You can’t have it both ways, friend without benefits.
“We’re celebrating,” she said, stalling, trying to think of something else to say. She didn’t want Nick to go, not yet.
He grinned, revealing the perfect dimple next to his perfect lips. She was bad. Bad to plan to leave with one guy and then switch to another. But this seemed like fate. And psychics were supposed to believe in those kinds of things. Otherwise why would perfect Nick be at a hole in the wall on a small island off the coast of San Francisco on tonight of all nights?
“What are you celebrating, Teddy?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Or you’d have to kill me?”
“No, I’d have to drink.” Teddy looked down at her hands as if to count. “Like twenty shots as punishment.”
“Teddy,” he said.
“Nick,” she said.
“If you don’t go back to your friends, that guy is going to come over here and try throwing a punch. And I don’t want to have to hurt him.”
Teddy didn’t think of herself as the swooning type, but holy shit. Nick made her knees go weak.
“Besides,” he added, “I have to go.”
Take me with you.
But before she could say another word, he kissed the top of her head and was gone.
Teddy stood there for a few moments, watching him disappear into the night. Did he just dad-kiss her? On top of her head? She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Pyro at her side.
“What the hell was that all about?” he asked.
Good question.
Teddy let out a breath. It was a puzzle she would have to solve later. For now, Pyro was right here, his hand on the inside of her elbow. “Just someone I knew from Vegas,” she said. “You know the saying.”
“We need to talk.” Pyro said. There was something about Whitfield that lent itself to melodrama. They knew each other too well; living, eating, training with the same people every day heightened every interaction.
Great. Another talk. She’d had enough talks today. And talks after tequila were really great.
“You ignored me for weeks,” he said. “And then tonight . . . I’m not just some”—he lowered his voice—“booty call.”
Are Pyro’s feelings hurt?
“I’ve been busy,” she said. “You know, studying.”
“When I saw you collapse today in Seership, I was worried,” he said.
She’d thought Pyro was a player, but this conversation was veering into relationship waters. “I really appreciate what you did for me,” she said. “But I told you, I’m not looking for anything serious.” She leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, but he turned away.
“Teddy!” Jillian called. “Next round’s on me!”
She couldn’t worry about Pyro’s feelings. She had to look out for herself. She squeezed his hand and then returned to the table.
* * *
That night Teddy again found herself visiting the yellow house. She could hear a woman’s voice singing the familiar lullaby. She walked down the flagstone path and toward the front door. She had never been inside the yellow house; she always woke up before she could enter.
This time she grasped the metal of the handle and pushed.
Teddy found herself inside an entryway with faded wallpaper. With each step, the mahogany floorboards creaked with age. A low table housed everyday debris: photographs, keys, letters. Teddy followed the sound of the woman’s voice through the entryway and into a small white kitchen. The woman hovered over the stove, waiting for a steaming teakettle to sing. As if sensing Teddy’s presence, the woman turned around, and then—a series of sharp, shrill beeps.
Teddy jerked upright. Her alarm clock read 7:05 a.m. Jillian’s bed was empty, which meant she was probably already in the shower. Teddy heard the muted voices of her classmates in the hallway, followed by the groaning and clanking of ancient pipes as toilets were flushed and faucets turned on. A typical morning at Whitfield.
But she couldn’t shake the dream. It had felt so real. The sounds—the song, the floorboards, the kettle. It was as if Teddy had actually been in the house.
Maybe it was the alcohol from the night before. She remembered the shots. She remembered the awkward conversation with Pyro. She remembered throwing herself at that guy from the casino who had improbably shown up on Angel Island. And she realized something else: he had recognized her immediately, despite the fact that she hadn’t been dressed in a wig and a fat suit.
Jillian returned to the room fresh from her shower, wrapped in a paisley bathrobe. Though they had been exchanging fragments from their dreams (most of Jillian’s featured a menagerie of animals), Teddy had found herself keeping her own secret, instead making up random images to make her roommate laugh (most of them featured Ryan Gosling). Something about the yellow house felt too private to share with her roommate.
“Ryan Gosling getting you down?” Jillian asked.
“I’ve already thought of three comebacks about Gosling and the word down. You make things too easy.” Teddy swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her head was pounding. “Must have been something to do with drinking last night.”
“Funny you said that, Teddy. I had a strange dream last night, too. I was a dog, or I think I was a dog. Maybe a very small coyote. Definitely in the canine family. And I was in the desert. But not because I wanted to be there. There was a big explosion. And, oh.” Jillian shivered. “It was horrible.”
Teddy didn’t have time for dreams about dogs this morning. “I’m sorry, Jillian,” she said as she grabbed her shower caddy and headed to the bathroom. “I can’t be late.”
* * *
Teddy’s dream stayed with her as she showered and dressed, as she ate breakfast with her friends, as she walked to Fort McDowell for the first Empathy 101 class with Clint.
The lullaby endlessly replayed in her head until the door slammed and Clint walked into the classroom. He threw his beat-up satchel on a large desk and sat down beside it, one leg casually swinging beneath him. He wore khaki pants and a blue button-down
