The Chaos of Stars
Page 25
Sirus told me that in the fall they get Santa Ana winds like the desert. It’s his favorite time of the year; I can’t wait.
I look at Tyler. “You want to come to my brother’s house? He has a . . . television. And a swimming pool.”
Tyler stands, offering me her hand. “Yes. I absolutely want to. But today Scott’s over at Ry’s house. Something about video games. My car’s over here.”
She starts walking, and I hesitate on the steps. “You know, I think . . . I’m just gonna go home.” I feel shaky and nervous, and the thought of being around Ry doesn’t promise an improvement on that.
“Why? We have a day off!”
“I remembered I’m supposed to help my sister-in-law with some remodeling stuff.” She wants me to do the nursery. Working in pastels makes me want to strangle myself with pale-pink curtains, but she said she had something else in mind. We were actually supposed to plan it tonight since she’s at work all day. However, Tyler doesn’t need to know that.
“Yeah, but she can’t be counting on your help today because you had work! So you’re not missing anything you’re expected to be there for.”
I curse inwardly. She wasn’t supposed to figure that out. I can’t admit it’s because I don’t want to see Ry. It’s too weird. And it’s even weirder that I can’t stop thinking that it’s weird. It shouldn’t matter what his name is. It shouldn’t.
It still does.
“Can you just give me a ride home, please?”
She sighs. “Sure. But I am not happy.”
Tyler drives away after making me swear to call if I finish early. I feel genuinely bad about lying to her, so I slip out of my heels and walk upstairs to the spare room. If I actually work on it, it wasn’t lying.
The room is completely blank, not even curtains on the window. Ideas for a retro polka-dot theme spin through my mind. Large circles on the walls, painted in contrasting colors. Circles cut out of Styrofoam and plastered to the ceiling, painted the same color but for a textural accent. Round-back rocking chair with a circular ottoman.
There’s nothing but potential here, and I can’t wait to get started. As much as I loathe the idea of wasting all of the work on a baby, I can have fun with this. And it will prove to Sirus and Deena that I should do the rest of the house, too.
I pull out my phone and call Deena. “Hey, I’m home early and wanted to start on the room. You said you had an inspiration folder?”
“Yes! It’s in the box marked ‘tampons and bathroom stuff.’ I didn’t want Sirus to see it.”
I laugh, cradling the phone against my shoulder. All of the boxes have been opened, and the one she told me about is empty. “Are you sure? There’s nothing here. What am I looking for?”
“It’s just a black binder, one of Sirus’s childhood scrapbooks. It has a lot of pictures of murals and ancient Egyptian art. I wanted to do a theme nursery.”
Oh, floods. She wants me to create the room I spent my whole childhood working on.
No. This isn’t a tomb, and it’s not mine. I can do it for her.
I pick up the box again, shake it. “I don’t see it anywhere. All of the boxes are open. Are you sure Sirus didn’t move it?”
“No, he’s not allowed in that room, he wouldn’t have. No one has been in there.”
Then it hits me—the memory creeping down my arms in a physical sensation like I’m being watched. This bedroom door was open. It was open, the day of the break-in. I’d never seen it open before. Deena always keeps it closed. “This room is the first room in the hall,” I say, my voice soft. “Maybe it was the intruder.”
“Why would someone take it?” she asks, bewildered and hurt.
I have no answers.
I wake up with a gasping start from the nap I’d only just fallen into. Every noise the house makes sounds suspect. Hopefully the thing with the folder really is just a misunderstanding and we’ll find it in some weird place later, but I feel like eyes are watching me. And I can’t quit thinking about that driver being attacked and poisoned. Somehow that scares me far more than him being shot would have. Shooting is impersonal; it only happens in movies.
Poison is something my family understands intimately.
The dark corners of the house seem alive, sinister, and I can feel myself starting to lose it. I don’t want to be alone. I want to be with someone who always makes me feel lighter. I walk out to the porch and pull out my phone.
“I knew you’d call,” Tyler says without saying hello.
“I didn’t get my daily dose of Tyler at the museum today.”
“Tyler deficiencies can be fatal, you know. I’ll come get you right now.”
“Thanks.” I’m so grateful I don’t even know how to express it. However, when it’s not Tyler’s small Toyota that pulls up but rather Ry’s beautiful truck, I’m torn between that gratitude and annoyance.
“Hey,” he says, climbing out of the truck and walking up the short, cracked sidewalk to where I’m sitting on the porch. “Tyler told me to come pick you up.”
“Of course she did.” I ignore his extended hand and push myself to standing. Ry manages to be a couple inches taller than me even in my heels. Huh. I’d hoped I would be taller than him. I really like being taller than people.
I follow him to the truck. “Did you hurt your leg?” I ask. He has a slight limp I’d never noticed. Not that I was noticing things about him now, like the way his dark hair somehow reflected gold bits in the sun, or how his shoulders created a straight, strong line across his back. Or the pronounced bump of a callus on his middle right finger.
I look at Tyler. “You want to come to my brother’s house? He has a . . . television. And a swimming pool.”
Tyler stands, offering me her hand. “Yes. I absolutely want to. But today Scott’s over at Ry’s house. Something about video games. My car’s over here.”
She starts walking, and I hesitate on the steps. “You know, I think . . . I’m just gonna go home.” I feel shaky and nervous, and the thought of being around Ry doesn’t promise an improvement on that.
“Why? We have a day off!”
“I remembered I’m supposed to help my sister-in-law with some remodeling stuff.” She wants me to do the nursery. Working in pastels makes me want to strangle myself with pale-pink curtains, but she said she had something else in mind. We were actually supposed to plan it tonight since she’s at work all day. However, Tyler doesn’t need to know that.
“Yeah, but she can’t be counting on your help today because you had work! So you’re not missing anything you’re expected to be there for.”
I curse inwardly. She wasn’t supposed to figure that out. I can’t admit it’s because I don’t want to see Ry. It’s too weird. And it’s even weirder that I can’t stop thinking that it’s weird. It shouldn’t matter what his name is. It shouldn’t.
It still does.
“Can you just give me a ride home, please?”
She sighs. “Sure. But I am not happy.”
Tyler drives away after making me swear to call if I finish early. I feel genuinely bad about lying to her, so I slip out of my heels and walk upstairs to the spare room. If I actually work on it, it wasn’t lying.
The room is completely blank, not even curtains on the window. Ideas for a retro polka-dot theme spin through my mind. Large circles on the walls, painted in contrasting colors. Circles cut out of Styrofoam and plastered to the ceiling, painted the same color but for a textural accent. Round-back rocking chair with a circular ottoman.
There’s nothing but potential here, and I can’t wait to get started. As much as I loathe the idea of wasting all of the work on a baby, I can have fun with this. And it will prove to Sirus and Deena that I should do the rest of the house, too.
I pull out my phone and call Deena. “Hey, I’m home early and wanted to start on the room. You said you had an inspiration folder?”
“Yes! It’s in the box marked ‘tampons and bathroom stuff.’ I didn’t want Sirus to see it.”
I laugh, cradling the phone against my shoulder. All of the boxes have been opened, and the one she told me about is empty. “Are you sure? There’s nothing here. What am I looking for?”
“It’s just a black binder, one of Sirus’s childhood scrapbooks. It has a lot of pictures of murals and ancient Egyptian art. I wanted to do a theme nursery.”
Oh, floods. She wants me to create the room I spent my whole childhood working on.
No. This isn’t a tomb, and it’s not mine. I can do it for her.
I pick up the box again, shake it. “I don’t see it anywhere. All of the boxes are open. Are you sure Sirus didn’t move it?”
“No, he’s not allowed in that room, he wouldn’t have. No one has been in there.”
Then it hits me—the memory creeping down my arms in a physical sensation like I’m being watched. This bedroom door was open. It was open, the day of the break-in. I’d never seen it open before. Deena always keeps it closed. “This room is the first room in the hall,” I say, my voice soft. “Maybe it was the intruder.”
“Why would someone take it?” she asks, bewildered and hurt.
I have no answers.
I wake up with a gasping start from the nap I’d only just fallen into. Every noise the house makes sounds suspect. Hopefully the thing with the folder really is just a misunderstanding and we’ll find it in some weird place later, but I feel like eyes are watching me. And I can’t quit thinking about that driver being attacked and poisoned. Somehow that scares me far more than him being shot would have. Shooting is impersonal; it only happens in movies.
Poison is something my family understands intimately.
The dark corners of the house seem alive, sinister, and I can feel myself starting to lose it. I don’t want to be alone. I want to be with someone who always makes me feel lighter. I walk out to the porch and pull out my phone.
“I knew you’d call,” Tyler says without saying hello.
“I didn’t get my daily dose of Tyler at the museum today.”
“Tyler deficiencies can be fatal, you know. I’ll come get you right now.”
“Thanks.” I’m so grateful I don’t even know how to express it. However, when it’s not Tyler’s small Toyota that pulls up but rather Ry’s beautiful truck, I’m torn between that gratitude and annoyance.
“Hey,” he says, climbing out of the truck and walking up the short, cracked sidewalk to where I’m sitting on the porch. “Tyler told me to come pick you up.”
“Of course she did.” I ignore his extended hand and push myself to standing. Ry manages to be a couple inches taller than me even in my heels. Huh. I’d hoped I would be taller than him. I really like being taller than people.
I follow him to the truck. “Did you hurt your leg?” I ask. He has a slight limp I’d never noticed. Not that I was noticing things about him now, like the way his dark hair somehow reflected gold bits in the sun, or how his shoulders created a straight, strong line across his back. Or the pronounced bump of a callus on his middle right finger.
