She just squeezes my arm once, gently, and says, "You know I'm always here if you need to talk."
***
I find Arthur in the living room, sprawled across the couch in a worn gray t-shirt and sweatpants, scrolling through something on his phone. He looks up when I walk in, and his face breaks into that easy, unguarded smile he does so well.
"Hey," he says. "How was Maren?"
"Good." I drop my bag by the door and toe off my shoes. "Actually, she's dealing with supplier drama, but seems to be taking it quite well."
"Oh," he says. "That sucks."
"It's business, as she'd say." I settle into the opposite end of the couch. The leather is cool against my legs. "Where is everyone?"
"Mason's working for a client. Knox drove to Ridgeville to pick up some gadget." Arthur gestures vaguely with his phone. "So it's just us."
"Just us," I echo.
The apartment really is quiet.
Arthur sets his phone facedown on his chest. I pick at the edge of a throw pillow.
"So," he starts. "Do you have any plans?"
"I've got nothing," I say.
"Me neither. This is dire," he pauses, then sits up, one arm slung over the back of the couch. "Do you wanna watch a movie?"
"What are you into?" I ask.
He considers this with a seriousness I'm not sure the question deserves. "Horror. Slashers. Blood and teens making terrible decisions in the woods."
"That sounds perfectly healthy," I say.
"I'm a very healthy person."
"I'm sure you are, because actually love slashers," I say, and his eyebrows go up like I've just told him I can juggle. "What? I do. Good ones, bad ones, ones where you can tell the blood is literally just corn syrup—"
"Stop." He holds up a hand. "You're telling me you willingly watch camp slashers."
"I'm telling you Ienthusiasticallywatch camp slashers," I clarify.
He tilts his head, studying me. "Okay, so,Sleepaway Camp. Obviously."
"Obviously."
"The original?" He asks.
"Is there any other version worth discussing?" I counter.
He stares at me for a beat, a slow, brilliant smile breaking across his face. "Want to watch it?"
"Absolutely I want to watch it," I reply.
He plugs his computer to the tv, searches for the movie and hits play. The opening credits roll with synth score, grainy footage, a lake that looks suspiciously like a municipal reservoir.
We settle in. I tuck myself into the far corner, my shoulder resting against the armrest. Arthur sits in the middle of the long sofa, stretching his legs out and slinging one arm casually along the back cushions.
Within thirty minutes, I've subconsciously migrated away from the armrest and toward the middle cushion. I've pulled my knees up to my chest, angled slightly toward him. We're not quite touching, but we're close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off him.
