Almost an hour passed before Isobel finished compiling excerpts, and it was the sound of the front door opening that made her look up.
She saw her dad step in and set down his briefcase. Instantly she stiffened, but she told herself to take it easy. If her mom had been cool about Varen, then why should she expect any different from her father?
“Hey, Dad,” she tried, testing the waters.
“Hey, Izzy,” he said breezily enough, but when he looked up and into the dining room, something in his eyes darkened. His expression changed.
That’s okay, Isobel thought. Varen’s appearance can be a little jarring at first. Just keep playing it cool and he’ll relax.
“Dad,” she said, “this is Varen, a friend from school. We’re working on a project together for English class.” She gestured to their spread of papers and books on the table. See, Dad?
Exhibit A.
Varen rose again and extended a ringed hand out over the dining room table, toward her dad. “Sir,” he said.
Isobel held her breath. Awkward dot com.
Her dad frowned, his face going hard. He stepped into the room, and Isobel watched as her dad grasped Varen’s hand in what she thought might have been a tighter-than-necessary grip.
Anger shot through her, but she kept her seat, still waiting for the moment of tension to slip away.
The handshake lasted about half a second. Her dad broke from it, saying, “Is that your car parked out front . . . Varen?”
“Yes, sir.”
Her dad’s hardened expression now deepened with a layer of suspicion. “So then, is it safe to say that you were the one who brought my daughter home past midnight the other night?”
Isobel shot to her feet. “Dad.”
“Yes, sir,” said Varen, his tone admitting yet, Isobel dared to think, unrepentant.
“Dad.”
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.
