marilyn says. “Thank God for separate bedrooms.”
She decides to return to the couch.
21 more hours.
*
As it turns out, the arrival of the other guests is a blessing and a curse. It does deflect his mother's attention from her, but Marilyn's suspicion is just reflected in two new sets of eyes. Kevin is a taller, slightly older version of Mike; she recalls that this is the brother he does like. Kevin's wife Candace is a violinist who also happens to be childless, so Debra is grateful for her presence as a distraction. Marilyn is the type who will always long for more grandchildren than she has, and she probably wants them from someone she doesn't secretly believe to be a rootless drifter with murder in mind.
During dinner, Kevin tries to ask her a question about where she's from, and Mike kicks him under the table.
“Iowa, originally,” she says.
“You don't strike me as a farm girl,” Kevin says, kicking Mike back.
“Well, I've lived all over. We have that in common.”
“I don't think we've ever even driven through Iowa,” Marilyn muses. “Pat, do you remember?”
Mike's father thinks it over. “Maybe once or twice. You might not have been along.”
“You're not missing much,” Debra says.
“Nice scenery,” Pat notes. “But I wouldn't want to live there.”
“You and me both,” she says.
Candace promptly discloses that she's never left the state, which inspires Mike's mother to start listing the destinations she simply must visit before she has children and can't travel as freely, and the moment passes. Mike squeezes her hand under the table, as if to say: It's almost over.
16 more hours.
*
Pat volunteers to load the dishwasher and put away the leftovers, but Marilyn won't hear of it. She sends him in search of sugar-free Cool Whip, though that's a lost cause at this hour. She had forgotten to send him out earlier due to the excitement of having Mike home, she explains, since that happens so infrequently these days.
Kevin sets off to join him, as does Mike, after a helpless glance at Debra to make sure she's okay with it, not that she has a choice. Candace had cleverly neglected to mention some unspecified food allergy and retired to bed before the table was cleared.
So that leaves the two of them alone, Debra rinsing dishes and loading the dishwasher while Marilyn packs leftovers into plastic containers. “It's a shame you and Mike can't take any of this food with you. I guess Kevin won't be taking anything home, either. Pat and I certainly don't need it.”
“Yeah,” she says awkwardly. “Airport security is a pain.”
“I don't know why he insists on living in Virginia, of all places.” Marilyn shakes her head. “We lived there for a few months when he was a kid, I hated every second of it. The weather, the people—couldn't wait to leave.”
“It does take some getting used to,” she agrees.
Marilyn finishes packaging and storing the leftovers. She removes a pie from the refrigerator and sets it on the counter.
“You're not allergic to anything, are you?”
“No,” she says. “I'm safe.”
“Well, that's a relief,” Marilyn says, and as they stand there in a semi-companionable silence, it's almost nice for about half a second. “So you and Mike are getting pretty serious.” It's a statement, not a question.
“Hold on,” she says. “We're not getting married.”
She glances over at Marilyn and has to laugh at the relief evident on her face.
“I know we haven't done things the conventional way,” she says, choosing the words carefully. “I'm sorry this is the first time we're meeting. But Mike and I have been through some things together...” She falters, trying to find a way to explain the effect but omit the cause. “Things that can change you for the worse. I'm trying not to let that happen to him.”
Marilyn blinks. “You're talking about your work? Joe Carroll?”
So she does know that much. “Yeah,” she says. “I guess he's trying not to let it happen to me, too.”
She doesn't respond. Debra rededicates herself to finishing the dishes in order to beat a hasty retreat to the bedroom. Damn Candace and her undisclosed “allergy”; that would have been a good excuse to avoid a heart-to-heart if she had thought of it first. It's not until she finishes pouring the detergent into the dishwasher that she becomes aware that Marilyn is suddenly standing very close to her. She straightens up, warily, and sets the detergent bottle on the counter.
“I think I'm starting to understand,” Marilyn says, then, after a moment: “Thank you.”
Debra wonders, briefly, what Pat Weston was like when they were first married. Marilyn places a heavy hand on her shoulder, and she commends herself for not flinching, both at the unexpected contact and the maternal overtones that have crept into Marilyn's voice. She tries not to recall her own mother's touch, just like that, but the memory still sets her teeth on edge. She just nods and waits until Marilyn removes her hand before shuddering, almost imperceptibly, once Marilyn has turned her attention to stripping away the plastic wrap covering the pie. She grips the edge of the counter until the feeling subsides.
Marilyn starts placing pie slices on plates just as they hear a car pull into the driveway.
“So,” she says lightly, “you're not worried I'm going to kill him in his sleep?”
Marilyn has the courtesy to look slightly embarrassed, but she just hands Debra two of the pie plates and gestures toward the dining room. “I took precautions. Separate bedrooms, just in case.”
“You know I could just do it when we get back to Virginia,” she points out.
“You could,” Marilyn acknowledges. “But I don't think you will.”
She laughs. “Progress, right?”
14 more hours.
*
She's surprised to find herself wide awake in the middle of the night, given that she hasn't had trouble sleeping for a while now, and this entire visit has been exhausting. What she really longs for is her own bed, she supposes, but that wouldn't explain her inability to relax. She can tick off all the potential explanations: Unfamiliar surroundings. Overstimulation. Stress. Anxiety. Time zones.
Fine. She misses him.
Add it to the list.
It's just infatuation, she reminds herself, as if that will diminish its effect. He's not the first. It won't last.
Okay, so she's gotten used to having someone around. If you want to be specific, she's gotten used to having him around. She misses the weight of his body next to her, the sound of his breathing. It's a comfort to know that he's still there, that she's still there.
It's just infatuation, she repeats. So you might as well enjoy it.
*
She slips down the hallway, careful to step lightly. She's not certain which room belongs to him until she notices the dim light of a television blinking underneath one of the closed doors. Bad habit.
He turns the TV off as she quietly closes the door behind her.
“I had a feeling you might break the separate bedrooms rule,” he whispers.
She shrugs. “I got bored.”
“Couldn't sleep.” It's not a question. “Me either.”
“Probably the time change.”
“Yeah, that's probably it.” Even in the dark, she can see him smiling, and finds herself smiling back, like a reflex. Hopeless. She shakes her head and crawls underneath the covers beside him.
He kisses her, a little too long, and she sits up abruptly. “Not in your parents' house,” she hisses.
“It's not like I grew up here,” he points out. “No soccer trophies, no Carmen Electra posters. It's just another guest bedroom, really.”
“Carmen Electra?”
He laughs. “A momentary lapse of judgment. How about you? Kirk Cameron? New Kids on the Block?”
Very subtle. It makes sense: exhaustion might loosen her tongue, or maybe she'll be inspired to share some anecdotes after spending time around his family. What the hell, she thinks. “I shared a room with both of my sisters and three other girls,” she says. “No trophies. No posters.”
He doesn't respond. She listens to him breathe, hears the effort it takes to keep from asking her a follow-up question.
“At night, we'd swap stories we'd overheard about the bad kids who ran away and found themselves right back where they started, the way other kids would tell ghost stories around a campfire.” She leans back, but doesn't look at him. “So when I left, I knew better than to think anyone would help me.”
“That's why you joined the FBI,” he says slowly, putting the pieces together so that she won't have to. “You don't have to tell me anything more if you don't feel like it. My mom's nosy like that. Me, I don't really need to know.”
It's a lie, but a sweet one. She rests her head on the pillow. “Well, if this is going to be a thing, I guess you ought to know the basics.”
“It's officially a thing, huh? We should take out an announcement in the Sunday paper.”
Outside, a door opens, and there are heavy footsteps traipsing up and down the stairs.
“We're leaving now,” his mother announces from just outside the door.
“Shopping,” he whispers.
“Michael,” Marilyn shouts, and his body goes rigid, an automatic reaction. Debra stifles a laugh. “We'll have a talk about the rules when I get back.”
“What?” he calls.
“Get some sleep, for God's sake.”
“Sorry,” Debra says, after the footsteps recede. “I didn't mean to get you in trouble.”
“It's worth it,” he says. “Probably.”
*
“So,” he says, as the sun is rising and she's finally dozing off. “What would you think about staying another day?”
She groans, eyes closed. “You are seriously pushing it,” she murmurs.
But she doesn't say no.
Progress, right?