"The rent's a hundred a month," he said. "You buy groceries once a month, too. First month in advance.
But you're not staying past that, so keep the rest."
She swallowed and picked up two hundred of the three hundred she'd counted out. "Thanks," she said.
"Don't thank me," he said. "Just don't get us into trouble. I mean it."
She got up, went into the kitchen, and spooned chili into two bowls, added the bowls to trays along with spoons and Cokes, and brought it all back to set it on the coffee table. Michael stared at it, then her. She sat down on the floor - painfully - and began eating. After a pause, Michael took his bowl and tasted it.
"Shane made it," Claire said. "It's pretty good."
"Yeah. Chili and spaghetti, that's pretty much all Shane can cook. You know how to make anything?"
"Sure."
"Like?"
"Lasagna," she said. "And, um, sort of a hamburger hash thing, with noodles. And tacos."
Michael looked thoughtful. "Could you make tacos tomorrow?"
"Sure," she said. "I have classes from eleven to five, but I'll stop and pick up the stuff."
He nodded, eating steadily, glancing up at her once in a while. "I'm sorry," he finally said.
"About what?"
"Being an ass**le. Look, it's just that I can't - I have to be careful. Really careful."
"You weren't being an ass**le," she said. "You're trying to protect yourself and your friends. That's okay. That's what you're supposed to do."
Michael smiled, and it transformed his face, made it suddenly angelic and wonderful. Dude, she thought in amazement. He's totally gorgeous. No wonder he'd been worried about her being underage. A smile like that, he'd be peeling girls off of him right and left.
"If you're in this house, you're my friend," he said. "What's your name, by the way?"
"Claire. Claire Danvers."
"Welcome to the Glass House, Claire Danvers."
"But only temporarily."
"Yeah, temporarily."
They shared a smile, uneasily, and Michael cleared up the plates this time, and Claire went back up to her room, to spread out her books on the built-in desk and start the day's studying.
She listened to him playing downstairs, the soft and heartfelt accompaniment to the night, as she fell into the world she loved.
Chapter Four
Morning dawned bright and early, and Claire woke up to the smell of frying bacon. She stumbled to the bathroom down the hall, yawning, barely aware that she was scantily dressed in her extra-long T-shirt until she remembered, Oh my God, boys live here, too. Luckily, nobody saw, and the bathroom was free. Somebody had already been in it this morning; the mirrors were still frosted with steam, and the big black-and-white room glistened with drops of water. It smelled clean, though. And kind of fruity.
The fruity smell was the shampoo, she found, as she lathered and rinsed. When she wiped the mirror down and stared at herself, she saw the patterns of bruises up and down both sides of her pale skin. I could have died. She'd been lucky.
She tossed the T-shirt back on, then dashed back to her room to dig out the panties she'd rescued yesterday from the washer. They were still damp, but she put them on anyway, then dragged on blue jeans.
On impulse, she opened the closet, and found some old stuff pushed to the back. T-shirts, mostly, from bands she'd never heard of, and a few she remembered as ancient. A couple of sweaters, too. She stripped off her bloodstained shirt and dragged on a faded black one, and, after thinking about it, left her shoes on the floor.
Downstairs, Eve and Shane were arguing in the kitchen about the right way to make scrambled eggs. Eve said they needed milk. Shane said milk was for pussies. Claire padded silently past them, over to the refrigerator, and pulled out a carton of orange juice. She splashed some into a glass, then silently held the carton up for the other two. Eve took it and poured herself a glass, then handed it to Shane.