Leap Of Faith

Chapter Three

[photo by Andrea Davis from Unsplash]

Leni

The walk home goes by too quickly—despite my efforts to slow it down. I need more time. I need to come up with a way to make Dee understand why I stayed, why I had to meet him.

"Topher from London," I say, imitating his accent. Badly.

And now I'm smiling again. Not good. This is not a situation that warrants smiles. And what the heck is going on with my stomach muscles? The same thing happened while I was shaking Topher's hand. But it wasn't like my birthmark, not a reaction to touching him. The stomach commotion didn't start until I looked into his eyes.

Which, I guess, could've been nerves. But that doesn't explain why it happened just now.

I stop a few feet short of our driveway, feeling nauseated—speaking of nervous reactions. Maybe I don't have to tell Dee right away. The first thing she's going to do is yell at me for sneaking out. So I'll concentrate on explaining that. Then I'll apologize and we'll hug and I can go back to my room and try to make sense of everything else.

There's a surge in the cricket chatter. It's almost dark and Dee is surely frantic by now. I walk, exaggerating my stride so the crushed oyster shells sound my arrival. The door to the mud room can be temperamental, but it has never denied Dee or I access. This time, my hand barely touches the knob before it swings open—with a squeal that sounds judgmental. "I know," I mumble. "I'm a horrible sister."

I lay one perfect olive shell on top of the dryer and drop my flip-flops onto the pile of shoes. The aroma of stewed tomatoes and cilantro overpowers the mud room's trademark scent of wash powder and sweaty feet.

But Dee is not in the kitchen. It's empty and clean—the excessively scrubbed kind of clean that only happens when she's nervous or upset. Or both, as she appears to be now. She didn't hear me come in because she's in the family room having an agitated, one-sided conversation.

Please don't be on the phone with the police.

I take a fortifying breath while I watch her pace back and forth behind the sofa on a track she's worn into the pine floor. Her eyes go wide when they find me. Then they narrow. "She's home," she huffs into the phone.

She stalks toward me, phone arm extended. "Tell Matt he's wrong. He says you've been gone so long because you're avoiding me."

The hurt in her voice cracks a sharp fissure in my heart. I keep my fisted hands by my sides and lie. "You're wrong, Matt. Love you—bye." To Dee I say, "I need to go change," and I walk, very quickly, to the small bedroom we used to share.

I'm barely into dry clothes when the door opens. "He's coming on Thursday," Dee informs me.

"Good." Hopefully Matt's visit will take the edge off—for both of us.

Our eyes meet in the mirror. Then hers drift to my still partially damp hair. I expect a question: Why did you go swimming in your clothes? "I was getting really worried," she says instead.

"I know. I'm sorry. I forgot my phone."

"As usual."

It's a statement of fact, but she says it with a sad resignation that reminds me I promised to do better—especially after the wedding.

"You can't keep doing this to me, Len. How am I supposed to move eight hours away? You're going to give me a nervous freaking breakdown!"

I gather my hair and twist it into a knot, but there isn't a single hair clip on my dresser. Meaning there's a dozen of them in Dee's room.