Page 17 of Under Locke & Key

Theoretically, I know this is sweet and she’s checking in on me but it never escapes my notice that my mom doesn’t ask me about my well-being, only about my job.

Before that it was questions about school, no boys (or girls) and nothing too deep.

It’s always like that, like she’s scared that if the question does come up and the answer isn’t what she expects, she won’t know where to go.

Everything with Sarah Mackey is carefully crafted.

Despite an average, just-below-the-comfort-of-middle-class upbringing, my mother has worked hard to give the appearance of more.

Saying the right thing—being measured in how she does it—dressing the right way .

. . my mother’s always tried to present herself well to get into people’s good graces.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it does make it hard to confide in someone who is more concerned with how things look than how they actually are below the surface. As long as I look okay, as long as my job sounds good, that’s enough for her.

I suck in a deep breath, half to quell my overreaction to Bryce’s freckled forearms and half to steel myself into giving the proper response.

Glad to hear you all are enjoying yourselves.

Have some boardwalk fries for me!

Work is going well, just busy as usual. Very much same old, same old.

Thank you for checking in. Hope you guys enjoy the rest of your stay.

I hesitate between calling it a visit. Then a stay.

Then a break. Then a vacation. Typing and erasing, the three little dots making my message likely seem far longer on her end than it is in actuality.

There’s no way I can tell her that I quit my “dream job” just when it looked to her like I was going to start moving up.

There’s even less of a chance that I can admit I’ve “thrown it all away” on a position that isn’t permanent and doesn’t pay nearly as well as the previous one.

Another big sigh works its way out of my lungs and I pat some cold water onto my cheeks to ground myself.

I’ve responded. We both know the other is alive and apparently well.

If she sends anything back I can reply later.

There’s no point working myself up over this while Bryce waits for me back at the table.

Making my way back to my seat, I notice Bryce talking to someone and I inch closer, but not all the way back to the table. I don’t want to interrupt.

“—surprised to see you out with someone. She’s stunning. Didn’t know you had it in you, Dawson, you sly dog.”

“It’s not like that, Nate.” Bryce’s words are clipped, like he’s annoyed or embarrassed and my face flames at his tone.

“I get it. I wasn’t expecting to see you out with someone that wasn’t Steph…

someone that looks nothing like her. I’m not trying to imply anything or make you uncomfortable.

Last I heard, you guys”—whatever Nate sees on Bryce’s face has him pausing before he shifts gears—“It's just good to see you, though. Logan mentioned you were back in town for a while. We should get drinks sometime. I’m here if you want to talk.” The offer from Nate seems genuine but there’s practically a radioactive wave of discomfort coming off of Bryce.

His shoulders are tensed, his hands fisted on the tops of his knees, out of sight of his friend.

“I—again. Today with Rachel, it’s—it’s business. Besides, Steph doesn’t . . . she’s not . . . her and I aren't—” Bryce full on stammers, tripping over the name, and I can only imagine that Steph is his wife and the idea of anyone getting the wrong idea about him is terrifying to him.

Nate holds up a hand to stay him, as if to say it’s okay that he can’t put it into words.

“Say no more. Just let me know when you want to hang out and we’ll make a plan. It’s good seeing you.” Nate smiles at Bryce and then heads back to his own table. I take it as my cue to return.

Sliding into the booth I can only hope that my cheeks aren’t as hot as they feel and that Bryce doesn’t suspect I’ve just been eavesdropping on him and his friend.

Thankfully he’s too wrapped up in his own thoughts, and our food arrives shortly afterward.

Despite my overactive mind and his apparent internal rumination, it doesn’t feel awkward, just lacking.

I want him to speak, I realize. Although the silence is just a tepid, neutral thing between us, I wish he’d disrupt it or at the very least my thoughts so that I’m not mentally trying to picture what his wife looks like.

Blonde, maybe?

Our plates cleared and taken away, the waiter drops the check in front of Bryce and he pays before I can protest.

“Working lunch,” he says, waving me off with a tight-lipped smile, as if even that much of the facial movement is too much.

“I’m not going to complain too loudly. Thank you.” I follow him out to the car and he hands me the stack of papers that’s lying on the backseat.

“I’ll see you next week?” I ask, and his eyes focus on me long enough for him to nod.

“I’ll email you, but it’ll likely be Tuesday, depending on my chat with Jim and going over the budget now that I’ve seen how much work some of these places will need.”

“Sounds good, thanks.” Stilted. My words feel like I’m trying too hard, as if me saying the right words the right way will pull him out of whatever’s occupying his mind and making him frown like that.

“Right. I’ll wait here until you get inside safely.”

I want to scoff at his offer, point out that it’s full daylight and my place is literally just across the street, but I don’t.

It’s genuine, and something inside of me kind of .

. . settles. No one has ever offered something so kind, so quietly caring.

It’s just the decent thing to do and Bryce, yet again, has done it without even seeming to notice or try.

Half-walking, half-jogging to make the break between cars, I jaywalk across the street, not keen to go down a block for a crosswalk. Pushing into the entryway for the apartment, I turn to wave at Bryce.

He’s standing, watching. His forearm rests on the top of his open car door and his expression is inscrutable from across the road, but he gives a little answering wave and then folds his body into his car.

Within moments he’s pulled out of the spot and down the street, and I watch until the car fades from view, unsure why I do.

Maybe to extend him the same courtesy?

Maybe just to prolong this moment because all that’s waiting for me upstairs is unpacking and more unpacking. Ugh. Gotta get it over with sooner or later. I trudge up the narrow stairs, slot my old key into the door and step inside my apartment.

Boxes upon boxes, some unpacked and broken down, most still taped up or hanging half open because I needed something but didn’t want to bother with the lot, wait for me.

I suck in a deep breath and stretch my neck to either side, feeling the pull and pumping myself up for the task. Setting a two-hour timer, I get to work in the living room and try to ignore the waiting text message from my mom and the puzzle that is Bryce Dawson.

* * *

“Okay, who died?” ángel asks on the other end of the call before I can even get a greeting out.

My breath huffs out on an incredulous laugh. “No one. Why is someone dying?”

“I don’t know, why are you calling me at six p.m. on a Saturday night? Why are you calling at all? We communicate through snarky bar visits and memes. This is a new development for me, so excuse the skepticism and concern.”

Dropping back onto my bed, I stare at the ceiling, watching the sunlight retreat out of the room, tugging the shadows along with it so they take up the space where the day has been.

“No one is dead. I wasn’t aware that calling you would elicit such a strong response. I thought we were friends, and friends sometimes do this thing called talking. Mobile devices make it easier when people aren’t in the same room, that’s all this is.”

ángel’s “Hmm” stretches through the air waves, as if he knows this is bullshit—which it is—but he could at least play along for a bit before he calls me out on it.

“Okay, you caught me.” I sigh.

“Please tell me it’s Keith that’s dead.”

“Nope. Well, not as far as I know since I no longer work at Lakin-Cole or live in D.C. for that matter.”

There’s shuffling on the other end of the line, like ángel’s dropped the phone and scrambled to grab it. When he responds it’s much closer and louder. Off of speaker, perhaps?

“ Rachel,” ángel says my name like it’s a warning, “spill.”

I regale him with the whirlwind that was my quitting and moving, and the encouraging visit with Sebastian and Farren.

Throughout it all, ángel makes noises at the appropriate times, just listening.

I’m so grateful to him. Even though he’s fantastic at listening—an occupational hazard, he’s told me.

A lot of people will spill their guts when they’re drunk, and the bartender is usually the closest friendly face—and one that can’t leave.

A captive audience for their misery. It’s not until Bryce comes up that ángel actually gets animated.

“ Bryce , huh? Tell me about this guy. Old? Bald? Conspiracy theorist?” There’s a bright quality to his voice and I know he’s eager for information. So, I’ll give him the barest.

“Not old. Not bald. Plus, you know me better than that. I might have been desperate for a job but I’m not stupid. There’s no way I would have agreed to taking this position if he’d been a conspiracy theorist, or had bad vibes.”

“Oooh, so he’s got good vibes and he’s hot?” The humor in his voice is hard to miss and I hate that he knows me so well.

“When did I say he was hot? I never said he was hot.”

I can hear the pause on the other end of the line, feel the raised eyebrow and the unsaid “seriously?” and ángel doesn’t let it drop, despite my trying to play it off.