Lay Me Down

5. What his body knew.

{Cary}

Pete was making pancakes. Cary could smell them cooking as he packed his meagre belongings into his backpack and straightened up Jon's room. When he was finished, he stood still and took it in: the light falling silver through Jon's bedroom window, the sound of Pete moving around the kitchen, the knowledge that he was completely safe here—and the fact that he had to go. He took all the memories of the past two weeks with Jon's family, folded them carefully and put them away where they would be safe. He needed to be hard again like he had been before.

He and Pete ate in silence. Cary couldn't think of the words that would tell Pete what staying here had meant to him. In the end, standing in the hall with his backpack in his hand, all he said was, "Thanks for the pancakes."

"Can I please hug you?" Pete asked.

Cary looked at him a moment. Pete wasn't as big as his father, but he still had 60 pounds and three inches on Cary. He gave a stiff nod and held still while Pete put his arms around Cary's shoulders. His face was pressed against Pete's shirt—Jon's dad smelled like laundry soap and pancakes. Cary gulped a breath and put his free arm around Pete. Pete didn't squeeze too hard or hold on too long—or maybe it was just that Cary didn't mind. It felt like being folded in the warm weight of a good coat on a winter day.

When Pete let go, Cary drew back and turned aside, looking out the window at the street. He couldn't figure out what to do with his body after a hug like that. He was also cracked and leaking. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and shook tears out of his eyes. They were no good to him where he was going.

Beverly's silver BMW sedan slid up in front of the house. She leaned on the horn and didn't get out. Cary ducked his head and shouldered his backpack.

"You're welcome to visit any time. You know that right?" Pete asked. "You have my cell number?"

Cary nodded. "Thanks, Mr. White."

Pete's smile looked strained. "You're welcome, Cary. See you around, okay?"

Cary went out of the house and down the walk, the chilly spring day making him shiver and hunch his shoulders in his shirt sleeves. He felt the tie between him and Pete stretching until, somewhere on the road between Pete's house and his father's, it would snap.

His mother gave him a narrow look when he slid into the passenger seat beside her, her lips thinning as she raked him over from the top of his head to the cuffs of his hand-me-down jeans. She was wearing a jacket and blouse, her silver-blond hair twisted up off her neck as if she had come straight from work. Cary expected to feel something, getting into her car to live with her again after two weeks of having nothing and nobody. But no feeling came.

She threw the car into drive and pulled away from the Whites'. She was angry. It wasn't hot like his father's anger, but cold and hard as ice. Cary put his eyes on the dash. He didn't miss her like this. Her silence covered the interior of the car like frost, and goose bumps chased over Cary's arms.

When they pulled into the curving drive outside their home, he felt an unexpected wave of panic. He pressed back in his seat, snatching sideways looks at the towering house, feeling as if thick darkness was pressing on the inside of every window, making the walls bulge out toward them. He'd been inside when light had glinted on the chandeliers and glass sculptures, gleaming on the dark wood furniture and the slick paint stroked over massive art canvases, but his hammering heart denied that light was possible here.

"I cancelled an appointment to retrieve you," his mother said. "I'm going back to work. If you're not here when I get back, I will call the police." She dug in her bag and held out a key, looking hard at him as he took it. "Have I made myself clear?"