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School. I haven’t even given it any thought. It seems so . . . useless now, to go to design school when I have to worry about demons and dreams.
But I have to. No matter what happens, I have to hang onto what I can. I won’t be normal, but for the sake of my father, I’ll try.
“Speaking of the neighbors,” my father says. “I was thinking we should invite the Knightlys’ over for dinner next week. Get to know them.”
“Are Perry and Dex coming? Because he will flip if he can’t probe the musical mind of Sage.”
He grunts, wiping his chin with his napkin and throwing it on the empty plate. “No. They don’t live here, we do. It’s up to us to forge relationships with these people.”
“Even though we’re selling the house and might be moving soon.”
He watches me for a moment, debating something, before sitting back in his chair and letting out an empty sigh. He takes off his glasses and starts polishing them with the edge of his sleeve.
“I’m not even sure if I want to sell the house anymore. I don’t think the timing is right.”
Now, a few weeks ago this would have been music to my fucking ears. But despite having the convenience of cool neighbors who won’t think I’m crazy, plus having my god damn guardian angel, devil, whatever he is, within reaching distance, I’ve been leaning toward the idea of getting out of here. Somewhere else, where there aren’t memories to hold me down, let alone a monster in the closet, has started to seem like a pretty good idea.
But though my dad has no idea about the closet portal (or maybe he does, but if he does, he’ll never bring it up), I can see why the memories held here are both a reason to go and a reason to stay.
“Okay,” I tell him as I get up, not wanting to do anything other than what he wants to do. This is how it will always be I think, this tip-toeing around, not wanting to upset each other because we’re all we have in this house.
“You’re not going to eat that?” he nods at the steak and before I can tell him no, he’s spearing it with his fork and bringing it on to his plate. I briefly have a vision of the demon swiping its claws at Jay’s arm, the way they cut through to the bone and yet, at some point between there and now, his wounds have miraculously healed.
I move to put the plate in the dishwasher when he says, softly, barely audible, “You know, grief takes shape in many different forms. It follows you. The loss. The pain. It’s a ghost in its own right. Don’t forget that, Ada.”
I murmur something in agreement and head up the stairs, wishing it was just that easy.
It’s almost midnight when I decide to go to sleep. I’ve spent the evening on my phone, scrolling through Facebook (Amy hadn’t deleted me so that said something) and my IG feed, perusing the usual online stores for some pre-fall bargains that I really can’t afford, and finally drawing up a sketch of an evening gown made from flames. Orange and red silk, layers of tulle, and a jeweled, low-cut neckline—perfect if you were going to the Oscars as Satan’s date.
But really, I’m just wasting time. I’m waiting for Jay to appear and when my eyes start closing on themselves, that’s when the air in the room changes.
If there was a barometer in here, it would go haywire. My skin prickles and I expect a flash of lightning but instead the air warps and shimmers, tiny splashes of light, and then Jay steps out of nowhere.
He just appears, like earlier today, and he brings with him a rush of cold air.
I stare at him for a moment.
He stares right back at me.
He’s wearing black sweatpants and a white wife-beater, which would look thuggish on anyone else but him. In fact, his pants are of a rather thin variety, like a silk-cotton blend that shows every little detail.
I only notice this because of my fashion background.
Like, I know my fabrics.
I swear.
I immediately avert my eyes and if he’s caught me staring at his dick print, he doesn’t show it. In fact, I don’t think he’s even capable of feeling anything close to embarrassment or shame.
Then again, he did say that being around me made him feel.
Feel what, I don’t know.
Maybe that’s the real reason I wanted him to stay over.
I realize I finally have to say something because this whole staring into each other’s souls thing is only pulling my head into a tailspin (not to mention my hormones).
“Took you long enough,” I say with just enough edge to my voice.
“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “I was caught up with something.”
