Parrish Page 12

  She’d probably starve before sharing food with someone.

  “When will you treat us to a taste of your Cuban heritage by cooking something for us, Sadie?” Deacon asked.

  “She rejects her Cuban heritage,” Jefferson stated matter-of-factly.

  I would have thrown him a dirty look, but he was right.

  “Why?” Deacon pressed.

  “Because her mum wants her to embrace it and she doesn’t like her mum,” Jefferson said.

  “I can answer for myself,” I said.

  “Am I wrong?” he asked, raising a challenging eyebrow.

  I didn’t answer, but rolled my eyes at him, not wanting to give him the pleasure of knowing he was right.

  The corners of his mouth tightened as he puckered his lips out in a self-satisfied smile.

  He was the worst.

  “Read the letter again, Sadie,” he said, becoming serious once more. “There has to be some kind of clue in there that will narrow down our search.”

  I picked up the yellowed piece of paper delicately, not wanting to stain our only valuable clue. The necklace we’d found, which had the initials “E.C. and E.M.” engraved onto the heart-shaped metal, had led us to another dead end. The letter was our only hope. Without this simple letter, we were stuck in Texas with no direction in our lives and no money in our bank accounts. With it, however, we were one step closer to solving our puzzle.

  “I’m sure one day I’ll understand why things had to end this way, Thatcher,” I read. “I can only hope the beauty of Boston makes up for the sadness I feel in my heart.”

  It didn’t matter how many times we read the crumpled up letter, it still didn’t reveal any new secrets to us.

  “We know she never sent him this letter,” Deacon said.

  “That’s true,” I agreed, not sure this really helped us. “Maybe because she went after him?”

  “That’s not really relevant though,” Jefferson said. “We don’t need to piece together their story; we need to find out where our next location is.”

  “But piecing together their story is part of that,” Brighton insisted. “Our ‘benefactor’ said he or she wanted us to find the link between all of these places, and obviously Thatcher and Eva are the people we’re following here. They are our link.”

  “Are we trying to solve their mystery?” I asked. A love story with a sad ending was not much of a mystery.

  “There has to be more to the story,” Brighton said, abandoning her food as her imagination kicked into overdrive. “Thatcher came all the way from England to see Eva after she lost her job. I doubt one year later he’d suddenly decide he didn’t want her anymore. There must have been a reason he ended it so abruptly. Maybe because of the second set of initials on the locket Eva hid?”

  “I think you’ve been watching too many of your Korean dramas,” Jefferson said, taking the letter from my hand.

  It didn’t escape my notice that he still wore his father’s ring on his right hand, and I couldn’t help but feel a small surge of pride that I had convinced him that it was okay to remember his dad. The ring was a reminder that Jefferson was actually a human being underneath all of the mood swings and disturbing mannerisms.

  “Mark my words,” Brighton said. “You find the reason Thatcher left Eva so suddenly, and you figure out our mystery. And if it doesn’t have something to do with this third player from the necklace, I’ll share food with all of you.”

  I pondered this for a moment, wondering if it could really be that simple. Or not so simple depending on how you looked at it, since we had no idea who the other person on the necklace was.

  “Do you think our benefactor knows the answer to this mystery?” I threw one of the empty Chinese food containers across the room and narrowly missed the trash can. “Or are they just hoping there is a link between these places? Because I’m going to be pretty mad if we’re searching for something that doesn’t exist.”

  “If it comes to that, I say we just make up a link and get our money,” Deacon answered with a yawn. He took his glasses off to rub his blue eyes sleepily. “If we’re going to head out early tomorrow . . . or today, I guess, we should get some sleep.”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  Our “no drive day” had been cancelled since we had a real clue to follow.

  I had gotten almost no sleep on the Queen Mary, and sleeping in the car on the way to Texas hardly counted, so my eyelids were drooping before Deacon even made the suggestion to go to bed. No matter how cramped it would be with two incredibly tall Parrish boys in one full bed and Brighton and me in the other, I knew I’d sleep better tonight than I’d ever slept in my life.

  Chapter 14

  I stared at the dark ceiling in a silent rage.

  Or at least, I tried to stare at the ceiling.

  It was a bit difficult with Brighton’s arm dangling over my face.

  I’d already pushed her off of me five times in the last two hours, but no matter how thin and perfect my best friend was, she was a bit of a bed hog. Of course, the fact that she slept like the dead didn’t help, because every time I rolled her over or pushed her arms off me, she’d just fling her long limbs out again and smack me on the nose.

  I let out a little huff of frustration, trying to be silent in my anger so I didn’t wake the Parrish boys. No matter how impossible they were on a daily basis, a tired Parrish was by far the worst kind to deal with.

  Moving slowly to avoid rustling the covers, I turned over on my side, facing away from Brighton and finding an impossibly large set of green eyes staring at me. Needless to say, I jumped at the unexpected and unwanted company of Crazy Parrish Number One, lying on his side and watching me like a creeper.

  “Why are you still awake?” I whispered in slight annoyance.

  “You try sharing a bed with Deacon,” he whispered back.

  “Don’t get me started. At least he doesn’t beat you up all night.”

  “You have no idea. He’s a sleep snuggler,” Jefferson said with an exaggerated shudder. “I’m two seconds away from sleeping in the bathtub.”

  I smiled over at him, feeling like maybe Brighton’s violent sleeping wasn’t quite as bad as being “snuggled” by a Parrish.

  We both fell silent again, me thinking about how grumpy I’d be in the morning since I obviously wasn’t getting any sleep that night, and Jefferson staring at me as usual.

  “You know how people say you’re weird?” I asked him. He nodded, not even trying to deny it. “This is why.”

  “What did I do?” he asked defensively.

  “Why are you just staring at me?”

  “I’m not staring, I’m looking. There’s a difference,” he said. “And besides, why is it weird to look at someone? I think it’s weird to avoid eye contact all the time like you do. That seems way more suspicious than someone who will look you in the eye.”

  “I don’t avoid eye contact,” I answered. “Your staring is much more off-putting.”

  “That’s the problem with you and all of the ‘normal’ people, Sadie. You think it’s weird to be yourself and act on normal impulses,” he said, not convincing me at all. “Why shouldn’t I look at you if I want to?”

  “That, right there, is what I’m talking about. That’s a weird thing to say. Why would you want to look at me?”

  “Because I’m trying to figure out what you’re thinking, since you’re so opposed to the idea of just telling me what’s on your mind. You bloody women,” he said to himself, as if the female species plagued his existence on a regular basis.

  “You don’t need to know every little thought in my head, Jefferson,” I said.

  “At least I don’t purposefully avoid eye contact with you. All. The. Time.”

  “I don’t do that,” I reiterated.

  “I watch you, remember? I can tell that you’re avoiding looking at me. When we were stuck in that closet, I think that’s the first time you’ve held eye
contact with me for more than a few seconds.”

  I stopped and thought back on our interactions. Most of the time I was annoyed with Jefferson because of his mood swings. Even when he was in a good mood, I spent most of my time getting ready to be annoyed with him for a mood swing that may or may not happen. He may have been weird but he was also observant, and suddenly I felt like a bad friend. He didn’t deserve half of the attitude I threw his way. He was just so odd that I couldn’t help it.

  “I’m going to go sleep in the tub,” Jefferson said suddenly, slipping out of the tiny bed and grabbing his pillow.

  I wasn’t sure if Deacon had tried to snuggle him again or if he just wanted an abrupt ending to our conversation, but either way, I didn’t want to be the reason he woke up with a neck cramp and complained all day. I could only imagine Jefferson attempting to bend his spidery limbs into the small space.

  “Wait,” I called after him in a low whisper, untangling myself from Brighton’s arm that had twisted around my neck in a forceful headlock.

  I suspected she let all of her pent-up anxiety out at night, which resulted in the acts of violence.

  “We can set up camp on the floor,” I suggested. “It’ll be a lot more comfortable than you trying to squeeze into the tiny tub.”

  He looked at me suspiciously.

  “Just wait here,” I said with a sigh.

  He could be suspicious all he wanted—I just had to show him we were actually friends, no matter how mad he made me.

  Grabbing every spare towel in the bathroom and all of our coats from the closet, I formed two lumpy piles of assorted soft items in the small space between the two beds on the floor and threw comforters over them, since Deacon and Brighton insisted on only sleeping with the sheets. Apparently Brighton had read that hotels never washed their comforters so she refused to use them, and Deacon copied her.

  “Those comforters are probably full of bedbugs,” Jefferson said, though he still climbed into the makeshift bed I’d made for him.

  I was glad to see that he was, once again, wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt.

  “Stop complaining. I’m being nice,” I said, climbing into my own little bed. It was surprisingly a lot more comfortable than I thought it would be.

  I formed a little wall of towels between us and prayed Jefferson was a less violent sleeper than Brighton. At least on the floor I had a lot more room to myself, even if it meant technically sleeping on the same level as a Parrish. We were still a few feet apart, so that was a plus.

  “You wear a lot of yellow,” Jefferson said out of the blue, eyeing the yellow tank top and shorts I wore.

  He was lying on his side, still staring at me, but I didn’t think telling him to stop would really do anything. I stayed on my back, looking up at the ceiling and avoiding eye contact . . . something I apparently did often.

  “That’s another weird thing to say,” I pointed out.

  “It was an observation. How is it weird?” he asked defensively.

  He was mad that I was shooting down all of his attempts at small talk. At six in the morning.

  “Because we weren’t talking about clothes, or colors, or anything.”

  “You were looking at my pajamas and making some judgment in your head, so I thought I’d talk about clothes too,” he said, very matter-of-factly. “Like how you’re not wearing the purple pajamas today.”

  How on earth did he know I was thinking about his pajamas?

  “You are one creepy boy,” I muttered. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning that I didn’t own purple pajamas since it was none of his business.

  “And you’re impossible. All I say are nice or neutral things to you and all you say are mean things to me.”

  It was a simple enough assessment, but it still made me feel bad.

  We were silent again for a moment. I wasn’t sure if Jefferson was still staring at me or if he’d given up being creepy for the night, so after a moment I turned onto my side to find that he was, in fact, still looking at me. Of course.

  “Yellow is my favorite color,” I said. He was starting to make me feel guilty about being so mean to him, so I decided I’d play his game and have a weird Jefferson-esque conversation.

  “Why is that?” he asked.

  Of course this would be a conversation he’d want to have in the wee hours of the morning, because what else could we possibly be doing right at that moment?

  “It’s bright and happy and full of life.”

  I let my tired eyes roam over the planes of his face. His sharp cheekbones and jaw caught the fading moonlight in a dramatic way, the straight edge of his nose throwing his face into sharp focus in the darkness. It was amazing how different he and Deacon looked in some aspects. They were both tall and thin, but Jefferson was all olive skin, dark eyes, and curly brown hair, while Deacon was pale with blonde hair and blue eyes. It didn’t make sense to me that they were related.

  “You’re nervous about going to Boston,” Jefferson said, catching me off guard.

  I had gotten lost in studying his face and forgotten we were having a conversation.

  I guess he was right—you could stare at a person in silence without feeling like a huge weirdo. It was possible to lose track of time trying to figure someone out based on the expression in their eyes or mouth.

  “A little,” I confessed.

  “But not because of the investigation.”

  It wasn’t a question. He knew enough about my family to know I had my own reasons for avoiding Boston. We may have never sat down and had a heart-to-heart about the reasons, but Jefferson was observant. He had picked up little bits and pieces of phone conversations and rants to Brighton.

  “I just don’t want my parents to find out I was in Boston and didn’t come visit them.”

  “Or your sister,” he added.

  “Or her.”

  My older sister, Michigan, was my family’s pride and joy, although I wasn’t quite sure why. She was definitely the sweeter one out of the two of us, but she hadn’t done anything extraordinary with her life to make her so much better to my parents.

  “Could you be exaggerating your parents’ bias in your head just a little?” Jefferson asked.

  “They moved away from their hometown just because Michigan got it into her head that she wanted to live in Boston,” I said. “Honestly, I think she moved there to get away from their smothering, and they still preferred to live by her instead of me. And to top it all off, she’s a liar anyway. She’d constantly tell my parents about all of these horrible things I’d supposedly said to her that I never actually did. And when I’d confront her about them, she’d stick to the lie and insist I’d said everything she’d told my parents. Right to my face. She’d flat out lie.”

  I felt a little bad complaining about my parents and sister to Jefferson when he’d told me about his cold, gold-digging mother and his dead father, but I couldn’t help myself. My family was a sore spot.

  “At least they didn’t name you Michigan,” he joked.

  I found that I was smiling in spite of myself. “That was all my mom. She’s this crazy Cuban woman who went from being Yaraina Vasquez to Yaraina Smith. I think to spite the fact that my father’s family changed their Cuban last name to something boring and American when they moved here, she decided to name her first daughter the weirdest thing she could possibly think of.”

  Jefferson let a small smile cross his lips. An actual smile.

  “Good thing you weren’t born first, huh?”

  “My dad had a lot of say over my first name, which is good, since I’d probably have ended up being named Colorado or something.”

  “Your mother sounds charming,” Jefferson said.

  “She’s nuts,” I assured him.

  “I think she sounds great,” he said again.

  He didn’t state outright that I was lucky to have a loving mother, even though I could read the subtext pretty plainly.

&
nbsp; I guess the fact that he hadn’t come right out and said it was an improvement toward becoming normal.

  “It’s late,” I finally said, stating the obvious.

  “What time does the hotel kick us out?” Jefferson asked.

  “Eleven, I think.”

  “At least we’ll get some sleep now, thanks to your genius.” He smiled at me appreciatively.

  “I do what I can.” I yawned, pulling the probably filthy comforter up to my chin and closing my eyes.

  “Good night, Sadie,” Jefferson said after a moment.

  “Good night, Jefferson.”

  Chapter 15

  “You have to take a picture.”

  In my half-awake, half-sleeping state I heard Brighton and Deacon murmuring about something. I hardly cared what it was. I hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep and was determined to drown them out at all costs.

  “You know she’ll kill you for this, right?” he asked with a nervous laugh.

  “But they’re so cute,” she responded.

  I could feel the pressure of an arm lying over my own with a hand resting along my jawbone, and I could only guess who it belonged to. Hearing the camera on Brighton’s phone snap a picture, I knew it was too late to avoid the embarrassing situation, so I kept sleeping, not caring that Jefferson had his hand resting on my face like some poorly posed photo in a magazine.

  He could have had his foot in my mouth for all I cared. I was too tired to do anything about it.

  “Should I pick up some breakfast before we start packing?” Deacon whispered.

  “That would be great!” she said. “I’m going to grab a quick shower before Jefferson wakes up and hogs the bathroom trying to style his mass of curls.”

  “I’ll see you in fifteen,” Deacon said, leaving the hotel room in relative silence.

  As exhausted as I was, I couldn’t seem to force myself back to sleep, though I was lazy and refused to actually get out of bed when I had another fifteen possible minutes of good rest before I’d be forced awake.

  I kept my eyes closed as Brighton rummaged through her bag and eventually went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her and turning on the shower.