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“Yeah?”
“She’s curious about our roommate.”
I meet his gaze, lift a brow. “And?”
“And nothing. He wasn’t around. He likes his room.”
“That where you got him locked up?”
“Yeah.” Nate chuckles, drops the butt of his cig to the ground and steps on it. “He’s a quiet guy. Won’t talk about himself.”
“You asked him.” Knowing Nate, he probably went all Spanish Inquisition on the guy.
“Sure did. Wouldn’t tell me where he’s from or anything.”
“He’ll probably go to our school.”
“He says he’s twenty. I don’t believe him.”
I glance at my apartment door. Wonder if I should go back up, check on my sister. “He’ll open up. Give him time.”
“Like we did to Sydney?”
I shrug, pretending not to give a shit about anything that has to do with Sydney—her parents, her life, her eyes, her mouth, her body, her laughter. I pretend not to worry about her, about the little inconsistencies of her life, of her stories.
Not sure I wanna know the truth.
I watch as Nate takes out another cigarette from the pack in his back pocket. I wonder sometimes how his parents don’t notice he smokes—or whether they don’t care. They seem like pretty nice people whenever I come across them, but Nate… he tenses in their presence.
If they’re anything like Grandpa, I don’t blame him. He doesn’t have to beat me anymore to hurt me. His words are dipped in poison. Sometimes I dream of leaving and never coming back, changing my name, my appearance, and vanishing.
Getting free of this cage.
But I don’t. I can’t. I’m tied to this place, these people, Grandpa, my sister, the responsibility for their lives.
And I’d leave Nate and Sydney behind. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. I tried to keep them away, but the fucking truth is that it does matter, that my heart hasn’t quite turned to stone yet, no matter how hard I’ve tried.
“Is Syd okay?” The question tears out of me, out of my control, like every time.
“Bad dreams again?”
“Just tell me.” I need the assurance that everything I face during the dark hours of the night is not part of this life.
“She’s fine.” He sucks on his cig like it’s oxygen. He sits down on the top entrance step and blows his smoke into the sunset. “Do you ever think…?”
Seconds pass, but he doesn’t finish his question.
“Do I think what?”
He says softly, “That any of it is real?”
At first, I think he’s talking about my dreams—and God fuck I sure hope not.
But then he adds, “I mean, you know, what they say about things getting better if you keep going. That pain makes you stronger. That there are happy endings.”
He sounds so fucking wistful. Like he can almost see it in his mind’s eye and wants it so badly he can almost taste it.
But I guess I suckled bitterness as an infant instead of milk, because I say, “No. I think that’s all a lie.”
