help her move since I was Brian’s brother. Maybe it was because she hadn’t told anyone why she left and knew, somehow, that I wouldn’t ask.
There’s no welcome mat. The door is the color of dusty brick, and the three’s a little crooked. Whoever nailed in the numbers hadn’t done so with care. I rest my knuckles on the door, then knock three times.
“Coming.”
Her voice is soft, her footsteps hurried. She opens the door without looking to see who it is, then peeks out, whipping her head from side to side like she’s making sure no one followed me.
“Expecting someone else?” I ask.
“No, I just…”
“He’ll recognize my car if he comes by.”
She glances down. Dark hair slips over her face before I can read her expression. “I know.”
We remain like that—me outside waiting as she holds the door ajar with a trembling hand. It looks like the door could close on her at any moment. I fight the urge to grab it for her. No matter how much I want this, I can’t push it. If it doesn’t come from her, she’ll just regret it. I’m already afraid she’ll regret it no matter what I do.
And then slowly, she looks up.
She hasn’t cut her hair in a while. The ends have grown out in spikes, giving her a grunge pixie look. Everything about her looks thinner and more delicate. Her lashes look like charcoal next to her pale skin. Her cheekbones are almost frighteningly defined. Even the flush on her skin seems as ethereal as rose chalk; I feel like if I blow, the color will dissipate.
Her wide, blue eyes search mine for something, and as they search she bites her bottom lip.
My heartbeat spikes. I know that look. I’ve seen it on so many other girls’ faces—the moment they’ve decided to allow the dark thoughts that have been slowly growing around them to pull them under instead of untangling them or breaking free.
She opens the door. I step inside.
The only light in her studio apartment comes from the cracks between the drawn blinds. The ceiling fan circles on its lowest setting overhead, disturbing stale air. The evergreen economy carpeting looks like mud.
She shuts the door. The dark ambiance of the room swallows my shadow. She moves past my shoulder with a presence as insignificant as a specter’s and motions to two rickety chairs on either side of the table in the corner. “Have some tea.”
I follow her as she maneuvers through the boxes I’d carried up. She hasn’t moved them out of the uneven, random piles I’d set them down in. I don’t think she’s taken much out of them. All I see are a few blankets kicked to the bottom of her bare mattress, three pillows sans pillow cases, and some clothes scattered on the floor between the cardboard pillars.
She pulls a chair out for me. It lets out a sharp groan as I sit. “Thank you.”
Her pours tea into a floral teacup, then picks it up to hand to me. “Shit.” She steps away. “It’s cold.”
“No, it’s fine,” I reassure. “It’s perfect.”
“I’ll nuke it. It’ll just take a sec.”
“Don’t. I like cold tea.” I place my hand on her wrist, stopping her retreat.
“No you don’t. No one likes cold tea.”
“Not true. I like your cold tea.” I smile, directing her hand to the table. Reluctantly, she sets down the cup. Tea spills over the rim. For some reason, I can’t stop staring at it bead around the bottom of the cup and run down the table.
“Why don’t you tell me why you invited me over?” My throat’s tight. I hope she doesn’t notice. And then I hope she would notice—I hope she’d notice anything that would take her mind off whatever it’s wandered to—because she looks about three shades paler than she had just moments before and I’m not even sure if that’s humanly possible.
Her hands grip the back of her chair. “This isn’t easy for me to say.”
“Take a seat, then,” I reply in my most reassuring voice. I almost sigh in relief when she does.
She folds her hands in her lap and
There’s no welcome mat. The door is the color of dusty brick, and the three’s a little crooked. Whoever nailed in the numbers hadn’t done so with care. I rest my knuckles on the door, then knock three times.
“Coming.”
Her voice is soft, her footsteps hurried. She opens the door without looking to see who it is, then peeks out, whipping her head from side to side like she’s making sure no one followed me.
“Expecting someone else?” I ask.
“No, I just…”
“He’ll recognize my car if he comes by.”
She glances down. Dark hair slips over her face before I can read her expression. “I know.”
We remain like that—me outside waiting as she holds the door ajar with a trembling hand. It looks like the door could close on her at any moment. I fight the urge to grab it for her. No matter how much I want this, I can’t push it. If it doesn’t come from her, she’ll just regret it. I’m already afraid she’ll regret it no matter what I do.
And then slowly, she looks up.
She hasn’t cut her hair in a while. The ends have grown out in spikes, giving her a grunge pixie look. Everything about her looks thinner and more delicate. Her lashes look like charcoal next to her pale skin. Her cheekbones are almost frighteningly defined. Even the flush on her skin seems as ethereal as rose chalk; I feel like if I blow, the color will dissipate.
Her wide, blue eyes search mine for something, and as they search she bites her bottom lip.
My heartbeat spikes. I know that look. I’ve seen it on so many other girls’ faces—the moment they’ve decided to allow the dark thoughts that have been slowly growing around them to pull them under instead of untangling them or breaking free.
She opens the door. I step inside.
The only light in her studio apartment comes from the cracks between the drawn blinds. The ceiling fan circles on its lowest setting overhead, disturbing stale air. The evergreen economy carpeting looks like mud.
She shuts the door. The dark ambiance of the room swallows my shadow. She moves past my shoulder with a presence as insignificant as a specter’s and motions to two rickety chairs on either side of the table in the corner. “Have some tea.”
I follow her as she maneuvers through the boxes I’d carried up. She hasn’t moved them out of the uneven, random piles I’d set them down in. I don’t think she’s taken much out of them. All I see are a few blankets kicked to the bottom of her bare mattress, three pillows sans pillow cases, and some clothes scattered on the floor between the cardboard pillars.
She pulls a chair out for me. It lets out a sharp groan as I sit. “Thank you.”
Her pours tea into a floral teacup, then picks it up to hand to me. “Shit.” She steps away. “It’s cold.”
“No, it’s fine,” I reassure. “It’s perfect.”
“I’ll nuke it. It’ll just take a sec.”
“Don’t. I like cold tea.” I place my hand on her wrist, stopping her retreat.
“No you don’t. No one likes cold tea.”
“Not true. I like your cold tea.” I smile, directing her hand to the table. Reluctantly, she sets down the cup. Tea spills over the rim. For some reason, I can’t stop staring at it bead around the bottom of the cup and run down the table.
“Why don’t you tell me why you invited me over?” My throat’s tight. I hope she doesn’t notice. And then I hope she would notice—I hope she’d notice anything that would take her mind off whatever it’s wandered to—because she looks about three shades paler than she had just moments before and I’m not even sure if that’s humanly possible.
Her hands grip the back of her chair. “This isn’t easy for me to say.”
“Take a seat, then,” I reply in my most reassuring voice. I almost sigh in relief when she does.
She folds her hands in her lap and
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