Chapter Eight
Rosalie
Time passes in worried glances and pitying gestures. I'm not sure if Emily has shared the specifics of my spiral with the others, but they take turns dragging me out of the house or, when I can't be convinced, inviting themselves over to sit on the couch and watch movies while I stare at the ceiling.
I'm not opposed to having company, but the near-constant surveillance tests my patience. I've snapped at Mike more often than I'd like to admit, and Henry often faces the brunt of my frustration. I always apologize, even when I'm not sorry. Especially then.
I work. I eat. I sleep. I participate in conversations and drinking games and try my best to quell the worry in their eyes. It’s easy, or it should be.
A hand loops around my elbow and makes me jump. “I’ve decided to forgive you,” Emily lilts, pulling us into a walk. The night is unusually warm for January which would be pleasant if not for the way it makes the dumpster behind us reek of discarded food.
“Forgive me?”
“For not telling me that you’re moving in with Henry.”
I swallow my groan. “I haven’t said yes yet.”
“Right, of course,” she says with a too-serious nod, then nudges me with her shoulder. “How exciting! It’ll be so grown up. I’ll buy us aprons, and we can bake pies and complain about our awful husbands.”
I roll my eyes. “You have an apron, Em. And maybe I don’t want to live with Henry. Maybe I want to be by myself.”
“You hate being alone, and I know what they pay you because it’s what they pay me. It’s nowhere near enough to afford even the shittiest apartment. Besides, Henry worships the ground you walk on.”
That’s part of the problem, but I can’t say that. Henry is nice if a little overbearing. If we move in together, he’d find a way to support us both. It’s not the ideal situation, but at least he has a plan for the future. It would be easy to let him take control. I wouldn’t even have to think about what my life might look like in five or ten years.
Andrew would tell me that I’m being a coward. Maybe I am, but what else can I do?
“I want the nicest apron that money can buy,” I mutter. “Embroidered with my initials. Lots of pockets.”
Emily shakes with laughter, and some of the tightness in my chest eases. “We’ll get a matching set. Stainless steel appliances. One of those fridges with the screen on it so that we can watch reality TV while we bake.”
“A wine cooler and a walk-in pantry.”
Emily snaps her fingers. “Oh! Those couches that are built in. The ones you have to step down into.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “A conversation pit?”
“Exactly. And a fireplace. A real one, not electric.”
I sigh. “Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A grand piano.” I can almost see it: the morning sun through giant windows, little footsteps on hardwood floors, miniature versions of Henry running around as I stroke the keys of a piano that’s older than I am. I don’t know how to play, but I would have time to learn. I would make peanut butter and banana sandwiches for grubby fingers and spend my afternoons reading or walking when the weather is nice. I’d wave to the neighbors and they’d wave back. Then, I would start dinner so that it’s ready when Henry gets home, something gourmet but homely, something comforting and delicious. I’d put the kids to sleep and curl up on the couch to watch a movie before climbing into bed, pressed against the warmth of his body. It would be good enough.
It had to be good enough.
The apartment that Henry chose does not have a grand piano. There’s barely enough room for his couch, the television we bought after realizing that his was too big, and the coffee table we found on the side of the road. I stare at the velvet purple chair leaning against the wall, the only furniture I wanted to bring with me.
“I can take it back to my dad’s place,” I say before Henry can point out that it would not fit aesthetically or physically.
“Okay,” Henry says without looking, carrying a box into the bedroom.
We fall into a routine easily. Despite Henry’s protests, I keep my job at the restaurant, or try to. “It’s temporary,” he insists, pulling me close. He reeks of cologne and sweat, but he’s warm and solid and safe. I rest my head against his shoulder. “Once I get this promotion, I’ll take care of you.”
I work and eat and sleep. Weeks turn into months, and I tell myself that I’m content. Henry is nice. My life is nice.
When I wake from the nightmares that still plague me, Henry holds me. He doesn’t ask what I dream about. He always falls back asleep first.
He wouldn’t be able to understand the emotions that roil within me even if I could find the words to express them. I doubt that he ever lays awake at night feeling like at any moment, the ground below him will shatter and swallow him whole. It’s the threat of being a survivor, of outliving people I was not supposed to outlive. It’s impossible and unbearable, and time stretches so that every breath feels like an eternity, but in the morning the sun will come, and the world will not end. Henry would comfort me if I asked him to, but he’d never really understand it. None of my friends would, and though I hope that they never did, I yearn for someone that knows that the nights are so much worse than the days, that sometimes all I can do is breathe and hope the hands on the clock will move faster.
I don’t have the courage to tell Henry that this apartment is haunted. He doesn’t believe in ghosts. I’ve never asked him directly, but he’s not the type of person to look into shadows and see the past and present tangled like they’re waltzing or sparring. If I told him that some nights I wake up and see eyes peering through the window, he’d smooth my hair and ask if I was doing alright.
And I am.
I work. I eat. I sleep. I ignore every feeling that isn’t vague contentment and push down my grief until it is a permanent resident in my gut.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, hesitating at the door. I’m the first to arrive which is preferable to walking in on my friends already settled. After a steadying breath, I raise my fist to knock. The door swings open before I make contact. Emily grins at me, hair still wet from the shower. “What, are you a vampire now? You need an invitation? Come on.”
The apartment is small but tidy. A pleasant breeze through the open window shifts the curtains. It’s not quite winter, but the chill is rapidly approaching. Like most things under Emily’s control, the room is free of clutter and well-decorated. A candle flickers on the side table next to the light green couch. Paintings, by her hand and others, are hung on nearly every wall. She used a level.
I linger on the neatly folded blanket stacked on a pillow on the arm of the couch. Emily, noticing my hesitation, gathers the linens and goes to tuck them away in a closet. "There's always room for you here," she says. "If things aren't… you know."
"Things are good," I say.
She shrugs, not looking at all convinced, but launches into a story about a neighbor that has been stealing packages and dumping them, unopened, on the wrong doorstep. "It's turned into a scavenger hunt," she laughs. "Just a bit of fun, but some people are pissed about it. Leaving notices in the elevator and everything. They'll be grabbing pitchforks soon and going door to door to sniff out the culprit."
"Sounds like something Mike would do."
She winks at me. "Don't say that too loud."
We set the table, including the small green saucer that makes an appearance every Thursday. Once a week, we gather for dinner at either Henry's apartment—my apartment— or Emily and Mike's. The rotation is curated so that the host never cooks. "Double responsibility would be unfair," she explained when she proposed the event years ago, just after graduation. "Four times a month, no matter what. We're not going to be the group that falls out after graduation. You all," she gestured to us, grinning, "are stuck with me."
Mike snapped his fingers. "Hear, hear."
James crossed his arms and mumbled something I couldn't make out. It earned him an elbow in the side from Mike.
Henry leaned closer to the posterboard, examining the carefully laid out bi-monthy schedule. "A potluck?"
"Yep." She popped the p. "End of the month, every month."
"What if we move?" Henry asked, glancing at each of us. "Or if we're out of town? Or if we get jobs that—" Emily silenced him with a glare.
"Once a week," she said again, turning to me. "No matter what."
I shrugged. "Sounds good."
The rest of our group arrives not long after we finish smoothing the placemats. Mike is the first through the door, throwing his arms around Emily and smacking a wet kiss on the top of her head. The sides of his head are newly shaved, likely the reason for their tardiness, but the top is long and lightly gelled back. When we were teenagers, his hair was lighter—so blonde that Andrew speculated that he was bleaching it—but age or familiarity has dimmed it to a pleasant caramel.
"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Andrew said. "Just a bit dishonest, that's all."
I tugged at the auburn strands on the nape of his of his neck. "Jealous?"
He raised a brow. "Should I be?"
"Most definitely." I curled my fingers against the knob at the top of his spine. He tilted his head back to trap my hand.
"Then I'll go to the hairdresser tomorrow."
I laughed. "Don't you dare."
Henry enters next, offering me a timid smile. He's grown into himself over the last few years, not that he wasn't handsome before. The round glasses have been replaced by contacts, only making an appearance when his allergies do. He looks less like the captain of the chess team and more like a young man climbing the corporate ladder—which is exactly what he was, and is. He's lamented about the dress code for our weekly dinners, suggesting that we have a "semi-formal" night opposite of potluck week (this week, I realize, glancing at his slacks and tucked in button-down). I'm not the only one that either willingly forgot or stubbornly refused.
James follows close behind, holding a foil-topped bowl beneath a scowl. Henry may have sharpened his appearance post-graduation, but James has sharpened his tongue. If I close my eyes when they speak, I probably wouldn't be able to intuit that they're related. Andrew used to call him a chihuahua with a mullet. The mullet is long since gone, but the sentiment holds.
"He needs a hobby," Andrew grumbled after a particularly aggrivating encounter, "and a long look in the mirror."
I thought James' propensity for cruelty would intrigue him. When I told him as much, he laughed.
"Callosity is only interesting when there's something underneath. Cruelty for the sake of cruelty is boring." The corner of his lip twitched upwards. "But I'm glad you have such a high opinion of me."
At this, I leapt at him, capturing his face in my palms. "You," I accused, "don't like anyone."
He pouted and clapped his hands over mine. "Not true."
My shuddering breath hidden beneath Henry's voice pulls me back to the present. “He made boxed mac and cheese,” Henry explains, sidling up to me and bumping the back of his hand against mine. “Store brand.”
“It has sliced hot dogs,” James grumbles, placing the foil-coated bowl on the table.
Emily clicks her tongue. “In that case, it’s practically gourmet.”
James snipes back, “Should we discuss the lasagna incident?”
“It’s not my fault you’re lactose intolerant."
“I’m not lactose intolerant.”
Henry butts in, “I read an article recently that most people are and don’t even know it.”
“That blows,” Mike adds, taking his usual seat. We follow his lead. “You can’t eat eggs?”
James huffs, “I’m not—” His frown shifts from raw irritation to barely concealed amusement. “Eggs aren’t dairy.”
Mike looks to Henry for confirmation. Henry shakes his head.
James claps Mike on the back with a low chuckle. “You’re so pretty, Mikey.” But there’s no venom in his voice, so with the argument successfully squashed, we feast.
After dinner, Henry and Mike diligently scrub dishes while Emily, James, and I settle in the living room. I sit on the floor between Emily's knees, leaning my head back while she combs my hair with her fingers. James lies next to her with his knees bent, taking up two of the three couch cushions. When his eyes close and his breathing deepens, she murmurs, "I'm pissed at you, by the way."
I close my eyes and let her fingers soothe my blossoming headache. "Why?"
"Dom told me you got fired."
The little rat. Henry and Mike choose the exact worst moment to finish cleaning up, stumbling into our conversation. "She didn't get fired," Henry says.
"I did." I try for casual, but it doesn't land. "Last week. I thought I told you."
She gathers my hair, smoothing the sides. "You definitely didn't."
"Wait, last week?" Henry nudges James' legs until he grumbles makes room for him to sit beside Emily. "You were working two days ago." The patience in his voice is grating. "I dropped you off."
I force a shrug. They exchange a too familiar look before Henry says too gently, "We all miss him, Rose."
My apathy whittles into anger. Mike mumbles something about how it's getting late and we should leave this discussion for the morning. Nobody pays him any mind.
"Maybe it's a blessing in disguise," Emily muses. I lean forward, pulling my hair from her grip, and press my palms into my eyes. "The restaurant is a drag anyway, and now you'll have time to figure out what you're passionate about. Andrew would want you to—"
I shoot to my feet. "I need some air." Henry moves to stand, but I halt him with a look and stomp to the door, deaf to their protests.
The moon is taunting me. I’d give anything for real light, not the orange glow of the streetlights and the fluorescents painting the sidewalk a sickly gray. I walk, and my anger cools into guilt. Pretending that Emily is a shitty friend is easier than admitting that I am one. I’ll apologize to her and to Henry, and they’ll forgive me like they always do, and we’ll go back to pretending like everything is fine. I’ll go back to pretending.
Andrew would’ve followed me, even if I warned him not to. Especially if I warned him not to. He’d jog a few steps behind in silence.
“Go away,” I’d say, and he’d know I meant, Please don’t leave.
“Not a chance,” he’d say, and I’d know he meant, I’m here. I’m with you.
And I'd tell him, "I want to be alone," and mean I'm so scared. I'm scared all the time.
Would he drop the pretense, then? Would he hold my hand? Not in the lazy way he loved, pinkies hooked together, but palm to sweaty palm? He would swallow the refrain, knowing that I don't need to hear it, knowing that I desperately need to hear it, knowing that I can hear it even in silence. We can be scared together.
But the person following me isn't Andrew. I've turned right three times just to be sure, but the rhythmic steps behind me haven't faded. They're far enough away that sprinting would be an overreaction but close enough that I don't dare glance over my shoulder. If I were more like Emily, I'd turn to them and ask what the hell their deal is. I'm not brave, not like she is, and especially not when I'm alone.
I veer towards the pizza place that Andrew and I would frequent when we had a few dollars and a few hours to kill. It's crowded enough that I can duck between bodies, mumbling apologies and trying not to look like I'm running from something. Am I running from something? It feels like I'm running from something. Inside, people hover over plates of greasy slices, some well on their way to a nasty hangover. The neon open sign flickers as I pass. I consider going in but decide against it, chancing a glance over my shoulder—
The air in my lungs escapes in a huff as I collide with a body that would be more aptly described as a brick wall. One hand grips my shoulder. The other pinches my chin and forces me to look up.
Oh, you're fucking kidding me.
"Don't turn around," she snaps.
I shrug out of her hold. My imagination has given her finer clothes this time, at least. Black lipstick, too. "You're not real," I say, straightening.
"Insulting and debatable. Don't speak, and don't turn around."
I like her less every time we meet. "Why can't anyone else see you?"
She flicks her eyes above my head toward my pursuer—assuming they exist and aren't also a creation of my increasingly fragile subconscious. The look that crosses her face is tamer than fear—no, not tamer. Tamed. "You're a long way from home," she says.
Footsteps. The rawness of being watched raises goosebumps on my arms, the same vulnerability that led to the suspicion that I was being trailed. A woman's voice, sultry but delicate, answers, "Got bored. Who's she?"
"Nobody."
The silence that follows is animal, a hawk waiting for the rabbit to unburrow. Laughter trickles from the entrance of the restaurant, a bell ringing to signal an entrance or exit. I could run. I'd probably make it inside before either of them caught up to—
"You know why I'm here," the pursuer says.
My stranger frowns. "What am I, a mind reader?"
The answering exhale grazes the back of my neck, sharp and impatient.
"You'd be better off pestering Az," my stranger adds.
"Is it done?"
Those three words catch between them, lingering above my head. My lips part, ready to interject, but my stranger stops me with a quick glance. "The cook is dead," she says. "Tell Morrigan I said well played and congratulations." She inclines her head. "He's going to have a fit. You know how he is about his pets." Her lips curl. "Well, of course you do. You used to be one of them."
I close my eyes, willing my body to calm. I'm not in danger. I can't be in danger, because none of this is real.
"Watch yourself," the voice behind me lilts. "She did give me permission to kill you, too."
"Go on, then."
I should definitely run.
My stranger lets out a low laugh. "You chose the wrong side, Gemma. It's not too late to beg for forgiveness."
"From you? Or from him?"
"Both would be ideal."
"You ought to work on your recruitment tactics." Cool fingers slide down my spine. I shiver. "She can hear us, can't she?"
"Probably touched by death," my stranger answers smoothly. "You've heard the theories, I presume. Interesting stuff. I can send you my research if you'd like."
Touched by death. Yeah, I'd say so.
"Generous of you," the woman deadpans. Her hand lingers in the divot between my shoulder blades. "Is she one of his?"
"Of course not." The quickness of her answer suggests deception which doesn't make sense. I'm not one of anyone's.
"Because I know how he loves his damsels, and this one has that look about her." She pulls her hand away. "Any message you'd like me to relay?"
"You're a carrier pigeon now?"
"I'm very giving."
"He should've killed you."
The pursuer's hair tickles my cheek as she leans in close. Her breath warms the shell of my ear. "And you? Anything to say?"
I meet my stranger's eyes. She shakes her head, a tiny movement.
"Pity," the woman says. "He likes them vocal."
The presence behind me dissipates at the same moment that my stranger's shoulders drop. She squeezes her eyes shut and groans. I open my mouth, but she raises a hand to silence me. "Give me a second, Petunia."
I clench my jaw and wait for her to exhale, donning the familiar mask of apathy. "Alright," she says. "Ask."
A thousand questions bubble on my tongue, fighting for dominance. The one that escapes surprises both of us—her because of the direction of my inquiry, and me because I should've asked sooner. "What's your name?"