The Distance Between Us

looking over my shoulder or maybe because I’ve slowed down to give him time to arrive. He never does.
     
    After school, while my mom is upstairs placing orders on the computer, I get out Xander’s camera that I keep stashed in the stockroom desk and take more pictures of the dolls. I’ve never felt more motivated to get the website up and running. We could obviously use the increase in traffic. As I stare at the lifeless eyes of Aislyn through the viewfinder, a thought comes back to me: my mom standing by the register that morning holding the bank-deposit bag and how she tried to avoid my questions about it.
    I strap the camera around my neck and sneak into her office. The first thing I look for is the balance book. The red number is even bigger, over three thousand dollars. It shouldn’t surprise me; she had said as much. But it makes me worry even more. I open the side drawer where she keeps the bank bag and pull it out. It’s zipped shut and I stare at it for a moment, feeling the weight in my hands, not wanting to open it and find out if the money is still inside. I have no idea what it will mean if the money is still inside. That she’s still hiding things from me? Fast and painless. I slide it open and look in. Empty. Even though the money is gone, proving she made the deposit, I feel uneasy.
    The bell on the front door rings, and I shove the bag back in the drawer and rush back out front.
    A tall man with dark hair and a dark beard stands just inside the door. It takes me a second to place him, but then I remember he had been in the store a few weeks ago, talking to my mom.
    “Is Susan in?” he asks, his eyes lingering on the camera around my neck.
    “No, she’s not.” I could probably tell him she’s just upstairs, but the feeling of uneasiness I felt in my mom’s office has grown.
    “Will you tell her Matthew dropped by?”
    “Is there something I can help you with?”
    His eyes twinkle and his mouth twitches into a smile. “No.” With that he backs out the door. He walks by the front window, and I wait for a few seconds then quickly step outside, staying close to the building so he won’t see me. He gets into a navy blue SUV parked a few stores away. I quickly snap off a few pictures, zooming in on the license plate and then up to his face. My heart nearly stops when his eyes meet the camera lens. The metal door handle digs into my back with my hasty retreat. He probably didn’t see me. I had zoomed in quite a bit.
    Inside I pick up the phone. Just as I’m about to push the intercom button, I stop myself. I don’t want to tell my mom about Matthew over the phone. I don’t want to tell her about Matthew at all. It’s not that my mom has never dated anyone. She has . . . on occasion. But she always tells me about it. So I have to assume that whoever Matthew is, he’s not someone she’s dating. And if she’s not dating him, then who is he?

Chapter 21

    T wo days later I stare at Xander’s camera bag on my bed. I had uploaded the pictures onto the computer and started working on the website. Anything to keep my mind off the fact that I haven’t seen Xander since Saturday night. I go over the night in my head. Him bringing over the French food, Mason showing up, me stepping back when Xander tried to touch my hair, our fight. I had been giving him the back-off signals all along, but apparently he didn’t take them until now.
    I nudge the bag with my toe and sigh. For two days I had been contemplating whether to use the camera as an excuse to see him again. The whole “I just wanted to return your camera” bit. There are two problems with this. One, I have no idea where he lives. Two, I don’t have his phone number. There are also two solutions to this problem. One, I could call Mrs. Dalton and ask for Xander’s number. Two, I can show up at The Road’s End hotel and hope to run into him.
    Solution number two wins. My mind spins this crazy idea that if I show up at the hotel he will just magically be there. I can say, “I was in the neighborhood,” and it won’t look so obvious or seem too creepy.
    Things never work how I imagine them, though, so as I stand at the check-in counter in the fancy lobby of the hotel, talking to the clerk, I resign myself to the fact that this is not happening.
    “I have his camera,” I say again.
    “And like I told you before, if you leave it with me I’ll make sure he gets it.”
    “If you can just tell me when he’ll be in or give me his