Chapter 10

Bobby's first words, of course, were "Are you okay?"

I nodded, although I recognized that I might have been fibbing. Just a little. I was shaking, and there was this little quaver in my throat that made me not trust my voice. One of the park's security guards had given me a blanket, and even though I understood the effects of shock, even though I knew a blanket helped keep people warm while their bodies struggled to regulate their temperature, even though I knew, in other words, why giving the victim a blanket was a trope in books (and, even more so, in movies and TV shows), I was discovering—as with so many other things—that firsthand experience was vastly different from reading about it.

Bobby crouched to look into my face; he had to crouch because I was sitting on the curb (again), while deputies investigated the fun house (again). His brows drew together at whatever he saw there. He laid his hand on the back of my neck. For a moment, it felt like a pull—like he might draw me toward him. And then it turned into a squeeze.

I nodded again, mostly because I didn't know what else to do. After a moment, Bobby stood and moved over to the crowd of deputies and park security. It wasn't until then that I noticed he was in his civvies—his snazzy off-duty (expensive) sneakers, a pair of dark jeans, and his heavy coat. I was too wrung out to process what that meant except that someone had known to call Bobby.

After I'd made my way out of the fun house, I'd grabbed the first park employee I'd seen—a girl wobbling on the edge of adolescence, with about three thousand dollars' worth of orthodontia and an enormous push broom. To her credit, the girl had kept her cool as I'd babbled, trying to explain that I needed park security, I needed the sheriff, and I'd lost my phone. I wasn't sure how much sense I made, but she must have gotten the general idea. Or her instinct, when accosted by a lunatic, was to call for help. Either way, it worked out.

While I'd waited, I'd walked circles around Davy Jones' Locker, trying to keep an eye on all the possible exits. It was definitely a horse-out-of-the-barn situation; the odds were good that the killer had already smuggled Lyndsey's body out of the fun house, and I was watching an empty building. But on the off chance, I didn't want to let the killer slip away.

Spoiler: I didn't see anyone hauling a body out of there. I didn't see anyone come out at all, as a matter of fact. All I saw were those stupid pirates on their ziplines—"Avast, ye scabrous dogs!"—and an acne-spattered boy driving one of the park's golf carts. It was full of empty mascot costumes, and it made me think of old B-movies, when the monster dies and all that's left is a furry skin-suit on the sound stage floor. (Maybe there was some Wizard of Oz in there too?)

By the time park security had shown up, I was less frantic, but I was also starting to shake. One of the men had sat me on the curb, and that was more or less where I'd stayed until now, watching more and more people arrive. They put up traffic barriers to keep guests away, but of course, this only drew the looky-loos. It didn't help that, in a small community like this one, word of a murder (even one without a body) had inevitably leaked and, of course, spread like wildfire. Now people were thronging the barriers, drawn by the prospect of a second murder.

A few dozen yards away, Bobby and the other deputies were engaged in a kind of milling, freewheeling conversation with park security. The sheriff hadn't arrived yet, and nobody seemed to know who was in charge. The same security guy who had made me sit on the curb seemed to think he was calling the shots. Even out of uniform, though, Bobby had a natural authority, and in response to whatever he said, Dairek (that's Deputy Dairek, if you're female, under fifty, and available) and Winegar, a sheriff's office veteran, started off toward the fun house. (Still don't believe me about Bobby's natural authority? A few weekends ago, he had me vacuuming the rugs in the house. All the rugs. Even under the bed where you can't see, so it doesn't count. And Keme was in charge of dusting.)

The whir of a golf cart grew louder, and Dagan came into view. The park manager had the little cart's pedal to the floor, and he zipped straight toward the barrier. At the last minute, he swerved around it, almost tipping the cart, and braked hard. I wasn't sure you could leave tire tracks with the adult equivalent of a go-kart, but Dagan certainly gave it the old college try. He crossed the remaining distance to the deputies and park security at a jog, and as he came closer, I could make out the unhealthy color to his face, the great drops of sweat, the slightly pained hunch to one side.

A strange thought flickered at the back of my head: why was he just getting here now?

Maybe that was an unfair question; maybe he'd been asleep, or maybe he'd had his phone off, or maybe a hundred other things. But I couldn't ignore the fact that when I'd last seen Dagan, he'd been at home, a grand total of five minutes away. Why had the deputies gotten here first?

And then, to make things even stranger, Tyler arrived. The park's head of security looked like he was in just as rough a shape as Dagan—flushed, out of breath, a certain wildness to his eyes. He pounded out of the gloom at a run, blazer and walkie be damned.

That raised the same question: what had taken him so long?

A shout interrupted my thoughts. Dagan got in the face of one of the security guards, bellowing at him. "What do you mean she's gone? How can she be gone?"

The poor guard—the one who, not so long ago, had thought he was in charge—tried to back away, but Dagan had him by the shirt and was shaking him, screaming the questions over and over. The turbo lights whizzed and spun behind them, and in that shifting glow, I could see the spittle flying from Dagan's mouth, glittering green and blue and red in the air.

"Mr. Glass—" Bobby tried.

"What's going on?" Tyler asked, elbowing his way into the cluster of bodies. "What happened?"

"That's enough," Bobby barked. "Mr. Glass, get your hands off him."

But Dagan didn't seem to hear him. His expression was less than human—eyes vacant, mouth flapping, chin shiny with spit. He was still shaking the poor guy like he was trying to make his head pop off.

Bobby grabbed Dagan's arm.

Dagan whirled around and threw a big, wide haymaker.

Bobby didn't dodge. He didn't block. He was still holding Dagan's arm, and he did something—set himself, pivoted at the hips, pulled—and Dagan went flying. But even that part was under Bobby's control; instead of crashing down, Dagan hit the path with an audible—but not too hard—thud.

A gasp went up from the spectators. Then silence. And then someone channeled their internal twelve-year-old and jeered.

"What the heck do you think you're doing?" Tyler shouted, and he caught a handful of Bobby's coat.

This, of course, was when Dairek decided to help out. His outraged "Don't touch my boy!" was equal parts cringeworthy and, um, testosterone-y?

It probably would have gotten a lot worse after that, but a familiar voice called out, "Everyone stop it right now!"

Sheriff Acosta came around the barrier, her pace steady, her face dark. Salk—Deputy Salkanovic—followed. With that same authoritative calm, the sheriff said, "Deputy Landby, get your hand off your service weapon."

Dairek dropped his hand to his side, shoulders slumped, doing a fairly good impression of a preschooler who's been sent to the quiet corner.

"Deputy Salkanovic," the sheriff continued, "check on Mr. Glass. Deputy Mai, wait for me over there. Sir, unless you want to be charged with assaulting a deputy, I suggest you keep your hands to yourself."

Let me tell you: people. hopped. to it.

Salk helped Dagan up and (probably correctly reading the sheriff's subtext) walked him away from the cluster of park employees. Tyler let go of Bobby's coat like he'd burned himself. And Bobby, his expression like glass, moved to stand next to me.

I got to my feet.

Okay, I tried to get to my feet. Mostly, I groaned as every muscle in my body protested, reminding me that I was, to put it in Millie's terms, SORE.

"Good God," Bobby finally said and gave me a hand up. Then he inspected me again. This time, I gave as good as I got, checking his face for a hint of what was going on inside his head. I was surprised to see a trace of a blush riding his golden-olive complexion. Every time I tried to catch his gaze, he cut his eyes away.

"Have I ever told you," I asked, "that my favorite thing is when you beat people up?"

The blush deepened, but he stood a little straighter, squared his shoulders, and delivered a truly flattening look that showed what he thought of that particular statement. "He threw a punch."

"I know."

"He attacked me."

"You don't have to tell me."

"I was defending myself."

Even my teeth felt bruised, but I still managed to smile. "Next on the list is Billy Durant because—"

"I don't want to know."

"—in eleventh grade he said I had the same haircut as the donkey from Shrek. To be fair, I did. That was when my mom was researching hair salons for, um, I want to say the book was called The Stylist , but I honestly can't remember. Anyway, she was sure she could cut my hair herself. This was a life lesson in trusting my mom and also in unearned self-confidence. Also, I thought I looked pretty cute. I'd make a great donkey."

Bobby sighed and tried to give me the look again.

"And I realize," I said, "I should have stopped that story about two sentences earlier."

"Only two?" he murmured.

"Oh! And what are your feelings about beating up girls? Because in eighth grade, Marion Ward called me pancake butt. For the entire year. To be fair, I did have a pancake butt—"

"No more stories," Bobby said. "I'm not beating anyone up for you."

The tone was vexed. The arms folded across his chest suggested a degree of…finality. But there was a boyish satisfaction in his expression that he couldn't quite keep submerged, and I decided I'd keep a list of names, in case he changed his mind.

When the sheriff said, "Bobby," though, his expression hardened to glass again.

The sheriff led Bobby far enough away that when they began speaking, I couldn't make out their words. I thought about scuttling in their direction, but a warning look from the sheriff changed my mind. In the other direction, Dagan appeared to have calmed down. Perhaps a better description was that he'd reined himself in—he stood there, running one hand over his mouth, his complexion still blotchy and dotted with sweat. Salk stood nearby, the right distance so that everyone could pretend he wasn't there to keep an eye on Dagan. Tyler was grilling the security guards, apparently still trying to figure out what exactly had happened. That made sense, of course—he'd arrived right when Dagan exploded, which meant no one had been able to tell him until now. News of the park owner's death (and disappearing corpse) wasn't exactly something you put over the walkie. But something about Tyler made me keep watching him. The big gestures. The raised voice. Even the tone.

I found myself thinking about how frantic he'd seemed when I'd seen him earlier that evening, buzzing up to the park office in his golf cart. And I thought, too, about his call to Jessica.

"Mr. Dane." The sheriff's cool voice called me back to myself, and when I turned, she was waiting. "I'd like a moment."

I nodded. Behind the sheriff, Bobby stood stiffly, his face unreadable. I held his gaze a moment longer, waiting to see if he'd give me anything. Then the sheriff tilted her head, and I moved down the path with her.

Before I could say anything, she handed me my phone, which I guessed one of the deputies had found.

"Have I ever told you you're awesome?" I asked.

She gave me a small smile. "I understand you already explained what you saw, but I'd like to hear it from you."

So I told her.

"Tell me about the first time," the sheriff said.

I told her about that too.

She frowned. Without seeming to realize it, she touched the baby hairs gelled to her forehead, and her fingers lingered on the scar almost hidden there.

"I know it's hard to believe—" I began.

"I believe you." Her tone tilted toward amusement. "I'm annoyed, but I believe you."

"That sounds like something a soon-to-be-ex boyfriend would say." When her eyebrows went up, I hurried to add, "Not really the point right now, I know."

"The problem, as I'm sure you can see, is that I don't have a way to move forward with this investigation. The last time you saw something, Mr. Glass allowed us to search wherever we wanted. We didn't find anything. We'll try again tonight, but I imagine we're going to have the same luck." She was looking past me, out into the darkness of the park, where lights spun and flashed and the whole world was one big toy. "Whatever is happening, though, and whoever is behind it, I don't like that you're in danger. You could have been killed tonight."

I opened my mouth to protest.

"You were hurt," she said over me. "Don't think I didn't see how Bobby had to help you stand. I think your part in this is done for now. Do you hear me?"

"But Sheriff, someone is dead. Two people are dead."

She nodded. "And I'm going to do everything I can to figure out what happened to them. What I don't need, however, is for you to get yourself killed in the process and make even more work for me."

"You should ask Dagan where his wife is. I mean, if Lyndsey's not dead, he should be able to call her, right?"

"That's an excellent idea."

"And you should find out where he was tonight. And where Tyler was—he showed up way later than he should have."

"Fantastic. What else should I do?"

"Uh—you know what? I bet you've got a handle on it."

"Go home, Dash. Let me know if you need anything. And stay away from Shipwreck Shores." In a voice that might have been amusement or might have been I'm-at-the-end-of-my-rope-ness, she said, "Any questions?"

I watched her walk away.

"Let's go," Bobby said. He stood next to me, his hand hovering close to my arm like he thought I might need the support. I waited, but he didn't do anything, so I started walking. The next time I looked, his hand swung at his side.

We made our way out of the park. The midway was doing its usual business—if people had heard about the disturbance at Davy Jones' Locker, they weren't letting it ruin their night. A boy who couldn't have been older than four or five made wild attempts at the ring toss, shrieking with excitement even when he missed. (Which was a good thing, since he missed every time.) A pair of older women—one of them, I noticed, was Princess McAdams—were taking turns at the shooting gallery. It was a particularly cute setup: brightly painted wooden ducks glided steadily along their track, and behind them was a row of rabbits, and behind them, red-and-white bullseyes. As I watched, Princess McAdams worked the lever on the rifle, and every single one of the red-and-white bullseyes went down. To judge by the look on the booth operator's face—and, more importantly, by the pile of stuffed animals at Princess McAdams's feet (I saw two crabs, a mermaid, and a pirate the size of a toddler)—this wasn't the first time. At the candy apple stand, a pair of teenage girls were giving directions on how they wanted their apples prepared. They were both taking it extremely seriously, and the older man who was dipping the apples looked like he was trying to fight a smile. The air carried the smell of buttery caramel, of sugar heated and cooled again until you could crack it with a spoon, of the tangy sweetness of a good apple. The night was clear, and even beyond the flash and whiz of the carnival lights, the sky was busy with stars.

The strange part, of course, was that it was all happening to everybody else. I walked with Bobby, aware of his hand that had never quite reached my arm, and I had the sensation that I was in one of those aquarium tunnels, watching everything through glass walls that muffled sound, a faint sense of pressure building in my head like I needed to pop my ears. As adrenaline faded and exhaustion swept in, all I could think was, They're all so far away.

Bobby helped me into the Jeep (passenger seat, of course), and we drove home. The pulsing glitter of Shipwreck Shores faded behind us. Then the hungry night swallowed it, and it was gone, and we drove through darkness broken only rarely: the illuminated green-and-white sign of a Sinclair; a tired old security light buzzing above an empty strip mall parking lot; headlights flashing past us in the other direction. That sense of distance made it seem like they were driving incredibly fast.

Our route took us along the outskirts of Hastings Rock, and from the state highway, I had a glimpse of the town that had become my new home. It was adorable, of course. It was always adorable. Main Street in particular, with its jumble of buildings—quaint beach cottages and stately old Victorians, everything postcard perfect—but even the less touristy parts of town, where ordinary people lived ordinary lives. Were happy, I thought. Where people were happy. Or at least, I hoped they were.

And then we were past the town, moving into the old spruce forest. The fog belt was thin tonight. Where moisture had collected on branches, drops of water sparked and flashed in the headlights. It made me think of eyes. Thousands and thousands of eyes, as though a flock of malevolent birds brooded in the trees, turning their heads as one to stare at us. And then the road curved, and those glass-bright bird eyes shut again, and the forest was dark except where the headlights skimmed the broken shoulder of asphalt, the sword ferns, and then the skeleton shadows of spruce and fir.

Hemlock House brooded too, hunkered on its hill. Usually, I loved coming home. (The thirteen-year-old boy in me still couldn't get over the fact that I lived in a Class V haunted mansion, complete with secret passages.) I loved the sight of the sprawling mess of a manor picked out on the cliffs, with nothing but sea and sky stretching on forever behind it. Tonight, though, all I could feel was that sense of space, as though someone had flattened out the origami of the universe, and there was so much more of it now—as though it would be impossible, in this new space, to ever truly reach anything.

But we did, of course.

I was also starting to suspect I'd hit my head harder than I thought.

Bobby was fast; he got around the Jeep in time to help me down.

"Let me guess," I said as we left the coach house. "One of the deputies is going to bring your car back."

"Not tonight." After a moment, he added, "The sheriff said I could pick it up tomorrow. Apparently, I need some time to cool my jets."

As we crossed the lawn toward the house, the ever-present breeze met us: the bottomless tang of the ocean—salt and life and death. I shivered. "Did she really say cool your jets?"

"Nope."

"I'm sorry, Bobby."

"Why are you sorry?" He unlocked the door, and we stepped into the darkened vestibule. "I'm not in trouble."

"She's not happy with you."

"She's not happy with either of us."

"But mostly with you. It's important to focus on that part."

He laughed as he helped me out of my coat. I think, if I'd let him, he would have taken off my sneakers, but I wasn't a total invalid. I settled for my usual routine of kicking them into the closet and pretending I was scoring a winning goal.

"You weren't an outdoor kid, were you?" Bobby asked.

"Rude!"

His hand found the back of my neck unerringly in the darkened hall. Just a quick squeeze, that was all. But his touch was warm and solid. A lot of that gaping cosmic distance fell away, and somehow, things felt normal again. As though we were both here. As though the vast, echoing dark of the house weren't all that big, if you were with the right person. And then, of course, it was gone.

When we got upstairs, I turned left toward my room. Bobby's room was to the right, but he turned left too.

When I got to my door, I said, "Okay, delivery is complete. Is there a form I have to sign? Do you need to scan a barcode?"

"Why isn't Will Gower ever a smart aleck?"

"One time he was a wise-cracking private dick."

"This is what I was talking about. What was gym class like?"

"I had a note from the doctor."

His hesitation was slight, but long enough to know I'd hooked him.

"No, dummy," I said. "I'm kidding. I loved gym."

More of that silence. It was hard to see his face in the gloom, but I thought I saw the frown.

"I was kidding about that too. I hated gym."

"What is happening right now?"

"I'm being charming and vivacious and…and spritely. Charmingly spritely."

"What about organized sports?"

I burst out laughing. "I don't have to stand here and take this. I'm going to sleep."

But when I opened the door, Bobby started to follow me inside.

"No," I said. "This is Dash's room. Bobby's room is over there."

"I know," Bobby said. And then, in his Bobby way, his only explanation was "I'm coming in."

And I—in my Dash way—was immediately so flustered, bewildered, confused, and all-around discombobulated, that all I could do was let him.

He flipped on the lights.

One of the things about being an introvert with a charmingly spritely case of social anxiety? (Okay, charmingly spritely doesn't really work there, but I like the phrase, so I'm leaving it.) My bedroom is one of my favorite places on Earth. And maybe that sounds sad. Maybe you're an adventurous type. Maybe you can't stand to be trapped indoors all day. Maybe you—to use Bobby's vulgar turn of phrase—were an outdoor kid. But I'm guessing, since you're reading this, that you weren't. And that maybe you understand what it's like to make a space your own, to feel safe there, to love spending time there.

The bedroom still had enough of the Victorian décor that it fit inside Hemlock House. It had the rich damask wallpaper. It had the beautiful, polished floorboards, the thick rugs, the big canopy bed. But I'd started making it mine, too. The giant horse painting was gone (I don't want to get into the details, but it was giving off some seriously bad juju), and I'd replaced it with a watercolor of Hastings Rock. I'd gotten rid of an imposingly expensive-looking mantel clock, and now by the bed was a clock-radio. I'd added a golden pothos, a brightly colored throw pillow, and, most importantly, an enormous television. I mean, I love books, but sometimes I want to see things blow up.

(Also, there was this one home gym commercial that was, um, distracting. Although now I turned the TV off when it came on because one time Bobby had walked in when I'd been watching it, and both his eyebrows had gone up. Like, straight up.)

I loved Hemlock House, with all its quirkiness, with its brass globes and telescopes and pressed flowers, with its old books and heavy velvet curtain tie backs, with its glass cloches and taxidermy animals. (So many squirrels.) And if I were being totally honest, there probably wasn't a more perfect house for someone like me. (And yes, I know exactly what Bobby would say about that.) But this was my room, my space, and as soon as I stepped inside, I felt safe.

"Take your shirt off," Bobby said.

In that instant, I knew what Admiral Motti felt in his final earthly (well, galactic) moments. (He's the guy Darth Vader chokes with the force, in case you're an outdoor kid.) My throat closed up. Simultaneously, I choked on my spit. My whole body caught fire. My heart stopped. The floor gaped open, and my stomach plummeted to the cellar.

And Bobby just stood there. Waiting.

"Uh—"

Understanding, and then what might have been amusement, flitted across his face. "So I can take a look at your back."

"Actually, remember how I said I was kidding about that doctor's note? Well, see, the whole locker room thing—it's not exactly, um." The little editor who lived in my brain suggested that wasn't a complete sentence, so I rounded it out with "Uh. Um. Uhhhhhhh."

I should have expected a Bobby question.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"More like I'm making myself uncomfortable. And I'm doing a great job, by the way."

"I'm sorry." His thick, dark eyebrows got a familiar wrinkle. "I didn't think it was a big deal. We've gone to the beach. I've seen you without a shirt."

"Right. Right. Right." And then, because I was Dashiell Dawson Dane and sometimes I was possessed by some demonic nerdy spirit (like an evil Urkel, I guess—see? there it goes), I said, "Coolio."

Bobby was many things. He was, above all, kind. "It's all right. Here, I'll get you something, and you can put it on. It should help you keep from stiffening up overnight."

He walked into the bathroom before I could respond. It was the Jack-and-Jill kind, meaning we shared it. The house was big enough that we each could have had our own bathroom, but when Bobby had started sleeping at Hemlock House, he'd been in a bad place, and I wanted him close in case he needed something. Things had gotten better since then (hadn't they?), but neither of us had made any attempt to change the situation. Maybe it was too much hassle—we were both comfortably settled in our spaces now, and our schedules were different enough (says the man who believes waking before noon is a sin) that we rarely got in each other's way. Or maybe what had been true at the beginning was still true now. Maybe Bobby felt it too. That, in that cavernous old house, we both needed someone to be close to.

From the bathroom came the sounds of the mirrored medicine cabinet opening, things being picked up, set back again, moved around. They were ordinary sounds. Familiar sounds. Most mornings, the little noises of Bobby going through his routine were enough to wake me. He spent about twenty minutes in there every day, like clockwork. I'd rouse enough to recognize what had disturbed my sleep. Sometimes, I'd lie there, listening. Not in a creepy way. (Oh my God. Was it creepy?) I liked hearing him. Knowing he was there. If I needed anything. If I picked my head up from the pillow, still muzzy with sleep, and croaked, Bobby .

The flush prickled through my body again, pins and needles across my chest, under my arms, in my face. But before cowardice could win out (for a second time), I shucked my hoodie, pulled the tee over my head, and dropped onto the bed. I lay face down, because if it was only my back, it was okay. (Please, God, let it be okay.) I considered that, like nighttime monsters, maybe death by humiliation could be fended off by pulling a pillow over my head.

The sounds from the bathroom stopped. Then steps across tile. And then nothing. I wanted to say I could hear him breathing, but what I could hear was the toil of the ocean and the rise and fall of the night breeze. I thought I could feel it too—cold air ghosting across my back, raising goose bumps. I wanted to shiver. I thought I would die if I shivered.

And then he was there. No warning, just the mattress sinking under his weight, my body sliding incrementally toward him, like he had his own gravity. My hip came to a stop against his thigh. Even through layers of clothing, he was warm.

I tried to think about something else—anything else. How he'd gotten across the room without my hearing him. "Did you take off your shoes?"

"What?"

"Your shoes."

"What are you talking about?"

I wasn't sure. That earlier sense of distance had faded, and now everything seemed too close—the heat of his body, that cool, masculine scent, whatever sense was responsible for telling you that another body was near. The amount of sensation was bad enough; the intensity of my awareness of it, though, was staggering.

Somehow, I managed to say, "What happened to your shoes?"

"Nothing happened to them. I took them off."

"Why?"

"To get comfortable." And then—again, without any warning—he touched me. I'd felt his hands before. He'd squeezed my neck, for example. He'd held my hand. He'd steadied me. He'd brushed my arm in passing acknowledgment. He'd even grabbed me in anger before. But nothing had prepared me for this: for how vulnerable I felt, my back exposed to him, my face buried in the mattress. For how lightly he touched me, like I might break. For how long it had been since I'd been touched in any but the most casual of ways, and this—even if it was only friendship—reminded me of what it felt like to be touched with concern, even with love. A part of me, I realized, had been aching for it. Starving.

It got a lot less romantic when he poked me.

My head shot up. "Ow!"

"You're fine," Bobby informed me.

"I don't feel fine."

He said, "Hmm."

"I feel like someone poked me right in a brand-new bruise."

"Interesting," he said in a tone that suggested it wasn't all that interesting.

He poked a few more times, and he failed to respond to all my oomphs , whuffs, and other relevant noises I'd learned from comic books.

"Ka-pow?" he said.

"Like Batman. The really campy one."

Maybe even Bobby had his limits because he said, "Head down."

The click of plastic told me he'd opened something, and then came the whisper of his hands rubbing together. I caught a whiff of something—a strong, mentholated scent, but not exactly unpleasant. A moment later, he touched my back again. This time, though, his fingers were slick. He ran his hands slightly across my shoulders, where I'd taken the worst of the fall, and then down. He followed my spine, his hands gliding down the ridge of bone until he splayed his fingers at the small of my back. It was like someone had launched a rocket inside my head. Heck, it was like someone had unloaded a whole nuclear arsenal.

The noise I made wasn't fit for public consumption.

"I told you you'd feel better," Bobby informed me, as though we weren't starring in a low-budget production of Tales from the Massage Parlor 3: The Back Room .

I must have made another incoherent response because he laughed quietly and kept working.

To spare myself some embarrassment, here are the bare bones:

Whatever the cream or lotion was, it felt like heaven—cold at first, and then warming, helping my battered muscles relax.

Bobby knew his business. He had strong hands, and he had a way of digging in just until it hurt, and then rubbing the ache away with more of those long, smooth motions.

I did, in fact, catch myself drooling. Twice. Fortunately, I was also trying to commit suicide by mattress, so I don't think Bobby noticed.

My mind, though, had definitely gone melty. And the proof is that at some point, delirious with how good it felt as the pain eased and my body responded to Bobby's touch, I turned my head to the side and mumbled, "This is why I need a boyfriend."

Then I heard what I'd said.

Silence seemed to crack the universe in half.

Then Bobby chuckled.

"Oh my God," I said and tried to sit up.

"Lie down," Bobby said.

"Oh my God. That's not what I meant."

He pressed me back onto the mattress. "I said stay down. I know."

"Bobby, I didn't mean that."

"I know. It's okay."

He must have decided I was no longer a flight risk because he resumed rubbing my back. Less of a massage now, and more—well, if he'd been my boyfriend, and we'd been doing this, I would have called it…intimate. The kind of easy touch that could be playful or sweet or both. An excuse for contact, more than anything else. The wind rattled the shutters and howled as it parted around the bulk of Hemlock House. I thought I could feel that draft again, the cold air whispering against the ultra-warm skin of my back, and this time I did shiver.

If Bobby noticed, he didn't say anything. He kept rubbing my back, the speed and pressure unchanging. When he spoke, he sounded like he was trying to make a joke. "If you ask my parents, the only reason to date someone is so you can marry them. I honestly don't think my parents have touched each other since I was born. And that's the other thing—the only reason to get married is to have kids."

Ladies and gentlemen, if I've never mentioned this fact before, I am an idiot. My only excuse is that, by this point, my brain was goop from the massage.

I said, "I like kids."

Bobby made a sound like that might be interesting, but he didn't say anything. Seconds passed. And then more. And I thought of how hard it was for Bobby to say the things he wanted to say. I thought maybe, even if he wanted to pretend it was a joke, he did want to talk about something.

"How are things with your parents?" I asked.

He didn't answer at first. His hands slowed. And then, with a kind of renewed vigor, they began to move again. "Oh, fine. I mean, the conversations haven't actually changed all that much. My dad says hi and passes the phone to my mom. My mom asks when I'm going to get married. Or she tells me I can't have kids if I don't get married."

"Do you want kids?"

But Bobby didn't seem to hear me. "I mean, it was the same stuff when I was with West. When are you going to get married? Will they let you adopt if you're not married? I guess we've taken a couple of steps back now. My mom seems to feel the need to remind me that if I don't date anyone, I'm not going to get married."

"And then no kids."

He let out an unhappy laugh. "You need to meet someone. Why can't you meet someone? You should go to the club." He shook his head. "Like she's ever been to a club. She talks to her friends about it. Try this app. Try that app. You should be on Grindr or Scruff or Prowler. I actually don't want to know what she's been researching. Have you ever had to have a conversation with your mom about Grindr?"

"Are you kidding? My mom catfished me on Prowler."

The best word for Bobby's failure to respond was resounding.

"Okay, that makes it worse than it sounds," I said. "But she did create a fake profile. Because I wouldn't let her see my profile. And she wanted to see it. And then I messaged her fake profile because she'd picked this photo of a guy who was really cute. And then it was my mom, so, you know. Trauma."

"Another piece of the puzzle," Bobby said in an underbreath.

"Hey!"

He laughed. "Half the time, she wants to know why I can't find a nice Viet boy. The guy who does my auntie's hair is in the lead right now. He owns his own business, and that's a big deal. Plus he's very good to his mom."

I couldn't help it—Bobby's tone of outraged, almost bewildered frustration—made me turn my face into the mattress and giggle.

He swatted my butt. "It's not funny!"

Let me tell you: if you want to see Dashiell Dawson Dane jump .

The best I could come up with was "Bobby, you can't do that! I'm a victim!"

"You're a brat." But he gave me a conciliatory rub through the jeans (a conciliatory rub is a phrase I will never, ever, ever use again in my life, because it does not mean whatever you think it means—and we both know what you think it means). His voice dropped, though, as he continued, "The other half of the time, she wants to know what was wrong with West. West was so polite. West bought me nice shoes."

Whatever pressure that brief moment of humor had eased, it was back now. It was similar to what I felt when I was trapped in a crowd. Even more similar, as a matter of fact, to when I became the unwilling center of attention—everyone focused on me, everyone watching, everyone expectant. And this had that same energy: a pressure that built steadily with each passing second. To say the right thing. To do the right thing. Not to ruin everything. A flush prickled on my neck and up into my face. My heart started to beat faster. My tongue seemed way too big for my mouth, and my stomach was doing its best imitation of the Magnetron. Whatever I said, it was going to screw everything up. But I had to say something. Not saying something would be even worse than saying something. But what was I supposed to say? A joke, maybe. Bobby had started the conversation by trying to make a joke out of it. Maybe I needed to make a joke, to ease some of the tension.

"My parents want me to date a nice Viet boy too," I said.

Bobby's hands stopped on my back.

I heard what I'd said.

And then I said one of Will Gower's favorite words.

"No," I said, scrambling to sit up. This time, Bobby let me. I got onto my knees and turned to face him. "No, that's not—I didn't mean it like that—Bobby, I was just making a joke."

He studied me, and the way those burnt bronze eyes fixed on me made me aware of the pit that was still opening in my stomach, of the unbearable weight of all that pressure bearing down on me—of the demand, since that's what it felt like, to do exactly the right thing or face unimaginable consequences. I was suddenly aware of the fact that I was shirtless, my pants riding low on my hips. Aware of how thin my chest was. Of how skinny my arms were. Of Bobby's solidly, perfectly muscular build. I caught myself crossing my arms over my chest. (Mostly, if I'm being honest, because of the nipple situation.)

In other words, it was all too much to bear; I spoke first. Again.

"I mean, what do you think? Do you want to start dating again?"

His face was unreadable. There was a pop as the old house settled, and then nothing but the wind. I thought he wasn't going to answer, but then he said slowly, "I don't know."

And that was all.

It was like someone tightening the universe with a ratchet. Everything felt too close, like it was pressed up against my bare skin. Everything felt too much. I couldn't seem to take a full breath, and the familiar white fog of a borderline panic attack filled my head.

Before I could make things even worse, Bobby continued, "I meant what I said last night. I don't want to rush into anything." He seemed to struggle to find the words, and the way he looked at me was…was pleading, I guess. That was the only way I could describe it. Like he was begging me for something. Only I didn't know how to give it to him. In a voice so soft I could barely hear him over the wind, he added, "I want it to be right."

It was my turn. I knew that. He was still looking at me. Still asking me for something with that pleading look. And that only made it worse. Because my whole life had been a series of misunderstandings, of missed social cues, or relationships that soured because I was unable to parse all the little clues. And I thought I knew what was happening—I really did—but I couldn't get past the feeling that everything was moving too fast, that Bobby was charging ahead without taking time to think. He'd said he missed the good parts of a relationship; what if that's all this was? He was lonely. He missed West. Was I supposed to say, Hey, I know you just broke up with your first long-term boyfriend a couple of months ago, so are you sure you're serious? I didn't want to risk our friendship because he was hurting and not thinking clearly. And, if I were being honest, I didn't want to be his rebound, either. If I'd been a character in one of my own novels, the tagline of my little bundle of crazy would have been something like, The only mystery he can't solve is himself . Which was weirdly not true, actually, because I couldn't solve this whole mystery with Lyndsey either.

The strain of the moment, the unspoken plea, the expectation—it fed the panic inside me until my brain shut down. And the only way to be safe—the only way to make everything stop being so scary—was to play it safe.

When I started talking, it was like someone else was speaking.

"Yeah, definitely," I motor-mouthed. "It's got to feel right. But you're never going to find it if you don't try. I think you should do it. I think you should go for it. You know, make a profile. See who's out there. I can even help you if you want, although honestly, you'd probably be better off asking Millie. Or—and I know this sounds crazy—Keme. Definitely do not ask Fox." I ran out of words, and Bobby didn't say anything. He stared at me. I thought, once again, I could trace the hurt: around his eyes, around his mouth, in the way he curled his fingers toward his palms. I braced myself, though. This was for the best. For both of us. For now, until the time was right for both of us. My mouth started running again. "You're such a catch, Bobby. Any guy would be lucky to have you. We've got to get you out there. We've got to find you a great guy." He still hadn't said anything. And I couldn't seem to stop. "It's just like anything else," I said. "You've got to play the game. It's all about numbers. You keep trying until you finally meet the right match." The wind had ruffled his hair, I saw now. His shirt was pulled askew from how he'd sat on the bed. He was wearing his grungy old straight-boy socks that were impossibly, improbably, unreasoningly cute. "Don't worry," I said, my tone so bright it felt like it cut the air. "We'll find you someone."

He didn't say anything. The wind calmed, and I could hear Bobby's breathing high in his chest. He slid off the bed. For a moment, the hurt rose to the surface, and I thought he was going to say—something. I wasn't sure what. Something cruel, maybe. Something meant to hurt.

But this was Bobby we were talking about. His face smoothed out. He said, "Yeah." And then, somehow, he said, "Thanks."

I was aware then of how big Hemlock House was—all that echoing space around us.

"I'm going to call it a night," Bobby said.

I nodded.

"If you need anything…"

I nodded again.

He took a step toward the Jack-and-Jill bathroom, the shortcut to his room on the other side.

"Bobby," I said.

He looked back.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. And then I said, "Goodnight."