start from the nap I’d only just fallen into. Every noise the house makes sounds suspect. Hopefully the thing with the folder really is just a misunderstanding and we’ll find it in some weird place later, but I feel like eyes are watching me. And I can’t quit thinking about that driver being attacked and poisoned. Somehow that scares me far more than him being shot would have. Shooting is impersonal; it only happens in movies.
Poison is something my family understands intimately.
The dark corners of the house seem alive, sinister, and I can feel myself starting to lose it. I don’t want to be alone. I want to be with someone who always makes me feel lighter. I walk out to the porch and pull out my phone.
“I knew you’d call,” Tyler says without saying hello.
“I didn’t get my daily dose of Tyler at the museum today.”
“Tyler deficiencies can be fatal, you know. I’ll come get you right now.”
“Thanks.” I’m so grateful I don’t even know how to express it. However, when it’s not Tyler’s small Toyota that pulls up but rather Ry’s beautiful truck, I’m torn between that gratitude and annoyance.
“Hey,” he says, climbing out of the truck and walking up the short, cracked sidewalk to where I’m sitting on the porch. “Tyler told me to come pick you up.”
“Of course she did.” I ignore his extended hand and push myself to standing. Ry manages to be a couple inches taller than me even in my heels. Huh. I’d hoped I would be taller than him. I really like being taller than people.
I follow him to the truck. “Did you hurt your leg?” I ask. He has a slight limp I’d never noticed. Not that I was noticing things about him now, like the way his dark hair somehow reflected gold bits in the sun, or how his shoulders created a straight, strong line across his back. Or the pronounced bump of a callus on his middle right finger.
“No, I’ve always had a limp. It runs in my family.”
So he isn’t perfect. Physically, I mean. I don’t mean that. He’s not perfect at all.
I hate Tyler.
Ry tries to beat me to my side, but I manage to slide in before he can open the door. He gets in, and the truck engine turns over much too quietly. I wish it’d roar. I wish it’d growl so loud I wouldn’t be able to hear my own thoughts. I hate that I’m scared in a place I should feel safe. I hate that it’s spread to my work. I hate that I’m so self-centered that I think it somehow revolves around me.
I want to call my mom.
I won’t.
Ry drives confidently, eyes on the road, and I watch him shift gears to see how it’s done. I should probably learn how to drive. “You never did tell me what you like to do for fun,” he says.
“Interior design.” If he laughs, I will disembowel him. And I won’t even put his guts into ceremonial jars for embalmment—I’ll scatter them across the dirt. I’ll toss them into the garbage disposal.
“So you’re an artist.”
Oh. Well, that was unexpected. “I guess.”
“That’s really cool. I’d love to see your designs sometime.”
I’m caught off guard again. I don’t know how to respond, so I change the subject. “Where are we going?”
“My house. Tyler and Scott are there already.”
I try to tamp down my intrigue. People’s homes say so much about them, and even though it will really only say stuff about Ry’s parents, I’m still interested.
“How do you and Tyler and Scott know each other? Do you all go to the same school?”
“I actually met Tyler at Balboa Park last summer. We don’t go to the same school. But I like them. Neither of them cares that I have a tendency toward being antisocial, and Tyler never tries to flirt with me. Scott doesn’t, either.”
I roll my eyes. “So that’s your main requirement for friendship? They don’t hit on you? Is that like a regular problem in your life?”
He shrugs noncommittally. “Isn’t it in yours?”
I frown, thinking of all of the guys I interact with. I do get
Poison is something my family understands intimately.
The dark corners of the house seem alive, sinister, and I can feel myself starting to lose it. I don’t want to be alone. I want to be with someone who always makes me feel lighter. I walk out to the porch and pull out my phone.
“I knew you’d call,” Tyler says without saying hello.
“I didn’t get my daily dose of Tyler at the museum today.”
“Tyler deficiencies can be fatal, you know. I’ll come get you right now.”
“Thanks.” I’m so grateful I don’t even know how to express it. However, when it’s not Tyler’s small Toyota that pulls up but rather Ry’s beautiful truck, I’m torn between that gratitude and annoyance.
“Hey,” he says, climbing out of the truck and walking up the short, cracked sidewalk to where I’m sitting on the porch. “Tyler told me to come pick you up.”
“Of course she did.” I ignore his extended hand and push myself to standing. Ry manages to be a couple inches taller than me even in my heels. Huh. I’d hoped I would be taller than him. I really like being taller than people.
I follow him to the truck. “Did you hurt your leg?” I ask. He has a slight limp I’d never noticed. Not that I was noticing things about him now, like the way his dark hair somehow reflected gold bits in the sun, or how his shoulders created a straight, strong line across his back. Or the pronounced bump of a callus on his middle right finger.
“No, I’ve always had a limp. It runs in my family.”
So he isn’t perfect. Physically, I mean. I don’t mean that. He’s not perfect at all.
I hate Tyler.
Ry tries to beat me to my side, but I manage to slide in before he can open the door. He gets in, and the truck engine turns over much too quietly. I wish it’d roar. I wish it’d growl so loud I wouldn’t be able to hear my own thoughts. I hate that I’m scared in a place I should feel safe. I hate that it’s spread to my work. I hate that I’m so self-centered that I think it somehow revolves around me.
I want to call my mom.
I won’t.
Ry drives confidently, eyes on the road, and I watch him shift gears to see how it’s done. I should probably learn how to drive. “You never did tell me what you like to do for fun,” he says.
“Interior design.” If he laughs, I will disembowel him. And I won’t even put his guts into ceremonial jars for embalmment—I’ll scatter them across the dirt. I’ll toss them into the garbage disposal.
“So you’re an artist.”
Oh. Well, that was unexpected. “I guess.”
“That’s really cool. I’d love to see your designs sometime.”
I’m caught off guard again. I don’t know how to respond, so I change the subject. “Where are we going?”
“My house. Tyler and Scott are there already.”
I try to tamp down my intrigue. People’s homes say so much about them, and even though it will really only say stuff about Ry’s parents, I’m still interested.
“How do you and Tyler and Scott know each other? Do you all go to the same school?”
“I actually met Tyler at Balboa Park last summer. We don’t go to the same school. But I like them. Neither of them cares that I have a tendency toward being antisocial, and Tyler never tries to flirt with me. Scott doesn’t, either.”
I roll my eyes. “So that’s your main requirement for friendship? They don’t hit on you? Is that like a regular problem in your life?”
He shrugs noncommittally. “Isn’t it in yours?”
I frown, thinking of all of the guys I interact with. I do get
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