Page 29 of Stay Scared

The door shuts behind us, though the lock indicator remains green. A guitar starts playing somewhere beyond the wall.

Our song.

I haven’t listened to it since the week I left, yet the opening chords pull me toward the couch. Cade used to come home after midnight and sit on the center cushion to remove his boots while I pretended to sleep at the far end. On good nights, he hooked two fingers around my ankle and dragged my feet into his lap.

The replica cushion holds the same dip.

Cade catches me looking. “You remember.”

“I recognize the song.”

“You hated the singer.”

“I hated the way he pronounced fire.”

“You sang it louder than I did.”

“That was self-defense.”

He walks to the edge of the rug, tactical gear and skull mask looking obscene inside the apartment we once shared.

Photographs cover the wall above the couch. Some came from trips. Others were taken here, back when neither of us bothered cleaning before a camera came out. In one, we sit on the kitchen floor beside an open pizza box with flour all over Cade’s hands because he insisted he knew how to toss dough. Another shows me braiding my hair at the counter while he stands behind me in the doorway.

“You took that one?”

“Timer on the bookshelf.”

“Why?”

“You looked happy.”

“I was fixing my hair.”

“You were talking about the review that finally sold.”

The memory comes back. I had been paid for an essay about a derelict hotel and spent the afternoon pretending the amount justified the hours. Cade ordered takeout anyway.

Later, he stood behind me at that same counter and hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts while I complained about the editor. His mouth found the skin below my ear until I forgot the rest of the argument.

The recreated counter is built at the same height.

I keep my hands away from it.

The song reaches the first chorus as I cross to the bookshelf. Several titles are out of order. My horror paperbacks used to occupy the top shelf because Cade claimed the covers watched him sleep.

He reaches past me and moves one book two spaces left. “That one belonged there.”

His chest comes close to my shoulder. Heat reaches me through the jacket before he steps back, and the new distance registers immediately.

“You corrected the set after they built it?”

“I corrected a lot.”

“Did Ash design this room?”

“Ash built the route through it.”

“And Owen supplied whatever you forgot.”