Painted Blind Part 4

"Yep, but they aren't leaving."

"Great." I wondered why I bothered getting out of bed. I was a prisoner in my own home.

With the bacon browned and the eggs sunny-side up, Dad set a plate in front of me. "I guess I never gave you a chance to explain the billboard."

I shrugged. "Doesn't matter now."

"I'd still like to hear it." The body shop took only a day to repair the headlights and grill of Dad's truck. With his moving office back in service, he returned to the level-headed, diplomatic father I was used to.

"I was wearing a bikini under the wig, but where it showed, they Photoshopped it out. That's not my cleavage."

He coughed on a piece of toast. "Too much information."

"Did your crew see it?" It made me sad that all the guys who respected him probably thought I was a total sleaze.

"I'm pretty sure they all drove down Main Street this week, but none of them said a word to me."

I laughed, my mouth full. "If they value their lives or their jobs."

After breakfast Dad balanced his books and made another hundred phone calls. I went upstairs and soaked in a hot bath. The cameras robbed me of the emotional high I felt after hanging out with Erik. I closed my eyes and tried to hear his voice in my head.

My fingers turned into white prunes, but the water was still warm, so I stayed there rewalking the trail, repeating my questions until I was nearly dozing with my head against the side of the tub.

"Psyche." Dad rapped on the door and startled me from my daydreams. "The phone is for you. It's a boy." His voice sounded strained by that last part. "He says his name is Erik."

I splashed out of the tub, scrambled to get myself covered in a towel and nearly knocked down the door trying to get the lock to release. Opening the door a mere three inches, I held out my hand palm up.

"I could have him call you back," Dad offered.

"No!" I waved my hand frantically. "Just give me the phone."

When he set the receiver in my hand, I pulled it into the bathroom and slammed the door. I sounded out of breath as I said, "h.e.l.lo?"

The reply was that chesty chuckle that drove me wild. "What exactly were you doing?"

There's no way I would admit I was naked in the bathroom dripping wet. It wasn't a mental picture I wanted to encourage. "How did you get my phone number?"

"It's in the phonebook. Right next to your street address."

"You have a phone." I didn't mean to say it aloud. I was trying to figure out how normal he was while also trying to dress. Mult.i.tasking generally wasn't difficult, but my mind went a little haywire at the sound of his voice.

"I'm not a complete moron. I can function in your world as well as you can."

I apologized, thoroughly embarra.s.sed. "I didn't mean to insult you."

"It takes more than that to insult me," he replied. "I'd like to see you today."

I peeked out the window at the unwanted vans on the north end of the street. "I'm kind of trapped at home." I began toweling off my hair, keeping the phone balanced on my shoulder.

"Tonight," he replied unmoved.

"I don't think I can sneak out."

"Why would you need to?" He hung up before I could answer.

I dressed in a rush and dried my hair. Then I paused in front of the mirror wearing a pair of cargos I bought last year for school. At the sight of them Savannah had rolled her eyes. "Could you find anything less flattering?" she'd said.

I dug through the dresser, but it was all pretty much the same. Jeans, cargos and more jeans. The second drawer held T-shirts and hooded sweatshirts. All of them were baggy, and most looked worn. At the bottom was a shirt with a wrap bodice and three-quarter sleeves that Grandma Dee had sent me. I pulled it on over a tank. That was as good as it would get.

Hours pa.s.sed. Dad didn't want to leave me home alone, so he had his crew foreman bring a stack of DVDs to our house. Dad stretched out on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and started the first movie. I slumped on the loveseat growing depressed. How was I supposed to see Erik tonight? He couldn't ring the doorbell and come inside. He couldn't drive up on the motorcycle then turn invisible as soon as he stepped in the doorway.

It was silly to be miserable over an invisible guy from an unknown world. I needed to get a grip-possibly some antipsychotic meds.

No sooner had I decided he wasn't coming, than I felt a hand rest on my shoulder. I jumped and let out a squeal.

Dad furrowed his brow at me. The movie had barely started. No one had died yet.

"I'm not in the mood for movies."

"Plenty of left-overs in the fridge if you're hungry," Dad said.

Erik squeezed my arm.

"Starving." In the kitchen I dished a double helping of enchiladas and set them in the microwave. Returning the pan to the fridge, I asked, "Anything else look good?" An apple climbed off the shelf and into my hands. I poured a large gla.s.s of milk and grabbed a bag of pretzels from the cupboard. Then I stood at the bar with all that food and wondered aloud, "How am I supposed to carry all this to my room?"

Inexplicably the apple and the bag of pretzels disappeared. I offered forks to the air and they disappeared, too.

Upstairs with the door closed I could still hear the soundtrack of the movie playing. We could talk without being heard. The apples, pretzels and forks reappeared in mid-air and settled onto the dresser.

"Explain the disappearing fruit," I said.

"I put it in my shirt."

"Your shirt is invisible. It shouldn't hide a perfectly visible apple."

"No, that is the second rule of veiling. Items covered in a veiled substance become veiled." He opened the bag of pretzels and drew one out. It seemed to float in the air. "Now I'll close it in my hand." The pretzel vanished and reappeared a moment later.

"Does the same rule apply to food you put in your mouth? Because I don't want to see stuff getting chewed up and swallowed."

"Same rule applies." The pretzel disappeared with a crunch. "Those enchiladas smell really good."

I put a fork on the plate and offered it in his general direction. "Help yourself. They're hot." I watched as the fork took off a chunk of cheesy tortilla and chicken, lifted into midair and the food disappeared. He ate three more bites before he gasped. The fork clanked onto the plate. The gla.s.s of milk rose into the air and was completely drained in a matter of seconds. "I warned you," I said.

He whistled quietly. "I thought you meant temperature. Are you hungry? Do you mind if I finish these?"

There was a whirlpool in my belly, but it had nothing to do with food. "You'll need more milk," I answered.

In the kitchen I filled the gla.s.s to the top and had to walk carefully not to spill. My thoughts were already upstairs, where the plate of enchiladas was empty when I returned. "I suppose you need this?" I held the gla.s.s of milk in front of me and watched as it was lifted from my hand.

"Thank you."

"My dad is an amazing cook."

"Your dad?" he asked when the milk was gone.

"I suppose I should have been paying attention all these years, but mostly I've been enjoying it." After he set the gla.s.s down, I lost track of him until he spoke again.

"You don't have a mom." He was somewhere near the dresser, probably looking at the photographs stuck with poster gum on the outer edges of the mirror.

"She left when I was four."

"I'm sorry," he said with surprising sincerity.

"I see her two weeks a year. That's enough."

"My mother didn't raise me either, but she meddles in my life plenty." There was a hard edge in his voice, but he quickly recovered. "So, I'm curious. You modeled all summer, and you kept nothing?" He was closer now, but I couldn't tell where.

I wondered if he knew that models kept a copy of their portfolios in case a client wanted to see it. There was another, larger portfolio in Blair's office, but since I worked overseas, I needed my own. "They're in a box at the top of my closet."

"May I?"

I hesitated. Granted, a portfolio was made to be seen, but outside the industry, no one had ever looked at my tear sheets-not even my dad. There was something deeply vain about photos that showcased your looks without your memories.

The closet doors opened and clothes shifted to the side. Two boxes came down from the shelf. The first held childhood mementos, and after lifting the lid, Erik set it back in its place. The box of photos and postcards hovered in front of the closet as he let out a quiet exclamation. "What is this?" One of the dresses I brought home from Europe appeared from behind my other clothes.

"An irrational purchase."

"It's a Valentino."

"I wore it on the runway." That didn't explain why it was hanging in my closet, but I didn't feel like laying down my pathetic Homecoming history.

He set it back in its place and moved my other clothes to cover it again. "I'll bet it got rave reviews." His weight jostled the bed as he sat next to me, and the box holding my secret life emptied onto the comforter. He opened the manila envelope and slid out the most recent photos. Four were fashion ads for various labels. One was a close-up advertising the sungla.s.ses that were pushed back in my hair, and one was a black and white of Holden and I. "Who's the guy?"

I couldn't decipher the tone. Was it merely curious or was there something more? "His name is Holden Valentine. He used to be my Apollo."

"Your what?" There was inexplicable contempt in his voice.

"You know, like my standard of beauty. Apollo was supposed to be the most beautiful of the Greek G.o.ds."

"Supposedly."

"You couldn't be jealous?"

"I'm not jealous of Apollo." His voice was still tight.

"I meant Holden. How could you be jealous of Apollo? He's a myth."

"Right." The photo of Holden and I rose in the air, like he held it at arms length. "The two of you look very comfortable together."

I snorted. "Fiction is always convincing."

"You hated it."

I shrugged.

"You cringe every time a guy touches you."

There was no sense denying it; Erik had already seen proof. I'd cringed under his hand half a dozen times, mostly out of surprise. It was a reflex, an unconscious defense I developed over the years. The only exception was my dad, and he rarely touched me anymore.

He slid the photos back into the envelope and tucked them in the box. "It's the eyes that frighten you."

I shot a surprised glance in the direction of his voice. I never told him that.

"How do you do that? You looked right at me."

"I can see you," I lied.

"What?"

I laughed. Seriously, he sounded panicked.

He let out his breath audibly and chuckled. He took the box and stowed it in its hiding place. A moment later the bed shifted, but I didn't know where he'd gone until the pillow slouched under his invisible head. "You have questions?"

"Many." I grabbed another pillow and stretched out next to him in the opposite direction, so I was looking at the empty pillow. "You said you live longer, and you made it seem like time is different for you."

"Not different entirely. The days are the same length. Time pa.s.ses in my world at the same rate as it does here, but because we live so much longer months and days seem much shorter. We measure the phases of the moon like you would measure hours."

"When I was little, summer seemed to last forever, but now it's three short months that pa.s.s in a blur."

"You've lived longer, so the time in each week seems shorter." Relaxed and quiet, his voice had an irresistible gentleness.

"How old are you?"

"I'm nearly eighteen."

He wasn't like any seventeen-year-old I knew. I wondered if he was lying. "In my time?"

"It would be like you measuring your life in minutes."

"Give me a rough estimate," I said, not hiding my irritation.

"Instead of days, we measure time in seasons. Four seasons is an annum. A hundred annum makes an age. My age is seventeen."

"You're a hundred and seventy years old?" I asked.

"You are in serious need of a math tutor," he replied.

I felt my face flush. A hundred years was an age. "You're seventeen hundred years old!"