Page 57 of Before We Break

“Everything ok with Lexi and Auggie?”

“He’s asleep. She’s staying at my place tonight, and she said to tell you that she loves you.”

A small smile spreads across her face, but there’s something solemn lingering underneath. “I haven’t had a nightmare in years,” she muses, tugging at a stray thread on her blanket.

I continue with my task, opening the box and setting the pizza on the round pan, letting the silence stretch.

“They started after Lexi was born, when I was struggling with postpartum depression. I was a young mom. A high school dropout just trying to survive. Thank god for Penny. She always knew what to say to make it ok. The nightmares got better as Lexi got older. Now, they only happen once in a blue moon, when I know Lexi isn’t home, but never like this. I’ve always been able to bring myself out of it.”

I want to ask what she dreams about, but it’s none of my business. Beyond this fucked up arrangement, I’m not sure what we are to each other. This feels like a crossroads. I could walk away and keep my distance as I told myself I would, or I could follow the more complicated road and see where it leads. One thing I know for sure is that Clio needs a friend, and I can be that for her, even if it’s temporary. It can’t be more than that—my past would only complicate her life—more than it already has.

For now, I’ll be a shoulder to lean on if she wants it, and tomorrow, we’ll go back to being neighbors.

The oven beeps.

I set the pizza inside, and slump down on the sofa at the opposite end.

She shifts to face me, and something tells me I’m about to be tested. “So, Noah Weston. Aside from rescuing damsels in distress from imaginary threats, what do you do for fun?”

I stare across the sofa, letting the silence linger.

“What? We’re engaged. We should at least get to know one another.”

That’s the last thing I need. A sarcastic response is on the tip of my tongue, but she cuts me off before I can let it out.

“No wait. Let me guess. Kicking puppies? Making babies cry?” She purses her lips and stares up at the ceiling. “I know! You stand outside Saps and Swirls waiting for unsuspecting children, then you scare them into dropping their ice cream.”

“You’re a menace.”

She smirks. “I’m not the one who likes to scare children.”

I throw my head back and groan. “I don’t scare children.”

“You didn’t deny it.”

“I draw. For fun. There. Are you happy?”

She hums. “Nope, but it’s a start.”

“Fine. I’ll play. What do you do for fun? Summon all of the animals in the neighborhood to clean your apartment and sew elaborate ball gowns for you?”

She tosses a pillow across the sofa, and I catch it one-handed, hugging it to my chest.

“Stick to drawing. Sarcasm isn’t your strong suit.” Her expression sobers, and she gets a far-off look in her eyes. It’s like her thoughts are somewhere else, lost to time. When she finally speaks, there’s a new melancholic edge to her voice. “I knit. My Aunt Penny taught me as a way to keep myself busy when it felt like the world was closing in around me. Lexi was just a tiny little thing. I still have a bin full of handmade sweaters and booties from back then. They were a mess at first, but it gave me somewhere to focus my energy.”

It all makes sense now. The ridiculous, brightly colored sweaters she wears all the time—she made those. And the blanket she’s wrapped in now, no doubt she made that, too.

She clears her throat and sits up straighter. “What’s your favorite color?”

“I don’t have one.”

She snorts. “Everybody has one.”

Her almond-shaped eyes catch in the lamplight, glimmering and curious. She thinks I can’t see the sadness, but it’s impossible to miss, even from a distance. What would you call that shade of green? It’s not quite emerald, but it’s not warm enough to be olive. It’s somewhere in the middle with lighter sage around her iris.

“Green.” The answer slips out of my subconscious as effortlessly as a swift exhale. I tear my gaze away, blinking rapidly, and the oven timer beeps, putting an end to my dangerous train of thought.

Heat billows out of the oven as I pull the door open, and the scent of cheap pepperoni pizza washes over me, bringing a wave of repressed memories. Store-bought pizza was a means of survival for us after our parents died. We didn’t have much back then, but we made do. I don’t have time to walk down memory lane, so I tamp them down.