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Ignoring her, her dad brushed past both of them and into the kitchen, calling for Isobel’s mom. “Jeannine,” he said, “can I talk to you for a second?”
Isobel stared after him, appalled. So, yeah. Hadn’t part of last night’s lecture been about the treatment of guests? Still dazed by her father’s behavior, she became only partially aware of Varen gathering his things and loading them into his satchel.
“Oh, no,” she said, having to stop herself from placing a hand on his arm. “Please don’t go,” she pleaded. “It’s okay. He’s just—”
“Walk me out?” he said, shouldering the satchel. His words had been little more than a low mutter, which Isobel heard distractedly, her ears half tuned to the sound of her parents’
urgent whispers in the kitchen. She thought she caught the word “hooligan” (one of her father’s favorites), and, afraid Varen had heard too, she nodded, pressing forward through the dining room, into the foyer, and then outside. She held the storm door for him again, and they stepped onto the front porch. A chilling wind swept up around them, stirring wind chimes somewhere in the distance—a ghostly sound.
Isobel wrapped her arms tightly around herself. They descended through her yard and to his car without words. He opened the passenger-side door and threw in his satchel, then, rounding to the other side, opened the driver’s-side door. Isobel stood helplessly by on the edge of the lawn, able only to shiver and watch as she waited for him to climb in and drive off.
He paused behind the car door, holding it open. Standing in the glow of the cab light, he seemed to be waiting for her.
Isobel stepped carefully off the curb and around the car, trying her best to keep her teeth from chattering from the mix of cold and anger. She moved around the car door, not wanting it to be a barrier between them. She kept her gaze downcast at first, drawing as near as she dared, surprising herself as she scooted the toes of her shoes to within inches of his boots.
She focused first on the design of his T-shirt—a wilting rose gripped in the jaws of a skull—and worked her way up to the collar of his green jacket and the light wisps of his hair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She looked up at him. His eyes, once again partially lost in the dark, jagged recesses of his hair, stared down into hers.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
“Varen . . . I don’t think there’s any way I can go with you this Friday,” she said, blurting the thought out just as it occurred to her. Her throat constricted, and she turned her attention once more to their feet. “I want to go,” she went on softly, “but . . .” She shut her mouth quickly, before she was able to make herself sound any more pathetic.
“Don’t worry about it,” he repeated, so gently that she had to look up at him again, to make sure she hadn’t imagined the faint note of amusement there. “Listen,” he said. He leaned down close to whisper, the sensation of his breath against her cheek nearly causing her eyes to flutter shut. “I’ve got to go,” he said, “’cause right now, your dad’s watching every move I make.”
Isobel’s eyes popped open. Over his shoulder, she could see her dad standing in the orange-yellow light of the dining room, squinting at them through the window like some great ogre, his arms folded, his face grim.
She felt the brush of Varen’s knuckles against her jaw. Startled, her eyes returned to his. Then, before she could stop him, he sank away from her and into the driver’s seat of the car.
He turned the ignition, and the sound of his softly wailing stereo broke the silence.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. Isobel stepped back from the Cougar so he could shut the door. Her skin seeming to hum from where he’d touched her. She saw him shift the car into gear and then he drove off, his headlights crossing beams with another car that was just pulling onto her street. Isobel stood and stared after the Cougar until its taillights—like two demon-red eyes—vanished around the next turn. The approaching car pulled into her driveway, and when Danny climbed out from the backseat, she heard him murmur a quick thanks to his ride before calling out, “Hey, Isobel! Who was that?”
Her arms still tightly wrapped about herself, Isobel ignored her brother as she made her way toward the house. She stormed through the front door to find her father in the foyer, waiting.
24
The Woodlands of Weir
“Are you seeing that kid?” her father asked, pointing out the door. Isobel tried her best to ignore the fear that flared through her insides, like dry tinder catching flame. Her father hardly ever lost his temper, but when he did, it was totally lair-of-the-dragon-king, complete with fire breathing and fuming eyes.
“Sam,” came her mother’s voice from the hallway. She appeared in the archway leading to the kitchen, her hands wrapped in a dish towel.
“He’s not a kid,” Isobel seethed, “and for your information, neither am I. What is your problem, anyway?” She tightened her arms around her middle, bracing herself for the argument.
She hated fighting with her dad, and it was such a rare event that it always made her nervous.
“I’m trying to find out if my only daughter is dating a hoodlum, that’s my problem!” he railed.
These words were echoed by the bang of the storm door. Danny, clad in his tan Boy Scouts uniform, awe plastered across his chubby face, entered the foyer. “That car was dope!” he announced. “Who—?” He stopped suddenly, looking between Isobel and their dad, his enthusiasm draining. “Ohhhh,” he whispered, his voice like a tire leaking air, “should have used the back door.”
“Sam, honestly,” her mom said, “I don’t get what the big deal is. They were just working on a project.”
“Did you not see that kid, Jeannine? He looks like one of those gun-toting, school-shoot-out maniacs!”
“Yes, Sam, I did see him! And I spoke with him. He was very well-mannered, and if you hadn’t blown through the roof, you might have found that out for yourself.”
“Who are we taking about?” asked Danny, opening his arms as though expecting rain.
Isobel couldn’t believe this. Her dad was freaking out over nothing! He was blowing a gasket because she’d been doing her homework. “You just can’t handle it that I broke up with Brad, can you?” she growled.
