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Alex hesitated, still looking at the full parking lot. Even if Willow thought it seemed all right, they might be stranded here for several days; they needed to do everything they could to protect themselves. “Listen, we’d better share a room,” he said. “I mean, we’ll get two beds, but —”
Willow stopped in her tracks, gaping up at him in horror. “Do what?”
He felt his cheeks tinge at her reaction, which irritated him; he knew that what he was suggesting was the only sensible thing. “It just looks less noticeable that way,” he said. “Plus, it’s a lot safer if we stick together, where I can keep an eye on you. ”
“I don’t want you to keep an eye on me,” she snapped. She stalked off ahead of him with long, angry strides, her slender back poker-straight.
He caught up with her easily. “What do you think we’re even doing here in Boondocksville?” he pointed out. “People are trying to kill you, remember?”
Willow’s mouth tightened, and she fell into an angry silence. “All right,” she said. “Fine. ” As they approached the glass door marked RECEPTION, Alex started to tell her that he didn’t want this, either, and then bit the words back — he’d sound like he was protesting too much.
Maybe he was.
At the front desk, the clerk shoved a registration card across at him; signing in, Alex showed him some ID — a fake Ohio driver’s license — and paid in cash.
Their room was on the ground floor; neither of them spoke as they walked down the concrete path. When they reached number 112, Alex unlocked the door, swung it open, and groped for the lights. A motel room just like hundreds of others he’d stayed in came into view — the two large double beds, the round table, the TV hanging from the painted concrete wall.
He dropped his bag onto the table; Willow followed him into the room and shut the door behind her. She pulled off her sunglasses and the cap, shaking her hair out and not looking at him. “I’m going to take a shower,” she announced.
Alex nodded. “Yeah, OK. I’ll take one after you. ” He knew that he couldn’t blame Willow for hating him and that it was for the best if she did. So why did he suddenly wish that he could go back through time a couple of nights and take back what he’d said?
Willow rooted through her bag and took out a hairbrush. She headed into the bathroom, but was back out in seconds. “There’s no shampoo in there. Do you have some I could use, please?” Her face was pinched with irritation. Alex knew it was from having to ask him for a favor, rather than caring that much about the hotel’s lack of toiletries.
Opening his bag, he pulled out a tube of sports shampoo and handed it over.
“Thanks. ” Willow disappeared into the bathroom again and shut the door. A moment later he heard the shower starting up, the water hammering against the tiles.
Alex blew out a breath, rubbing his hand across his face. As he picked up the remote control to turn on the TV, his gaze fell on Willow’s cloth bag, sagging open on the counter. He could see her wallet lying on top — it was purple, with a stitched flower on it. He glanced at the bathroom, hesitating. Feeling like a thief, he drew out the wallet; it smelled faintly of Willow’s perfume. When he opened it, he found a New York State driver’s license for Willow Fields, showing that she was sixteen. Nearly seventeen — her birthday was only a month away, on October 24. He looked at the date in surprise; it was the day after his own. He was exactly a year and a day older than she was. The coincidence was unsettling, stirring through him like the whisper of a butterfly’s wings. In the photo, Willow had her head cocked to one side, her mouth closed in a pursed smile. Her green eyes sparkled, even with the dull, unimaginative camera work of the New York Department of Motor Vehicles.
Alex tucked the license back into the wallet and flipped through the plastic photo holders. There was one of Willow and her friend Nina, with their arms around each other and their heads pressed together. They were wearing funny hats, mugging at the camera. And one that had to be Willow as a little girl, holding the hand of a woman with blond hair. Her mother?
Alex looked at this photo for a long time. Willow appeared very young in it, maybe six or seven. And though her mouth was curved in a polite smile at whoever was taking the photo, the expression behind her eyes was anxious. She stood slightly in front of the woman, her body language protective. Willow’s mother — if that’s who it was — had the same wavy blond hair as her daughter and was staring off into the distance. The dreamy smile tugging at her lips was that of someone with severe mental angel burn.
Slowly, Alex closed the wallet and put it away. He turned on the TV. Lying down on one of the beds with his forearm crossed under his head, he gazed at the screen, still seeing the photo of Willow as a little girl. Her love for her mother was obvious; no wonder she hadn’t wanted to leave her.
And now she was over a thousand miles away from home and might never see her mother again . . . with only some guy she hated for company.
WHEN I GOT INTO THE SHOWER, the jets pounded down on me, sweeping away the grime of the last two days. I lathered my hair, wishing that the shampoo didn’t smell so much like Alex. And then I felt irritated that I’d even noticed what he smelled like. The last two days had been difficult enough, without having to deal with him being so stiff and cold toward me, as if it hadn’t even occurred to him that maybe I was a little bit more upset about all of this than he was.
The hot water felt good, vigorous. I stayed in the shower for a long time, savoring it and letting it wash my mind clear of thoughts. When I finally stepped out, I dried myself off, wiped the steam from the mirror with my hand, and wrapped my hair up in a towel.
Then I realized that I didn’t have any nightclothes. Or a toothbrush. Or toothpaste. I felt like crying in frustration. Great. Now I was going to have to ask Alex for help again. I briefly considered sleeping in the towel instead, then thought of the logistics of that and sighed.
“Alex?” I called through the bathroom door.
There was a pause. “Yeah?”
Opening the door a crack, I peered out. “Um — I don’t have anything to sleep in. Do you have something I could borrow? And some toothpaste, maybe?”
He glanced at me and then away. “Yeah, hang on. ” He got up and rummaged in his bag, pulling out a couple of things. He crossed to the bathroom and handed them in to me. Our eyes met.
“Thanks. ” I withdrew quickly inside again and shut the door.
He’d given me a pair of black sweatpants and a faded red cotton shirt with long sleeves. They felt soft and worn, the way clothes get with lots of washings. I tossed them onto the counter, then brushed my teeth with a washcloth and finished towel-drying my hair. When I finally pulled on the clothes, they were so big that they swam on me, the sleeves of the shirt dangling past my hands. I started to roll up the right one . . . but stopped as sensations washed over me.
There’s this thing called psychometry, which is when a psychic can pick things up from objects. Like, you give them dear old Aunt Grace’s wristwatch, and they hold it in their hands and can tell you everything about her. I don’t know how it’s supposed to work; maybe items hold leftover energy or something. Anyway, it’s never worked very well for me — the most I usually got was a distant flicker of emotion.