They were really hitting it off.
* * *
—
Eventually, they stood again, and the boy was given a tour.
It didn’t take very long, but it was useful to know where to sleep, and where the bathroom was.
“I’ll let you unpack, and have a shower.”
In the bedroom there was a wooden desk, where he set up each and every book. He put clothes in the wardrobe, and sat on the bed. All he wanted was to be home again—he could have sobbed just to walk through the door. Or sit on the roof with Henry. Or see Rory staggering up Archer Street, a whole neighborhood of letterboxes on his back…
“Clay?”
He lifted his head.
“Come and eat something.”
His stomach roared.
He leaned forward, feet glued to the floor.
He held the wooden box, he held the lighter and looked at Matador, and the fresh-collected peg.
For a whole range of reasons, Clay couldn’t move.
Not yet, but soon.
Of course, Abbey Hanley hadn’t meant to destroy him.
It was just one of those things.
But one of those things turns into other things, which lead to more coincidence, which leads many years later to boys and kitchens, boys and hate—and without that long-lost girl there was none of it:
No Penelope.
No Dunbar boys.
No bridge, and no Clay.
* * *
—
All those years earlier, when it came to Michael and Abbey, everything was open and beautiful.
He loved her with lines and color.
He loved her more than Michelangelo.
He loved her more than the David, and those struggling, statued slaves.
At the end of school, both he and Abbey made good scores, they made city scores, and they were numbers of escape and wonder.
On Main Street, there was the odd pat on the back.
A few congratulationses.