I Am Not Jessica Chen(20)
Then his face comes into clear view: him and his cold beauty, his windswept hair, the clean lines of his nose and jaw. He’s staring down at me with a mildly bemused expression, and even through all the noise roaring inside my head, I hear the single beat of my heart.
I wanted this, after he left. To live in the same town, the same city, to be able to bump into him without planning to, to be able to see him just by lifting my gaze. But now he’s here, and my wanting has long soured into resentment.
Please don’t wait for me.
I drop my hand and straighten with false dignity. “What are you doing here?”
“I should ask you the same thing,” he says.
“What do you mean? This is my—” This is my house, I’m about to say, until I remember. “This is my aunt’s house. I have every right to be here.”
“Well, by the same logic, this is my father’s best friend’s house.”
“Can you not hear the obvious distinction?”
His bemusement only seems to grow. “You’re a little . . . prickly today. Did something happen?”
“No,” I say, too sharply.
“Then have I done something to offend you?”
Your very existence offends me. I swallow those words and shake my head. “Of course not. How could you?”
“Right,” he says, but he’s studying me too intently, and I feel my skin warming. Just when I’m about to waver under the weight of his gaze, he looks past me to the front of the house. “Is Jenna in there?”
I tense, quiet shock rippling through my body. Not just because he’s here in my front yard, looking for me, asking for me, but because he doesn’t seem to know that I’m apparently on a trip either. “She’s . . . gone.”
“Gone?” His dark brows furrow. “Where?”
“On some kind of trip, according to her mom. This is my first time hearing of it.” I scan his face as I speak, waiting for the same mist of confusion to descend, but his features are perfectly clear, alert. Worried, I would even say, if I didn’t know better.
“What trip? We just saw her last night, and she didn’t mention anything. Her parents didn’t either.”
“Are you sure?” I press. “You don’t have any impression whatsoever of her leaving?”
“No,” he says firmly. “I was trying to find her at school today, but she wasn’t there. I feared—” He presses his lips together. “I thought she might be sick.”
“Interesting,” I murmur, filing this information away in the back of my mind.
“What was that?”
“I just said it’s surprising, that she’s not around.” I pause. I should probably leave it here, before I do or say something that makes him suspicious or breaks the whole illusion, but I need to confirm one last thing with him. “Do you remember the last time you saw her?”
An emotion flashes over his face, faster than I can catch. “Yeah, of course. It was late, she was sliding into the back seat of the car, and she . . .” The corner of his mouth tugs up for a second, an involuntary change, and even his voice sounds softer than it was earlier. “She helped her mother put her bags inside first, and then as she turned around to wave, she bumped her head against the door.”
I wince. I had hoped the darkness would conceal the clumsiness of my movements; I hadn’t thought he would notice. But how fitting, I guess, that this would be Aaron Cai’s latest and possibly last impression of me.
“I haven’t seen her since,” I tell him, which isn’t a complete lie. “Maybe . . . maybe she really is gone, somewhere far away.”
I hope so, I think to myself, all my old self-loathing bubbling back up again in his presence. I hope that broken, embarrassing version of me never resurfaces again. I hope she remains buried. I hope she’s disappeared permanently.
He nods, though there’s still a trace of disbelief in his eyes, like he knows there’s more to it than what I’m saying. “Okay,” he says after a pause, sliding his hands into his back pockets. “Well, if you do happen to find out where she’s gone, could you let me know? Immediately, I mean. I want to talk to her about . . .” He looks down at the wild, uneven grass. Looks up again. “I just want to talk to her.”
“Sure. I will,” I lie.
I return to Jessica’s mansion.
Their cleaner must have already left, because everything is so polished it’s almost glowing. There are no dirty clothes strewn over furniture, no leftovers in the kitchen. The massive chandelier glitters in the foyer, throwing flecks of light shrapnel over the obsidian and marble surfaces. I’d always wondered what it was like to come home to what’s practically a five-star hotel lobby, complete with the lacquer antique vases on the cabinets and the variety of plush sofas to recline on. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jessica had a special sofa just for reading, and another for watching movies, and another one specifically for lying down and contemplating the meaning of human existence.
I cross the living room, the thick wool of my socks padding quietly over the waxed hardwood floors.
It’s only been a day, but it already feels like years ago that Aaron had appeared here without warning, the subject of my sweetest dreams and very worst nightmares. And now he wants to talk to me . . . about what? About how his feelings toward me haven’t changed? About how he’d like us to stay friends, and nothing more? Or maybe not even that . . .