Whatever. I was here now.
My hand froze on the entrance door, and I cocked my head to better hear the music floating on the night air. In a city of nearly a million people, it was crazy to think I could even hear the slow strums of a guitar. But the music was mournful, sad. And my heart pricked, as if the musician was playing it instead of the Gibson in his hands.
Pulling the door open, I mounted the steps to my floor and let myself into my apartment. Purse and keys got deposited on the coffee table as I passed, then I used my weight to shove open my window and climbed out onto the fire escape. The music was louder, just above my head. Metal groaned as I moved to the side and gripped the railing, climbing to the next floor up.
Tate didn’t lift his head as I sat in the rusted patio chair beside him, but his hand stopped stroking the guitar strings.
I placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned in. “You okay? Everything all right with your sister?”
He looked at me then, confusion pulling his forehead low. “My sister?”
My body shifted back, but I didn’t let my hand slide. “I thought…I mean tonight…with you…I thought…”
His chin dipped toward my hand for a second. Then he stood, and my fingers fell limply to my lap. Leaning inside his window, he settled his guitar into its stand before turning back around toward me. “My sister is fine.”
Praise God. I didn’t have any family members battling cancer, but I could imagine how difficult it could be. But if not his sister… “Tate, are you okay? You seemed upset earlier.”
AnI can’t believe you’re askingsnort escaped his throat as he shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, gripping the ends at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’m fine. That’s what you’d say, right?”
Me? When had this turned to me? My concern drained away in the face of his sarcasm, the tone of his voice flicking a switch on my brain that caused my vision to focus on a single object and block everything else out. Slowly my muscles constricted, and I could feel my emotions seeping away from me until I sat in a trancelike state. The walls, visible to me alone, climbed high around me. The stench of old cigarettes that clung to the plaster made my stomach curdle, and the bunny wallpaper that bordered the top of my girlhood room only intensified the flight mode my body had shifted me into.
His words had been innocuous, but it was the tone. An octave of derision that reeked of the sneer it had been served with. That tone triggered the floodgates of unwanted memories, seizing control of my body and transforming me into the little girl I used to be.
I blinked hard and forced myself to stand. To walk away. We both needed time. Him to get his emotions under control. Me…well, nothing a few chapters of a good book couldn’t fix.
I stared at the crisscross pattern of the iron at my feet. “As long as you’re okay.” I turned to grab the railing, but Tate wrapped his fingers around my arm.
“No.”
No what? He wasn’t okay? Obviously. But I couldn’t sit there and be his verbal punching bag either. Even if the only punch he’d thrown was a weak snarky jab. Experience taught me that was just the warm-up. I didn’t need to stick around for the full three-round fight.
Tate pulled on my arm—it didn’t hurt—until the back of my knees ran into the rusted deck chair I’d just vacated. Pressure pushed me back onto the seat. He pulled the other chair up and sat so close our knees touched.
My hands folded in my lap, and I stared at them. Stared at how my fingers looked stacked against each other. Stared at the tear in the cuticle of my thumb. Stared at how the color drained when I squeezed and flooded back when I released. Fixated, I couldn’t look up. Wanted to, but couldn’t.
Their arguments had always started this way. Benign words but with a bite meant to inflict pain. My dad caging my mom into a corner, no room for her to escape. Searching for the farthest corner of the house, I’d stumble up the stairs and past walls and closed doors, their loud shouts muffled until I couldn’t hear the words. But the tone? The anger that laced each pointed barb? They landed with full force, no matter how far back in my closet I shoved myself, how small I curled into myself. They never missed their mark.
Tate covered my clasped fingers with his palms. “Emory.”
I ignored him, kept staring at our hands. Thoughts refused to surface. Shut down. I’d been here before. So many times. Too many times.
A loud crash shook the foundation of the house, the sound of shattered glass ripping tears into my security. Later, when silence permeated my hiding spot and I finally crawled out from under my hanging clothes, I tiptoed down the stairs. Mom…tears streaming down her face as she swept up the remaining pieces of a vase, the flowers I’d picked for her from a field that morning scattered across the linoleum floor. Over her shoulder, a hole the size of a fist planted in the wall above where I kept my toys.
“Emory.” He said my name with more force, shook our hands against my thighs. The movement worked, and I blinked past the trance, the long-buried memories. A tear slid down my cheek, but I wasn’t sure why. Yes, my chest clenched and my heart pounded in my ears. The sensitive spot behind my eyes burned, but I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t anything. Numb.
I looked up but regretted the action immediately. Tate’s own eyes were backlit. With hurt, concern…determination.
I shook my head. He was asking too much of me, even if he hadn’t voiced a question. But I could see it there in his eyes.
“What happened on the ferry? Why won’t you tell me?”
I shook my head again. It was the only thing my body would allow me to do. That and cry. Silent tears that didn’t have a voice.
“I’m not accepting that. Not anymore.”
I wanted to leave. To stand up and march down the fire escape steps back to my apartment. But Tate’s legs rested on the sides of mine, boxing me in. My hand fell away from under his and slid down. The tips of my fingers brushed a corded seam. Latching on to the discarded throw pillow, I brought it up to my stomach, pressed it tight, and rolled my body around it like a vertical fetal position.
Tate didn’t move, and neither did I. I didn’t stare at my hands anymore but traced the pattern of the fire escape floor with my eyes. Even without looking at him, I knew Tate was watching me. I could feel his concern, and it burned like shame in my gut.
