Angel's Mark

Nineteen

I realized I had not brought a car, at about the same time I realized Alan had only been to my house once and did not know how to get there. And after I realized those two things, I realized that meant I would have to ride with Alan in his car. This produced a toss-up of different feelings. Excitement, because no matter how much I tried to hate it, there was something endearing about that car, and nausea, because that was a lot of time to spend alone with Alan.

But that was okay, because we were acquaintances. Just acquaintances.

Alan's Buick smelled like mint, but not the kind of mint in a stick of gum or in a York peppermint patty, the kind that was straight from the earth, touched with the reality of gritty soil and roots. It was too real. Everything about the car was. The wiry steering wheel, old radio, champagne-colored seats with holes in the leather. The gas pedal squeaked each time Alan's foot hit it.

I sat in the passenger seat, as rigid as if I were in an interview. I was terrified of messing something up. "So, why this one?" I managed to ask, jolting a little in my seat as Alan swung the car right. It was as if I could feel every pebble in the road, clinking against the car's underbody, slamming into the tires. "If I'm not wrong, you could have a, I don't know, Lamborghini or such with the Fitch's revenue."

God, I didn't even know what I was saying. It had been a while since someone had been able to turn me into a fool with just their presence. This...meant something. Something I wasn't sure if I was ready to own yet.

Alan pursed his lips. "I'm a quiet person. Lamborghinis aren't quiet cars."

I listened to the road thundering underneath the Buick's wheels, the engine sputtering underneath the hood. "Neither is this one."

Alan spared me a sideways glance. I think it was the most annoyed I'd ever seen him. Granted, the look wasn't that annoyed, but it wasn't too timid, either. "How about this," Alan began. "I like the past. Sometimes it's easier to live in than the now."

There it was again. That something. I'd seen it in the photo the Order had given us. I'd seen it in the photo they'd shown on the news. I'd seen it moments ago when we were still in the IHOP booth. Here was Alan, a code that wasn't necessarily mine to figure out, but that I was going to decipher anyway. And maybe it wasn't even because I wanted to. I felt like it was because he wanted me to.

I told him, "I guess for some people, that would be the case."

"Ah," said Alan. I liked the way he said it, Ah. Something about the way his accent made the sound leave his mouth. "But not you. You—died before, right? That's how you're...you now."

It took me a second to gather his meaning. I directed him to take the next left turn, drawing my legs up in my seat. "I knew you were going to ask that."

"And I knew you'd be reluctant to answer."

"If I answer this," I said, "then you have to answer one of my questions."

"Fair enough," Alan replied. "Because I'm sure I'm such an interesting specimen."

He was. He really was. I just didn't know how to tell him.

He was kind of the person who shouldn't have to be told.

I drummed my fingers across the dash, the rhythm of it draining the noise in my head. There was nothing else but here and now and him, and I guess it wasn't all that nauseating.

"Yes," I told him, "I've died before. Twice, actually."

Another sideways glance, this one with eyebrows risen.