Page 47 of Unmanageable

“It’s one night,” I say, keeping my voice low. “We’ll just share. I will stay on my side, you stay on yours. I won’t even breathe in your direction if it helps.”

She looks from me to the bed, her jaw working as she calculates the distance.

“No funny business, O’Connell,” she says, her voice regaining a bit of its usual, sharp edge. “You stay on your side. If you even think about crossing the midline, I will use my shoe as a blunt instrument.”

“Duly noted. Your shoes are terrifying. I’ve seen what they do to marble floors.” I give her a small, brief smile, trying to clear the air. “Go on. Use the bathroom first. I’ll clear some space for the bags.”

She nods once, a quick, jerky movement, before grabbing her smaller tote bag and retreating into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a sharp click.

The second the door closes, I let out a long breath and sink down onto the edge of the bed. The springs give a loud, metallic whine under my weight, sinking down a good three inches in the middle. It’s going to be a disaster for my lower back, but right now, that’s the least of my problems.

The sound of pipes groaning and water running echoes through the thin wall behind my head.

I pull off my sneakers, kicking them into the corner by the dresser, and slide out of my jeans. I pull on a pair of gray athletic shorts, my chest bare against the stuffy heat of the room.

The bathroom door opens ten minutes later.

Scottie steps out, and I look up.

The shirt and jeans are gone, replaced by an oversized gray t-shirt that hangs halfway down her thighs and a pair of black leggings. Her face is clean, her skin pink from being scrubbed, her red hair damp around the edges of her forehead.

Without the makeup and the tailored clothes, she looks smaller. More exposed. Vulnerable.

Like the girl from the sixth-grade diary she was talking about in her speech.

She stops the second she sees me sitting there without a shirt. “Your turn.”

“Right.”

I go into the bathroom, quickly showering and brushing my teeth. The mirror is cracked across the center, splitting my reflection in two.

When I come back out, the room is dark except for the dull, gray light coming from the window unit’s plastic display screen.

Scottie is already in the bed.

She’s pushed herself so far to the left side of the mattress that her shoulder is literally pressed against the wooden wall of the cabin. The scratchy brown blanket is all the way up to her chin, her body perfectly rigid beneath the fabric.

I walk over to my side, the floorboards cold under my bare feet. I lift the edge of the blanket and climb in, the mattress instantly dipping toward the center under my weight.

“Jesus,” I mutter, rolling slightly to the right to keep myself from sliding directly into her.

“Stay on your side.”

“I’m trying, Scottie, but the bed has a literal crater in the middle. If I relax for a second, I’m going to roll right into you.” I wedge my right shoulder against the wooden frame on my side, bracing my hip against the edge of the mattress. “See? I’m on the wood. If I move an inch, I’m on the floor.”

“Good. Stay there.”

I lie on my back, staring up at the dark ceiling, listening to the rhythm of her breathing.

“You’re going to give yourself a muscle spasm if you don’t relax,” I say.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re holding your breath.”

She doesn’t answer for a long time.

“I don’t like small spaces,” she whispers. The words are so quiet I barely catch them over the drone of the fan.