“It’s exhausting.”
“Yes.”
She stays against me another moment. Then she straightens, embarrassed now, wiping her face with both hands. “Sorry. You probably don’t like being used as furniture.”
“I have been used for worse.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It was not intended to be.”
Her mouth trembles, almost a smile. “You really need lessons in normal responses.”
“I am aware.”
“No, you’re not. You think you are, but then you say things like that.”
I look down at her. “What is a normal response?”
“To what?”
“To crying.”
Her expression softens again, and I regret asking because she looks at me as if I have revealed a wound.
“You say, ‘I’m here,’” she says.
The words are simple. Ridiculously simple.
I force them through a throat that feels too tight. “I am here.”
Fresh tears gather, but this time she smiles through them. “Yeah. You are.”
The rear door opens, and Darlene’s voice cuts through the room. “I gave you two exactly four minutes of emotional privacy, which is generous enough to qualify me for sainthood. Anybody naked?”
Evie jerks back from me, face flushing. “Darlene!”
“No, then.” Darlene steps inside with a fresh cigarette tucked behind one ear and a sack of cleaning rags in hand. Her sharp eyes move over Evie’s face, then mine. “Good. We’ve got work to do.”
Evie wipes her cheeks again. “I know.”
Darlene points at her. “You’re done working tonight.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You’re going upstairs before your face leaks on the inventory.”
“I need to help.”
“You helped by not dying. Don’t overachieve.”
Evie looks at me for support.
I say, “You should rest.”
“Traitor.”
“Yes.”
