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Finally, they rounded one last bend, and though she could see that there was still room to climb, Liam stopped at a flat outcropping, a sort of makeshift lookout point, and waved his arm out over the edge with a little flourish. For a moment, she couldn’t look; instead, she bent over with her hands on her knees and struggled to catch her breath. Liam had hardly broken a sweat, and briefly, fleetingly, she decided that she hated him. What was he thinking? It was nearly dark now, and he’d dragged her up some stupid mountain on a lark. She’d never in her life felt more like a city kid, and she was suddenly certain that she didn’t belong here. She was built for rooftops, not mountains.
But then she turned around, and there it was, the city of Edinburgh: spread before her in shades of purple and gold, all spires and turrets and glittering lights. Lucy stepped up to the edge of the overlook, her eyes wide and her chest tight. In the distance, the castle glowed a faint white, and a scattering of other monuments pierced the evening sky.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, and Liam stepped up beside her. He was so close that she could hear a small rattle in his throat when he breathed, could feel the heat rising off him, but in spite of this, her thoughts were still five thousand miles away, in another place with another boy, and the unfairness of this lodged itself in her chest and made her feel like crying.
Because what was she supposed to do now? There was no point in waiting for someone who hadn’t asked, and there was no point in wishing for something that would never happen. They were like a couple of asteroids that had collided, she and Owen, briefly sparking before ricocheting off again, a little chipped, maybe even a little scarred, but with miles and miles still to go. How long could a single night really be expected to last? How far could you stretch such a small collection of minutes? He was just a boy on a roof. She was just a girl in an elevator. Maybe that was the end of it.
Beside her, she could feel Liam smiling as the sky went a notch darker and the lights a notch brighter. “It looks like a painting, doesn’t it?” he asked, and the words stirred something inside her. She let out a long breath, then shook her head.
“It looks,” she said, “like a postcard.”
11
For Thanksgiving, they bought a chicken instead of a turkey.
“There’s no way we could eat that much,” Dad said as he wheeled their cart through the freezing cold aisles of the grocery store. And then, as if they needed reminding, he added: “There are only two of us.”
Owen gave in to this, and to store-bought stuffing, too, but he insisted they make all the sides, even turnips.
“I hate turnips,” Dad said with a groan.
“So do I,” Owen said, dropping them into the cart. “But they were her favorite.”
“Maybe we should start some new traditions of our own.”
“Fine with me,” said Owen, “as long as chicken isn’t one of them.”
Dad sighed as he steered the cart toward the checkout. “Next year will be better.”
Owen said nothing; he couldn’t think of a response.
They spent the morning preparing mashed potatoes and turnips and cranberry sauce in the cramped kitchen of their rental apartment, a small two-bedroom place with thin walls and a hissing radiator. The scent of the chicken in the oven was overpowered by the scent of salsa from the Mexican restaurant downstairs. They’d been here almost two months now, and Owen had grown used to the way everything from the carpets to the couches always smelled a little spicy. Even his clothes had a kick to them that deodorant couldn’t quite mask.
“If all else fails,” he joked as he stirred one of the pots, “we can always grab some tacos.”
“Come on now,” Dad said. “I used to do a lot of the cooking, too.”
Owen snorted, and Dad couldn’t help laughing.
“Fine,” he said. “But I microwaved with the best of them.”
“You still do,” Owen conceded. “It’s quite a skill.”
When they sat down to di
Finally, Owen cleared his throat. They’d never been much of a prayers-before-di
“I’m thankful that we’re here together,” he said, his voice gruff. He wanted to say more, but most of what was in his heart were things that he wished, rather than things he was thankful for: that Dad would find a job that lasted more than a week, that someone would buy the house in Pe
After a moment, he glanced up at Dad, whose eyes were closed.
“And I’m thankful for this chicken,” he concluded, “who sacrificed his life to save a turkey.”
Dad shook his head long and slow, but Owen could see that he was smiling, too.
“Amen to that,” he said, picking up a fork.
After di
“I’m go
“Don’t stay out too late,” he said. “I want to get an early start tomorrow.” Then, just before the door fell shut, he added: “Tell Paisley I say hello.”
Outside, it had started to snow, the flakes slow and heavy. Before coming here, Owen had never experienced this kind of weather. Back in Pe
The streets were quiet tonight. Everyone was bundled into their homes, the lights on in the windows as they finished off the last of the turkey. Owen’s boots made deep footprints as he trudged through the town, which looked like the set of an old western, full of saloon-like bars and art galleries with elaborate wood-paneled doors. This was a ski town in the winter and a vacation spot in the summer, a place so filled with tourists that it never felt quite real. Everything was seasonal and everyone was just passing through. It was a place of transition, and at the moment, that suited Owen just fine.
When he reached the old diner that was shaped like a train car, he wandered around to the side, waiting beneath the towering pines, which formed a kind of umbrella against the snow. Most evenings, he’d be back there in the narrow kitchen, elbow-deep in dirty dishes, his eyes burning from the soap and grease, his fingers clammy inside the damp rubber gloves. But he was off tonight for the holiday.
Through the windows, he could see that a surprising number of people had taken advantage of the turkey special tonight. He sat down on the wooden steps, but they were too cold, and so he stood again, pacing out front until he heard the door creak open behind him.
“Hey, you,” Paisley said from where she stood a few steps above him. She’d thrown her coat over her shoulders without zipping it, and her cheeks were rosy from the heat of the kitchen. Owen felt his heart quicken at the sight of her. She was probably the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and certainly the most beautiful he’d ever kissed. She had pale blue eyes and impossibly long blond hair, and when she got worked up about something—the amount of pollution in Lake Tahoe or the plight of the red wolf or the various problems in Africa (anywhere in Africa)—she would absentmindedly braid it, never failing to look surprised later when she discovered what she’d done.