Sleep No More

SEVENTEEN

I’m not feeling especially cheery as I walk up to Linden’s door—thanks, Smith—but at least Nicole is safe. She’ll live. The sickening display of carnage in the workshop will never happen.

And her parents will never have to find it.

I give one last little shiver at that thought and ring the doorbell. It opens scarcely two seconds later. “I saw you coming,” Linden says with a grin, “but I wasn’t quite fast enough.”

I’m staring; I’m sure of it. His smile practically radiates sunlight as he stands in the foyer, backlit by floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, loose jeans balanced on his hips and a long-sleeved black T-shirt hugging his perfect ribs. For years, I’ve watched with envy as he flirted with other girls—but this, this is something else entirely. Linden at home. Casual and at ease.

“You want to come in?” he asks, holding the door wide.

“S-sure,” I stutter, but he doesn’t even crack a smile. “I brought these for you,” I say, proffering the tray of cinnamon rolls once the door has closed the chill out of the room.

Linden’s eyes widen. “Dude, are these cinnamon rolls?”

“My mom and I make them every year.”

“Wait, wait, you made these? Like, from flour and sugar and stuff?”

I eye him strangely, and he bursts out laughing. “Sorry, that sounded weird.” He leans in closer and whispers, “My mom doesn’t make anything except French toast. And I mean, she uses store-bought bread and dips it in Egg Beaters she put some cinnamon in. It makes her feel domestic.”

I smile back and follow Linden into the kitchen—one of the rooms I didn’t get to see last night. I guess I’m not really surprised that everything is sparkling clean less than twenty-four hours later, but I do wonder how many people it took.

Linden puts the tray on the counter and stares at it for a few seconds before looking up at me with a guilty expression. “Is it really six-year-old of me to ask if I can eat one of these now? They look amazing.”

“No, please do!” I say, grinning from ear to ear. “You have to do it right though.”

He peers at me dubiously. “There’s a right way to eat a cinnamon roll?”

“Yes! Hot roll, cold frosting, eat with your fingers,” I say with a laugh. In the end, I cave and let him use a fork, even though I inform him that he is missing the best part of the experience.

He puts a big bite in his mouth and then closes his eyes and groans. “Oh, man, this is so good. I’m not just saying that because you’re here. These are amazing.” His eyes fly open and he swallows. “I’m such an ass, let me get you one.” And he’s turning to grab a plate before I can stop him.

“No, no, no,” I say, putting my hand in his way as he tries to fork me a cinnamon roll. My stomach is still clenching from the horrific experience I’ve just had. At this rate, I won’t be able to eat for the rest of the day. “I swear I’ve eaten a whole dozen in the last two days. I honestly don’t want one.” That sounds convincing, right?

“Suit yourself,” he says, taking another bite. “But I’m going to be so very rude and eat this in front of you because I literally cannot stop.”

I laugh as he continues to munch and we chat a bit about our Christmas presents. I feel the tension from the last hour start to loosen. He shrugs off his new snowmobile when my jaw drops at the thought of getting something so expensive and he smiles at just the right moment when I tell him about the tunic top my mom made for me. I’m not sure how real-life Linden manages to be even more perfect than in-my head Linden. But somehow, he does.

By the time he sets his fork down on the empty plate, I’ve managed to clear my chest of the fear and tension my session with Smith worked up.

“Thanks again for coming last night,” Linden says, and his voice is quiet now. “I had a really good time. A—a better time than I thought I would. Not that I didn’t think I’d have a good time with you,” he corrects, sounding almost nervous. “But I . . . I had a good time.”

He scoots the plate out of the way and leans across the bar with his elbows on the counter. His nose is literally less than six inches away from mine, and my stomach feels like worms are trying to squiggle out of it.

“Me too,” I reply, too wimpy to lean closer. What if this kind of close proximity is normal for him? What if it doesn’t mean anything?

“And I’m glad you came today,” he says. This time I’m sure it’s not my imagination that he leans forward another inch or two.

“Because I brought you cinnamon rolls?” I ask teasingly. Did I just flirt with him? Go me!

“A bonus,” he says, and this time I can feel his breath on my face. I nod. There is no speaking left inside me. My hands feel useless sitting on the counter until his fingers slide up and cover them. “When we go back to school, I hope we can hang out more.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, though it’s like every nerve in my body is connected to my hands. I hope they don’t start to sweat.

“I think it’s dumb that people avoid you because you have health issues. It’s not like it’s your fault.”

Hello, reality. My stomach twists and I wish he had said anything other than that.

“Hey, hey, don’t look like that,” Linden says, and he lifts my face with two fingers beneath my chin. “We don’t have to talk about it. I’m sorry.”

He’s sorry? Because I’m a liar? I force myself to smile. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.” I pause for a few seconds and then, feeling emboldened by the touch of his hand on mine, I ask, “Do you ever feel out of control of your life?” He laughs, and I protest. “I’m serious!”

“Me too,” Linden says, still smiling. “But isn’t that what being a teenager is? I swear my parents monitor every step I take.”

“Really?” I ask, a little surprised. That’s not a problem I have. I never considered my mom to be overly trusting, but maybe she is.

“Sure. And they want to plan my life. I’m not even a senior yet and my dad already has my college picked out for me. And grad school. Wants me to be a big-shot lawyer like him.”

“Is that what you want?”

He snorts. “Work his hours? Defend the scum he defends? No way.” The laughter has disappeared from his voice and I can tell this is something he seriously resents. “I don’t know what I do want, but his life isn’t it.”

“Me too,” I say, thinking of Sierra. The plans she has for me with a secret group she won’t tell me much about. The future I’m not sure I want.

“Your mom? Really?”

“My aunt. She lives with us.”

“We should make a pact,” Linden says, and his grin is back. “That we’ll both do what we want after high school. And that we’ll help each other.” His tone is light, but he sounds mostly serious, like he’s really looking for a coconspirator.

He doesn’t know how serious that kind of a promise is for me.

Or how appealing.

My heart races as I stick out my hand. “Deal,” I say, hoping I sound flirty, not nervous.

He slides his hand into mine and grips it tightly. “That’s a promise,” he says softly.

“Promise,” I echo, and something about saying it out loud makes me feel like I could take control of my future. Grab it with two hands and do it my way.

“We should seal it, somehow,” Linden says, studying my face.

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not going to make me spit on my hand, are you? Or poke my finger with a needle?”

“That wasn’t really what I had in mind,” he says, and as he leans forward, he pulls on our joined hands, bringing me closer to him. “Just to make it official,” he whispers.

Then his lips gently brush mine.

It’s not long. Or passionate. It’s just the barest hint of lips against lips.

And it’s perfect.

His mouth is warm and he tastes like sugar and cinnamon and something else entirely his own. I know it’s not Linden’s first kiss, but it is mine.

And it is everything—everything—I dreamed it could be.