But I thought she’d think I was selfish and crazy, or had really just left myself out on purpose, or maybe I was just lazy and stupid, so I kept quiet and didn’t say a word.
Lying there all scrunched up with my fists between my knees—I mean after what she’d said—I felt like such a total loser, I didn’t say a thing. I felt like I had nothing and never would, and she had everything, and I had no idea why she wanted to even be sitting on my loser’s bed, like what could she possibly gain from it, because she was a total winner, and I wondered why, instead of wasting time with me, she wasn’t out winning something and being told she was a total winner, instead of just sitting on my bed mad as hell at me because she thought I’d made fun of her. But I didn’t say anything or try to explain anything about why I wasn’t doing anything, because what I was doing was trying to hang on to myself—I mean literally just survive hanging on to myself. But I knew she’d think that was totally stupid, so I just kept my fists between my knees.
By this time she wasn’t even on my bed anymore. She’d gotten up, and a second later she bolted out to the bathroom down the hall to wash the lipstick off her face.
I just lay there.
I felt destroyed.
I regretted everything I’d said.
I was a fool for laughing.
Because let me tell you, if I’d understood her, I bet we would have gone all the way.
Maybe we would have gotten married, for god sakes.
I’d be married to her now, I bet.
I’d have done it, too.
Married her, I mean.
But I blew it.
Then and forever.
Because of all the times we talked, this was about the only time she’d ever let her guard down and given me a chance to see the real her. She had given me a chance to understand her; she bared her feelings, admitting that she liked my house more than her own, which I could tell was a really, really big thing for her to say.
I got it now, crouching behind a chair in one of her grand living rooms.
She liked the mess.
She liked how it was all about the people living there.
Because her house wasn’t like that at all.
I stopped pushing the chair a second and looked through the dimness of the huge room.
This house was perfect.
But it said nothing about the people.
Sure, it said something, I guess, about her mom’s interest in modern art, but that’s about it, unless you want to add that it said something about how much money they had, because it said that in spades.
But it said nothing about Laura.
If I had a house with Laura, it would be all about Laura.
It would be a Laura museum.
I’d have so many pictures of her she’d want to throw them out; she’d get tired of looking at herself. She’d understand why I’d laughed.
But I hadn’t even seen a picture of her.
Not one.
I wish I’d listened to her. She was trying to let me get to know her. And now when I think back, that would have been even better than going all the way.
I would have preferred to listen, now that I had some, you know, perspective.
But I blew it.
I wouldn’t even listen.
I just felt embarrassed and laughed at her. I didn’t even try to understand.
I got to the next room; I’d pushed that chair all the way across the floor. I looked in and saw it was a den.
She’d mentioned that.
The den.
It had everything; I’m sure you already guessed that.
Lots of video screens. Lots of things I assumed were games. A bar. A curtained wall that could only be a home theater. Rows of seats.
Boy, they were rich.
I was going in when the front door opened and sunlight flooded the living room through the archway.
Chapter
Thirteen
I froze.
Whoever was coming in would have to hurry because somewhere off in the kitchen the alarm had started making those sudden loud beeps.
My heart felt like it was stuffed in my mouth.
I heard footsteps go quickly up the hall.
That was my chance.
I darted forward into the den. To hell with video cameras—the room was dark enough.
I couldn’t immediately decide where to hide.
The bar.
I slid over to the right side of the room on my hands and knees to where the bar was, dodging between these swivel seats that were everywhere in the shadows. I crept behind the bar, froze again, and listened.
I heard a few more beeps in the kitchen, and the other beeps stopped.
The alarm was disarmed.
That was good.
I felt sweat dripping off me. Up until now it had been all fun and games. I suddenly realized how serious it was.
I was in Laura’s house.
It was a major crime.
If anybody caught me, they’d think either I was there to steal or that I was a total creep like Paul Stewart. I’d be arrested and put in jail. Nobody would believe anything I told them. Laura would hate me.
My mind was fumbling.
If I got up and went back into the hallway—which was the only way I knew to get out—I’d get seen. And recognized. They all knew who I was. They’d seen me waiting for Laura those times she wouldn’t let me come into her house, and at the play I went to—her school play six months ago—where I met her mom face-to-face.
What the hell could I do?
I kept thinking about it, but I had no plans because I just didn’t know who was out there or exactly where they
