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Yeah. Not scoring any points on that one. At least I have a good excuse. “Hey, small town, remember? Everyone at school knows where you live.”
“Yeah, but they don't drop by uninvited.”
Man, I’m really screwing this up.
She sighs. “Fine. Come on.”
I follow Anora inside. She leaves me in the entryway while she returns the salt to the kitchen. When she comes back, we stand facing each other.
“This is the living room,” she spreads out her arms and then lets them fall, slapping against her sides.
I raise my brows and maintain a smile, though her new attitude toward me makes me want to demand what changed in a few hours. “Nice view.”
She turns, heading toward the stairs. They creak as we rise, and her mom calls from somewhere in the house, “Door open!”
Anora cringes, and I’m not sure it’s from embarrassment or the thought of kissing me. I’m really hoping it’s the former.
I follow Anora down the hallway. She turns and walks through a door on the right.
“This is my room,” she says.
I brush past her, the scent of roses and rosemary surround me as I observe her space. She has a twin bed with a purple comforter, and a four-drawer dresser sits opposite that. There are a couple of boxes in the middle of the floor she hasn’t unpacked yet, and a black telescope on a tripod near her window.
Right. She wants to be an astronomer.
“Do you stargaze often?” I ask, already knowing the answer, but noting several star posters pinned around her room.
“Sometimes. Mostly, it’s too bright.”
“How did you get started?”
She hesitates and then admits in a small voice. “My poppa. He bought me that telescope.” Her voice catches on the words, like she’s not used to saying them in past tense, and something far worse and bottomless opens up in my chest.
I frown. “I’m sorry,” I say, and decide it’s best if I change the subject. I nod to the bookshelves on either side of her window. I knew she read a lot, just by the surveillance we’d conducted. “You have a lot of books.”
“It’s my goal to have the library in Beauty and the Beast one day.”
That makes me laugh. “If you could only take one of these with you to a desert island, which one would you bring?”
“That’s easy,” she says, and I feel her approach—my awareness of her pricks along my skin. “My special edition Lord of the Rings.”
When I look at her, she’s standing just a few steps away glaring at me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “You’re...different.”
I’m not sure how else to say it, but the point is, she’s treating me like I’m the enemy.
“I haven’t changed at all,” she says.
I twist toward her, closing the distance, but she backs away.
“Are you afraid of me?”
Instead of answering, she says, “Is everyone in this town a death-speaker?”
“I am not a death-speaker.”
“If you aren't a death-speaker, then what are you?”
