Starry Eyes

The clinic’s door opens, and I look up from the front desk’s computer, expecting to see my mom’s next acupuncture appointment. My dad doesn’t have anything booked until after lunch, so he left a few minutes ago to run errands around town. Fine by me. I’ve still barely spoken two words to him. I’m not sure what to say. How’s it going? Any new mistresses this week? Or perhaps, What’s there to do in the Bahamas besides betraying your marriage vows and destroying our family?

I shove all of that into the back of my mind and slip on my polite dealing-with-the-public face. But the smile I’m conjuring quickly fades when I see who’s walking toward the desk.

The Lord of Darkness himself, Lennon Mackenzie.

My first thought: What the hell is he doing in here?

He never comes in the clinic. Ever, ever, ever. It’s probably been a year since he’s stepped foot inside this waiting room.

My second thought: OH SWEET LORD, HE SAW ME SPYING ON HIM IN HIS BEDROOM.

If there’s a God above, please let him or her grant me the power of time travel, so that I can rewind the clock and completely avoid this nightmare of a situation. I blink slowly, hoping Lennon will disappear when I reopen my eyes, but no. He and his too-tall body—don’t you dare think about his bare chest—are still taking up too much room on the other side of the clinic’s desk.

“Hello,” he says. It almost sounds like a question.

I think about lifting my chin without saying anything, like he did to me the other day, but quickly decide I’m classier than that. “Good morning,” I say formally. No smile. He’s not worth the effort.

His eyes drop. He balls his hand into a fist and slowly, gently taps it on top of the desk a couple of times while sucking in a long breath between gritted teeth . . . as though he doesn’t know what to say. Or he does, but he really doesn’t want to say it.

“So . . . ,” he finally says.

“So,” I agree. Is he avoiding my eyes? It feels as if he might throw dynamite over the desk and race out the door. Now I understand why people say you can cut tension with a knife.

Is he not going to say anything else?

Is he here to confront me?

What do I do?

“I wasn’t spying on you,” I blurt out defensively. “I was just making adjustments to my telescope. It was repaired. Recently. Recently repaired. I was checking it.”

Oh, now he’s looking at me. Something akin to horror is dawning over his face. Or shock. Or he thinks I’m an idiot. Why can’t I read him? And why is he not saying anything?

“I didn’t even see much,” I insist.

He nods slowly.

“Anything, really,” I amend. “I was testing my telescope.”

“You mentioned that,” he says, squinting at me through tight eyes.

“Sorry. I mean, I don’t have anything to be sorry about, because I didn’t do anything.”

“Right.”

“It was an accident.”

“Got it.”

My eyes flick to his arms. He’s wearing short sleeves, so now I’m staring at muscle. Look away! Look away! Too late. He caught me. Again.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

“So anyway,” he says, setting down a pile of envelopes on the desk, as if nothing is amiss. “I was told to come here and drop off your mail. It got delivered to our shop this morning.”

Oh.

I can barely control the low groan of misery that’s burring from the back of my throat. If I’d just kept my mouth shut . . .

“Uh, thanks.” I shift the letters toward me with one finger and try to recover what little of my pride is left. “These seemed to be sealed, so I guess you guys didn’t open them by mistake this time.”

He tugs his ear. Chipped black fingernail polish glints under the light. “She really didn’t mean to open it. I was there when it happened.”

Crap on toast. He knows. Of course he does. It’s not as if I didn’t wonder or consider that possibility. But this doesn’t stop embarrassment from washing over me now. I busy myself neatly stacking the letters and avoiding his judgmental eyes.

“Hey,” he says in an unexpectedly gentle voice.

I look up and he has a strange expression on his face. I can’t tell if it’s pity or tenderness, or maybe something else entirely. But it feels like he knows something I don’t know, and that only increases my panic-fueled pulse.

The door to the clinic swings open. My dad rushes inside. “Forgot my . . .” He spots Lennon and halts. His brows narrow to a dark point. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

Lennon raises both hands in surrender, but the look on his face is baldly defiant. “Just delivering mail, man.”

“I’m not your ‘man,’ ” my dad says, voice thick with displeasure.

“Thank God for small favors.”

“Show some respect.”

“I’ll show you mine when you show me yours,” Lennon quips, and then adds, “Sir.” But he sounds anything but polite.

I’m not sure what to do. Why did Lennon come over here in the first place? He knows how my dad is. To stop things from escalating, I pipe up and say, “Lennon was bringing over misdelivered mail.”

It’s as if my dad doesn’t even hear me. He just points to the floor and says, “You aren’t supposed to step foot on my property.”

Lennon shrugs. “Your property? Last I checked, you rent this place like the rest of us.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“Better a smart-ass than a dumb-ass.”

Oh, that was a bad thing to say. My dad’s expression goes from angry to furious. “Get out.”

Lennon gives him a dark smile. “On my way.”

“Damn right, you are,” my dad mumbles.

Footsteps pound in the hallway behind the desk, and my mom emerges, breathless, head swiveling in every direction as she surveys the scene. “What is going on?” she whispers loudly. “I’ve got a client on the table!”

“Mrs. Everhart.” Lennon nods politely. “Your husband was just throwing me out.”

“Dan!” my mom chastises.

My dad ignores her. “Don’t come back,” he tells Lennon.

“See you, Zorie,” Lennon tells me as he pushes the front door open.

“You talk to my daughter again, I’ll call the cops,” my dad calls out.

Oh, for the love of Pete.

Lennon turns in the doorway and stares at my dad for several long seconds before shaking his head. “Always a pleasure, Mr. Everhart. You’re a beacon of civility and chivalry. An absolute gem.”

Now my dad is livid, and for a second, I’m worried he might punch Lennon. Worse, I’m concerned that Lennon will bring up the Bahamas photo book.

But Lennon’s gaze flicks to my mom’s, then mine. Without another word, he leaves. The door shuts behind him, and I watch his dark form disappear down the sidewalk.

“Dan,” my mother says again, this time in quiet exasperation. In defeat.

Silence fills the waiting room. My father reins in his anger, and just like that, all of his tumultuous energy dissipates into a slant of sunlight that beams through the front windows. He turns to me and calmly says, “Why was he in here? I thought you weren’t speaking.”

I wave the envelopes Lennon brought. “We aren’t. He was telling the truth.”

Does he understand how humiliated I am by what just happened? Whatever issues Lennon and I have are ours alone, and I’m sick of being stuck in the middle of my dad’s squabbles. All of it: his beef with the Mackenzies, and what he’s done to my mom. If he only knew what I was hiding in my bedroom desk . . .