The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab Page 0,52

And at a distance.

“Henry!” she shouts, shedding her coat and dropping into the seat with a dramatic flourish.

“You look great,” she says, which isn’t true, but he simply says, “You too, Mur.”

She beams, and orders a flat white, and Henry braces for an awkward silence, because the truth is, he has no idea how to talk to her. But if Muriel’s good at anything, it’s holding up a conversation. So he drinks his black coffee and settles in while she rolls through the latest pop-up gallery drama, then her schedule for Passover, raves about an experiential art festival on the High Line, even though it isn’t open yet. It isn’t until after she finishes a rant on a piece of street art that was definitely not a pile of trash, but in fact a commentary on capitalist waste, to the echo of Henry’s mhm’s, and nods, that Muriel brings up their older brother.

“He’s been asking about you.”

This is a thing Muriel has never said. Not about David; never to Henry.

So he cannot help himself. “Why?”

His sister rolls her eyes. “I imagine it’s because he cares.”

Henry nearly chokes on his drink.

David Strauss cares about a lot of things. He cares about his status as the youngest head surgeon at Sinai. He cares, presumably, about his patients. He cares about making time for Midrash, even if it means he has to do it in the middle of a Wednesday night. He cares about his parents, and how proud they are of what he’s done. David Strauss does not care about his younger brother, except for the myriad ways in which he’s ruining the family reputation.

Henry looks down at his watch, even though it doesn’t tell the time, or any time, for that matter.

“Sorry, sis,” he says, scraping back his chair. “I’ve got to open the store.”

She cuts herself off—something she never used to do—and rises from the chair to wrap her arms around his waist, squeezing him tight. It feels like an apology, like affection, like love. Muriel is a good five inches shorter than Henry, enough that he could rest his chin on her head, if they were that kind of close, which they’re not.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she says, and Henry promises he won’t.

New York City

March 13, 2014

VI

Addie wakes to someone touching her cheek.

The gesture is so gentle, at first she thinks she must be dreaming, but then she opens her eyes, and sees the fairy lights on the roof, sees Sam crouched beside the lawn chair, a worried crease across her forehead. Her hair has been set free, a mane of wild blond curls around her face.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” she says, tucking a cigarette back into its box, unlit.

Addie shivers and sits up, pulling the jacket tight around her. It’s a cold, cloudy morning, the sky a stretch of sunless white. She didn’t mean to sleep this long, this late. Not that she has anywhere to be, but it certainly seemed like a better idea last night, when she could feel her fingers.

The Odyssey has fallen off her lap. It lies facedown on the ground, the cover slick with morning dew. She reaches to pick it up, does her best to dust the jacket off, smooth the pages where they got bent, or smudged.

“It’s freezing out here,” says Sam, pulling Addie to her feet. “Come on.”

Sam always talks like that, statements in place of questions, imperatives that sound like invitations. She pulls Addie toward the rooftop door, and Addie is too cold to protest, simply trails Sam down the stairs to her apartment, pretending she doesn’t know the way.

The door swings open onto madness.

The hall, the bedroom, the kitchen are all stuffed full of art and artifact. Only the living room—at the back of the apartment—is spacious and bare. No sofa or tables there, nothing but two large windows, an easel, and a stool.

“This is where I do my living,” she said, when she first brought Addie home.

And Addie answered, “I can tell.”

She’s crammed everything she owns into three-quarters of the space, just to preserve the peace and quiet of the fourth. Her friend offered her a studio space at an insane deal, but it felt cold, she said, and she needs warmth to paint.

“Sorry,” says Sam, stepping around a canvas, over a box. “It’s a bit cluttered right now.”

Addie has never seen it any other way. She would love to see what Sam is working on, what put the white paint under her nails and led to the