The Impossibility of Tomorrow Read online

  I want so badly to cross the tree house to where he sits, to pull him into my arms. The gulf between us shatters me. His pain shatters me. Thoughts of Nicole are nothing compared with this. I don’t care about other girls. I just want him to be okay.

  “You should go,” I say sharply, and he flinches.

  He stands up and I’m immediately freezing. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a piece of paper, thrusts it into my hands.

  I look down and my breath catches in my throat.

  It’s a photo of Kailey. No—not Kailey—me. The photo he took of me last Friday, only a week ago, before my world fell apart, before Cyrus destroyed it with a song. My eyes look into the camera, full of love, the golden setting sun changing their color, an abandoned fountain behind me.

  “Keep it,” Noah says, as I hear him leaving. “I don’t want it anymore.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Sunday afternoon has been torturous. I stole away from the Morgans’ house earlier to call the hospital from a pay phone. Taryn is still in a coma, and the nurse didn’t sound optimistic. And then I had to come here to help set up for the dance, where I’ve been forced to work alongside Noah for hours.

  He flicks a switch, and my back is flooded with heat from the photographic lights he’s arranging around Echo’s mural backdrop, diffused with white umbrellas.

  “Damn,” I mutter, as my hammer hits the nail off-center, bending it in half. “Echo, can you give me another nail?” I ask.

  “Here you go.” She pulls one from the front pocket of her overalls and hands it to me.

  I’m acutely conscious of Noah’s nearby presence, awash in longing that’s tainted by awkwardness. We haven’t spoken the entire afternoon—no small feat when we’re both wedged in the same small corner of the Claremont’s ballroom, the makeshift photo studio that just needs Echo’s mural to be complete.

  On top of that, I’m anxiously waiting to hear back from Lucia. She’s had the details on both bidders for days, but she hasn’t called me back yet. I’ve been checking my phone compulsively all day. She must not have heard back from her computer guy yet, the guy who should be tracing the identities of the bidders. And until she does, I’m in a state of suspended animation. I can’t do anything about Reed until I know for sure that he’s Cyrus, and it’s driving me mad. I’m worried I won’t have my proof before the auction is over tomorrow, while we’re at the winery. Time is running out.

  “Echo, it’s beautiful.” I stiffen at the sound of Reed’s voice behind me.

  “Thank you,” she replies. I glance at her face and am surprised to see her blushing, her brown cheeks rosier than I’ve ever seen them, nearly matching the cinnamon-hued scarf that she’s wrapped around her mass of yarn-and-ribbon hair.

  Reed’s right—her mural is beautiful. The ten-foot-wide finished canvas is absolutely stunning, the celestial star map shimmering with metallic paint and exquisitely rendered detail.

  “Hey, Noah, Kailey.”

  “Hi,” I answer Reed coolly, not turning around, and raising my hammer for another whack at the nail that my fingers somehow manage to hold perfectly straight.

  “Hey,” Noah tosses back with genuine friendliness.

  “You’ll definitely want to bring your camera tomorrow,” Reed tells Noah. “The winery is quite picturesque.”

  “Don’t worry,” Noah replies. “I never leave home without it.”

  I hate this—Noah and Reed bantering like the best of friends. My stomach starts to ache.

  “We’re going to have a fantastic time,” Reed declares. I aim my hammer. With a satisfying thunk, I hit the nail right in its center, driving it deep into the wall with one bang. I kneel down to the box of nails and grab another handful, dropping them into the pocket of my baggy cargo pants, before whirling around to face Reed.

  “What are we going to do up there, anyway?” I ask.

  He appraises me. “You think you can make me show my hand so easily? Nice try, Kailey.”

  “So you’re going to surprise us?” Noah grins at Reed, careful to avoid looking at me.

  Reed chuckles softly. “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I answered that, would it?” His face turns serious. “I’m just looking forward to getting to know you all.”

  Looking forward to knowing who Seraphina is, you mean. And then punishing her. I turn around to the mural, pulling the canvas taut and moving several feet down, readying myself for the next nail.

  “You two won’t mind if I borrow Echo for a minute? There are some glitter-covered stars that require her artistic direction,” Reed says.

  “Go ahead,” I say listlessly. I sense Reed and Echo walking away, leaving me alone with Noah, but I keep focused on my task, holding the next nail in my lips as I pull the canvas into place. Please, I plead silently to the phone in my pocket, ring. Please call me, Lucia.

  I can feel Noah’s eyes on my back. I wish he weren’t coming tomorrow, that he would stay home where he’s safe. Even verbal abuse from his father is preferable to whatever Cyrus has planned.

  “Noah?” I ask.

  “What?” he says flatly.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t come tomorrow.”

  He sucks in his breath. “Seriously? You hate me so much you can’t even stand to be near me for a night?”

  Against my better instincts, I shove the hammer in the loop of my cargo pants and turn around. His sweatshirt sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing his well-muscled forearms and large, long-fingered hands. One of the photo lights is shining on his face, illuminating the hurt in his blue eyes. They remind me of a mountain lake, high in the Sierras, treacherous and deep. “I think we need some space. Some time apart,” I say quietly.

  He folds his arms across his chest. “Can’t we even be friends? The way we used to be, before . . . this? Before your car accident. We used to have so much fun together.”

  “Things change,” I say coldly. “And I’d rather you just stay away from me.” His eyes flash with pain. I don’t know who my words hurt more, him or me.

  I look behind him, on the ballroom’s antique floral carpet, the crystal-dripping chandeliers, the straight white columns that flank the parquet dance floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a girl approaching, a vision of shiny brown hair and a clingy tank top. Nicole.

  “If that’s really how you feel, maybe I’ll stay home tomorrow,” he says sadly, raking his hands through his hair.

  “What are you talking about?” Nicole cries, hurrying to his side. “You have to come. I was going to ask you for a ride. You wouldn’t let me down, would you?” She pouts, jutting out her glossy lower lip even as she gazes hopefully into his eyes. I shove my hands inside my pockets and clench them into fists.

  “Well, if you need a ride . . .” Noah smiles at her, and I want to die.

  “Thank you!” She beams. “I never got to ask you that question I had the other night. We can talk about it in the car.” She puts her hand on his arm. “Plus, I make a very good road trip partner.”

  I press my lips together tightly. Regret curls around my heart. I struggle to breathe.

  “Noah, there you are!” Madison is positively cooing. Nicole’s eyes dart in Madison’s direction, taking in the high-waisted skinny jeans that cling to her curves, her slim legs emphasized by brown ankle boots. Rebecca follows a few steps behind, holding the clipboard. Nicole lets her hand fall away.

  I suddenly feel like I’m watching vultures sweep in to pick at the carcass of my relationship.

  Noah takes a step backward. “What’s up, Maddy?” he asks, shifting uncomfortably.

  “I need some help moving those tables around,” Madison says sweetly. “And you’re done here, right?” She gestures toward the photography setup. I want to punch her in the stomach when he nods. Judging from Nicole’s poisonous expression, she feels the same way.

  “Sure,” he says. “Show me the tables.”

  “Thank you,” Madison replies with a wide smile, a dimple appearing in her chin below her jeweled
stud. “After that, I think it’s quitting time.”

  She leads him away, her arm looped through his, and I turn on my heel toward the mural. I make quick work hanging the rest of it, putting nail after nail through the canvas, punching each one deep into the plaster with a swift thwack. I don’t miss once.

  My task complete, I stash my hammer in the janitor’s closet in the hallway, then wander around the ballroom, feeling disconcertingly like a ghost among my friends. Reed and Echo are perched atop matching ladders, draping the chandeliers with snowflakes. Bryan and Leyla are decorating the buffet tables with antique telescopes that we borrowed from the shop where I work. Chantal and Nicole are on stage, doing complicated things with the soundboard and moving speakers around.

  A peal of bright laughter comes from Madison’s direction, and I see her throw back her head at something Noah said. He’s smiling too. Everyone’s laughing, I realize. Everyone’s having a great time as I slink around in the shadows.

  My phone rings, the sound muffled from the folds of my deep cargo pockets, though I feel its vibration against my knee. I fish it out—an unknown 510 area-code number flashes insistently on the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Jane Smith?” asks a throaty voice that I immediately recognize. My pulse begins to race, and I hurry out to the hallway so no one will hear me.

  “Lucia! I’m so glad you called,” I say, trying to keep my voice down but unable to muffle the joy I feel. “How are you?” I fish a pen out of my pocket as I speak, ready to take notes.

  “Your words ask Lucia how she’s doing, but your tone says you need this info quickly. So I’m not going to do the small-talk thing, okay?”

  “Okay,” I reply, a grin stealing across my face.

  “I have good news and bad news. Which one do you want first?”

  “I could definitely use some good news right now.”

  “One of the e-mail addresses came from a book dealer in the UK. Sterling Books in London. Does that mean anything to you?”

  My heart sinks. It sounds like a run-of-the-mill dealer. Cyrus is definitely in Berkeley, however much I wish he were overseas. “No. What’s the bad news?”

  “The other e-mail address was untraceable.”

  Damn it. “Untraceable? How?”

  “I don’t know the technical details, sweetie. Sorry. But clearly the person at that address doesn’t want to be found.”

  It’s Cyrus. It has to be. “Can you ask your guy to keep trying?”

  She sighs heavily. “I thought you might ask that. He’s already working on it. It’s possible, he told me, but no guarantees.”

  There’s still a chance. “Thank you, Lucia. Thank you so, so much.”

  “Don’t mention it, sweetie. I’ll call you when I know more. Take care,” she says, and hangs up.

  I briefly tuck my hand inside my boot, verifying that my knife is inside, before striding back into the ballroom. Echo is nowhere to be seen, but Reed stands at the base of the ladder she was on earlier, one hand draped across its rungs.

  In his other hand he holds his phone, tapping away on the keys. I watch as he presses a button, then drops it into his pocket.

  Just then, my iPhone vibrates to announce a new e-mail has come in. The movement reverberates through my whole body. I break out in a cold sweat, my breath coming faster as I open the e-mail. Somehow I know what it’s going to be before I read it, but the confirmation brings a riot of goose bumps to my arms.

  It’s a new bid, from the same untraceable address and beating the offer from Sterling Books in London. It was submitted only moments before, at the same time I saw Reed typing on his phone.

  Reed glances up and catches my eye. The smile he shoots me is laced with evil.

  And tomorrow, I’ll be staying at his winery. His turf. Where he could have god-knows-what kinds of traps laid for me to walk into.

  One of us will win. Right now, I am not certain it will be me.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Leyla spends the entire car ride to the Looking Glass Winery extolling the epic coolness of Reed and Rebecca to Bryan, who’s not so easily convinced.

  “They both seem to me like kids who are trying to pretend they’re someone else. What’s with the weird clothes?” he says.

  “What’s wrong with expressing yourself through fashion?” she retorts, tossing her magenta-streaked hair. “I like it when people do something different. Otherwise—how boring would life be?”

  “My life is perfectly complete without suspenders and bowties and that stupid hat Reed wears.”

  I silently cheer Bryan on from the back seat, my eyes trained out the window to hide my amusement, pretending to be absorbed in the sun-soaked late-autumn landscape.

  “It’s a bowler,” Leyla explains. “It’s quirky.”

  “It’s lame,” he retorts.

  She turns to look at him for a moment, and I want to gently turn her attention back to the winding road.

  “What?” Bryan asks. “Would you like me better if I wore a stupid hat?” He flips down the mirror, regarding himself in it. “Perhaps a top hat? Perhaps I should wear a tuxedo to school?” He catches my eye in the mirror and winks.

  Leyla tries and fails to keep a straight face. Her laughter is contagious. “I’m trying to picture you in a top hat,” she sputters.

  “What?” Bryan complains. “If Reed can pull it off, so can I.”

  “Leyla, the road? Perhaps look at it?” I say, from the backseat.

  We almost drive past the sign for the Looking Glass Winery, the letters barely legible in sun-faded paint.

  The road turns to gravel, marred with deep ruts that make Leyla’s Honda shudder alarmingly. Bryan grabs the handle above the passenger-side window, earning him a challenging glare from his girlfriend. “You don’t trust my driving?” she asks, jerking the wheel hard to avoid a large rock in the middle of the road.

  “I totally do,” he says.

  “Then stop grabbing the ‘Oh shit’ handle,” she orders, pointing to his hand.

  “Yes’m.”

  When we finally reach the main house, I see only two other cars: Noah’s VW and Reed’s candy-apple red SUV.

  “Chantal’s mother wouldn’t let her come,” Leyla explains, putting the beleaguered Honda in park and applying a fresh coat of lip gloss in the rearview mirror.

  “Are Reed and Rebecca’s parents here?” I ask. It was the one condition the Morgans had required. They weren’t too thrilled about their underage children spending the night at a winery, but a quick phone call to Mrs. Sawyer seemed to assuage their fears. Reed’s mother assured her that there would be no underage drinking, that the bed-and-breakfast was nothing but wholesome, and that the vineyards were a perfect excuse to teach us about local agriculture. By the end of the phone call, Mrs. Morgan had even made reservations for herself and her husband to visit Looking Glass this coming June.

  “I don’t think so,” Leyla says, opening the door. “Not that it would matter to Chantal’s mom. That girl’s going to go crazy one day, mark my words. Shaved head, punk band. The works.”

  I contain the smile that curls the corner of my mouth. I have to admit that the idea of preppy, dignified Chantal screaming in front of a throbbing mosh pit is kind of appealing, if only for the comic value.

  “Finally,” says Reed, his arms held open in an expansive gesture as he walks up to the car, feet crunching on the gravel path. “You’re the last to arrive.” He’s wearing a pair of fitted tan riding breeches tucked into leather boots similar to my own. I just hope he’s not also concealing a knife in his. Cyrus hasn’t armed himself in years, I remind myself. Although that’s because he always had Jared to protect him.

  We retrieve our overnight bags from the trunk of Leyla’s car and follow Reed toward the rambling farmhouse that looks out over the rolling vineyards. The grapevines are a riot of late autumn color, scarlet and gold and orange, making it seem like the hills are in flames.

  “Welcome to the Looking Glas
s Inn,” Reed says, pointing to the house. “Built in 1892.” The house is admittedly incredible, a three-story Victorian with a wraparound porch, its white siding brilliant in the late afternoon sun. A weather vane tops its ornate peaked roof, lazily spinning back and forth in the gentle breeze.

  “You grew up here?” Leyla asks. “Lucky.”

  “Yeah,” he replies. “Though we gutted the whole thing a few years ago. Completely modernized.”

  We ascend the tall wooden staircase leading to the covered porch, and Reed opens the door. He’s right: The inside is nothing I would have expected from the historic exterior. It’s stark and modern—Cyrus’s style. A stainless steel reception desk stands to the right, its shiny surface reflecting the chocolate-colored wide-planked wood floors. A placard sits atop it with the name of the inn’s open wireless network spelled out in a sans-serif font. Thick rugs in geometric patterns cover the wood, and the walls of the lobby are lined with many framed mirrors. Everywhere I look, I see my own face reflected in them. The effect is unsettling.

  “What’s with all the mirrors?” asks Leyla, regarding herself in one of them and patting her hair.

  “Well, it’s called the Looking Glass Inn, genius,” Bryan answers with an amused tone.

  “Duh. Got it.”

  “Are there any other guests staying here?” I ask, wandering over to a tall window that overlooks the vineyards, feeling the weight of the inn’s remote location settle over me.

  “It’s just us.” Reed smiles, his teeth very white. “We always close the inn for the winter. We have the whole place to ourselves.”

  “I thought your parents were here too?” I ask, my voice faint.

  “They’re in Berkeley. My dad agreed to speak at a winemakers’ conference tonight. I think we’ll have a lot more fun without them.” He winks, and I shiver. Just what does he have planned?

  “Come on,” he says, “everyone else is in the great room.” Reed leads us down a short hallway, the bright white walls covered with more mirrors. Even without the lights on, the space feels startlingly bright.

  We emerge in a large, open room with high ceilings and a slate-tiled fireplace that’s large enough to walk into. One whole wall is made of glass, revealing a terraced garden dotted with iron tables and furled umbrellas. Stretching away from the house is another gravel path leading down the hill.