Revelation by Katie Klein

expression—something both sad and hopeful at the same time. And, trapped in it, I can't say no—even if I wanted to.  

 
     
     
    S IXTEEN
     
     
     
    "I can't do this. I don't know what I'll say."
    "It's fine," Carter assures me, circling the driveway. "You'll be fine. I'll only be a couple of hours."
    "I know, but. . . ." I run my palms—slick with sweat—across my jeans, voice dimming. "I don't know what to say," I repeat.
    "It's just my mom and a few of her friends."
    His mom and her friends— exactly what worries me.
    I don't fit in here. I don't have anything in common with these people.
    I refuse to utter the words aloud, but would give anything for him to stay—to act as my buffer between worlds. I don't want to be left behind. I don't want to be alone.
    The Fleming's mansion looms in front of me and I gaze at it, lost in thought, twisting the ring around my finger again and again and again. Carter is already out of the car, waiting, so I adjust the sleeves of my cardigan and step into fall air. Sunlight warms my face, but, as I pass into the shadows of columns, a cool breeze blows through, eliciting a shudder. 
    The front door swings wide before we even knock. "I'm so glad you're early," Kitty Fleming says, motioning us inside. "I was hoping we could spend some time together before everyone arrives. And, of course, there's plenty of decorating left to do."
    "I'm just dropping her off," Carter announces, voice travelling through the foyer, echoing.
    We hear footsteps approaching at the same time, heads turning toward Mr. Fleming in tandem.
    "It's good to see you again, Genesis," he says civilly. Then, nodding toward Carter: "Son."
    "Dad," Carter replies.
    Mr. Fleming clears his throat, stuffs his hands deep in the pockets of his khakis. "Did you mention you're not staying?"
    "Jack," Kitty cautions, resting her hand on his arm—a subtle reminder this was discussed; that he promised to be on his best behavior.
    "I'll be back soon," Carter says.
    "He's taking his new toy out for a joyride," I explain.
    "Ah," Mr. Fleming replies, understanding. "I'd love to see it one day."
    "Sure." But something about his tone is off. Not quite right. And when I glance at him he's almost glaring at his father, a certain resentment etched into his features. Then, as if I imagined it all, the atmosphere eases. He leans closer to his mom, bending to give her a quick kiss on the cheek, then turns toward me. "Walk me outside?" he asks.
    Carter skips down the stone steps. I follow him, return to the SUV we just left—motor clicking as it cools—stop at the door he just slammed shut. He rakes fingers through his hair, a nervous flush creeping up his neck and reddening his cheeks. An awkward laugh. "This is going to sound strange," he admits, "but I have this incredible urge to kiss you before I go." Apprehension rolls off him in pulses, a quiet tension lingering.
    My eyes narrow. "Why?" 
    He stares steadily at the concrete beneath our feet, keeping us grounded. "Can't explain it. I just do." A lazy shrug.
    "No. It'll . . . complicate things."
    His eyes train to mine, brimming with amusement, teasing. "What's the matter, Mrs. Fleming? Worried some of those pent-up feelings for me will re-surface?"
    "No." A heavy sigh. "This is just . . . hard for me."
    He laughs, grin deepening, any remaining traces of hesitation evaporating. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize being married to me was such a pain in the ass."
    "Yeah, well, you are a pain in the ass. But being married to you hasn't been too bad."
    Another contagious laugh. "Wow. That's not a compliment, is it?"
    "Not even."
    He watches me carefully, expression softening. "It's nice to see you smiling," he says.
    "You're not going to sweet talk me into kissing you," I warn.
    "Well, the way I see it, you don't have a choice." His voice lowers to an almost-whisper. "Because I know my parents are watching us, right now, through the dining room window."
    My head twists to . . .
    "Don't look,"