“C’mon. Let’s get some food in you, new girl.”
She nodded. She’d go to dinner with Dalton. Smile and listen. Order something light and not finish it. None of it would register on his radar as being off. He’d drive her home, try to kiss her, ask if he could come in.
And she’d tell him it was a school night.
Riley shut her front door and watched Dalton’s taillights disappear into the night. She closed her front curtains and tossed her little sack of pastry into the garbage can. Her boots came off next. She flung them into the hall to pick up later.
She pressed her hands to her pounding head as she headed to the kitchen, her bare feet cold on the hard linoleum. Grabbing the bottle of Tylenol out of the cupboard and filling a glass with water, she walked to her art room and stared at the easel. At the sketches she’d attempted, of Mary’s face, and Joseph’s, and the shepherd.
She downed two pills, not taking her eyes off the photo of baby Jesus. There was no face to study; the glare from Mark’s old flash had wiped it out.
Setting down the empty glass, she picked up the charcoal pencil and grabbed the photo. Taking a deep breath, she sketched the manger, the swaddling and the hay, a round head. She paused, her heart pounding.
Next to her sketch lines, she drew a larger, faint circle. Ears. Chin. Fleshed out an infant’s head and ran the pencil line in a swift arc from ear to ear to place the eyes. But she stopped.
What shape were the eyes? And how wide? Asleep or awake? Happy? Surprised?
Wise? Could babies’ eyes be wise? This baby?
She put her hand over her own eyes and sighed. She took two steps and dropped down into the desk chair.
You should have seen the one old Rivers used to put up off the highway, all lit up every year, cramming that down our throats.
Riley’s jaw clenched.
Ended after Mark got himself burned up.
She squeezed her eyes tight, sick.
Mark grunted with each push-up. Forty regular push-ups, then twenty with each arm. Well, twenty with his left arm and as many as he could with his right before he collapsed. Which was about twelve.
Thirteen.
Fourteen—
His phone rang, and he dropped to the floor with a groan. Gritting his teeth, he reached his left hand out and checked the number.
Riley.
“Hello?” He tried to calm his heavy breathing as he fumbled his phone to his ear.
“Hi. Are you . . .”
“Working out.”
She paused.
“Are you okay?” he asked, pushing himself up on his elbow. He winced, stretching his right arm.
“Could you come over?” she asked.
“Now?”
“Yes. I know it’s late.”
“It’s only eight.”
“Oh.” Another pause. “Please?”
“On my way.”
She hung up, and he stared at his phone, still out of breath. She’d sounded small. Riley wasn’t small.
He took the quickest shower he could, threw on a fresh shirt, jeans, and a beanie, and clamored down the stairs. “I’m going out,” he called, and slammed the door before his dad could begin the questions.
A few minutes later, he stood on Riley’s porch and knocked on the door. It took every ounce of patience in him to stand there and wait. On the drive over, his imagination had run wild with all kinds of possibilities why she’d called. Most scenarios had something to do with Gainer and ended with Mark wanting to pound him.
Mark lifted his hand to knock again, but the door opened, and Riley stood there in a big sweater and leggings, holding a box of matches in her hand. Her hair was still wild and wavy all over, but her eyes were rimmed red.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” She backed into the house. “Come in.”
He did, looking around. She closed the front door behind him. Papers were scattered in a semicircle over the floor in front of the green sofa along with some of his old photos, but she passed those.
She knelt in front of the brick fireplace. “Can you help me with this?”
He took off his coat and knelt beside her, looking hesitantly at the couple of logs she’d piled in the grate. “You’re serious? You called me over here to start a fire in your fireplace?”
She dropped the box of matches in her lap and put her hand to her head. “I’m sorry. No. I’m cold. I can’t stop shivering, and I thought maybe I’d use this thing to get warm, but the logs won’t catch. I should know how to do this, right?” She turned to him, and he saw what he hadn’t yet.
“You’re crying,” he said.
She smiled, pulled her sleeve over her fist, and wiped at her eyes. “Yeah, a little.”
He wanted to ask what Dalton had done, but figured he’d better take care of her first. He looked back at the sofa and spied a blanket in a heap on the cushions. He got up, grabbed that, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Thanks,” she said, watching him.
He squatted down and checked the flue.
“I opened it up, like you said.”
“Good job.”
“I just couldn’t get anything to stay lit. The newsprint burned right up.”
She sounded so lost. So . . . un-Riley.
“Is your woodpile out back?”
“Through the kitchen.”
He nodded. “Be right back.” He hurried through the kitchen, out the back door, and down a few steps. He found what he needed against the house and hurried back inside.
“On the other side of your woodpile is a crate of scraps for kindling.” He pushed a few pieces of tinder under the grate, arranging them so air would circulate between them and the logs above. “Do you have more newspaper?”
She nodded and stood from her cross-legged position and went to the dining table. She tore off a few pieces of paper from a large pad of artist’s newsprint and returned.
She sat down again and slowly fell over sideways, staying there. “I’ll just let you do that while I lie here.”
“Not getting off that easy. Up.” He pulled her arm,
