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“You should leave wherever you are. Teague might have told someone where he was going.”
“I thought that, too,” I add.
Rowan agrees. “For sure.”
“I’ll let you know when we’ve heard about Teague through official channels. Until then, stay hidden.”
“We will. Thanks, Mom.”
She hangs up. A few seconds later a text notification pings. It’s the address to O’Keefe’s Funeral Home in Cambridge. Rowan nods and nods, then goes to retrieve her phone from her bag. I’d asked her to leave it this morning so we could be together without distraction. Hilarious, karma.
She returns and collapses into the second chair, opens a browser, and finds a local florist. “I’ve sent a few funeral arrangements before, but those were always easy. Not personal, just whatever ornate thing popped up in the search and looked expensive. I can’t do that this time.”
“We can choose one together.”
She scooches her chair closer to mine and starts scrolling through the options—bouquets in vases, casket covers, standing arrays. We decide on the latter. “There’s a build-your-own option. Did he have a favorite color?”
I smile at the memory of Gino in middle school, explaining to Teague and me why he loved autumn; the trees turned his favorite color. “Orange.”
“Asiatic lilies, orange roses, and white chrysanthemums,” she says. “That’ll be perfect.”
I’m not shocked that she knows about flowers. She knows a lot about a lot, especially things she likes. She likes sharks and fast cars and books and flowers. Hard and soft. Balanced.
SIXTEEN
ROWAN
We change out of our battle-worn clothes before we leave. I’m in black jeans and a black t-shirt—it’s not a matter of noticeable bloodstains, but I feel the sticky fluid congealing in the fabric, and I hate it. The sweater I gave her to wear on the boat is white, and it’s fucked. Her blood seeped into the collar and the sleeves when she wiped at her wound, and I hate it twice over. I’d burn it in the firepit if I weren’t so abysmal at lighting the goddamn thing.
Jules decides she wants to break down the tent and take it with us. She’s sweet and sentimental and, as much of a clusterfuck our “first date” has been, it’s a memento. A trophy to remind us that the odds are stacked against us, and we’re in the messiest ever mess, but we’re going to win by sheer determination alone. I plead my case that we might not have time: Her father’s henchmen could be on their way to us as we speak, it’s only a possession, and we don’t need it. She flashes me those eyes. I know she’s trying to manipulate me, but recognizing that and giving in anyway doesn’t make me a sucker, it makes me kind. “If it’s that important to you, fine.” I get to work. She tries to help but only ends up getting irritated. I ask her to take care of the air mattress instead.
I’m not “butch” per se, but it’s becoming clear that I’m better at the “boyfriend jobs.” Gender roles are trash, and I don’t believe they should exist, but it’s good to know our dynamic. Like, I know she cooks and she’s good at it. Her mom taught her how. I don’t fucking cook unless I’m aiming to assassinate someone discreetly without the need for poison. She knows I enjoy doing laundry. The simplicity and repetitiveness of it relaxes me. She loves clothes, abhors laundry. Dynamic.
I manage to get the tent folded small enough to fit in its travel bag and we’re out.
The car situation. Do I take the whip I stole? Dumb idea. A stolen car will end up drawing attention to us. The cars I’ve stolen in the past were luxury brands for international buyers in Russia or Qatar, or wherever the fuck my father sends hot merchandise.
The Camaro is coming up fast. I gotta tell her. “Um, I wasn’t bullshitting when I told you I had a problem with my Jeep. What I didn’t tell you, and what makes sense now, is that I had to ditch it because your cousin had me in a high-speed chase on the I-95. I didn’t know it was his car; I’d never seen it before. All I knew was someone was following me.”
“Rowan,” she groans, “this is the kind of knowledge you have to drop on me. I get why you didn’t; you thought it would scare me. Please don’t try to be my father and shield me from everything, okay? We’re in this together, and little spills are easier to clean up than big ones.”
“True.” It’s terrifying how rational she is. She’ll never have to try to manipulate me; all she’d have to do is logic me. Emotions are arguable, cool-minded calculations; facts are not.
She pops the trunk of her white Beamer and I shove the tent and my duffle into it, followed by her luggage. Then she’s cracking up, unprompted, like a madwoman. All I can do is gawp at her as if she belongs in an old-school asylum for the insane. “That.” She points at the Camaro parked a few spaces behind her. “That’s the car you stole, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s hideous.” She covers her injured brow to keep it in check as she laughs harder.
I can’t not laugh. She’s right. “I didn’t have the luxury of searching for an aesthetically pleasing vehicle to boost, Juliet.”
“I’m glad we’re leaving it here.” She hands me her keys. “I don’t know where we’re going, but you drive.”
I pitch the suggestion of going to Canada. I’m following the maps app to nowhere and we’re heading north anyway. We can be over the border in three hours. Jules humors me with ideas of what we could do in Montreal—botanical gardens, art museums, shopping on Rue Sainte-Catherine. She’s traveled more than I have and has been there before. “I bought my favorite pair of Michael Kors boots there.” Eventually she wakes herself from the beautiful daydream and brings us back to earth. “I don’t have my passport with me, though.”
Damn it. I have mine. My villainous mind starts contemplating ways we could cross the border illegally. I’d drive through a cornfield if I had to. I don’t think Jules would be thrilled about it. “It’s wild what a law-abiding citizen you are, considering you’re mob royalty.”
She gives me an eyeroll. “Oh, please. You like good girls. Elisa’s more of a good girl than I am.”
