Vial Things (Resurrectionist #1) - Leah Clifford Page 0,8
streaming off darkens to a washed out gray-brown. I work the jeans first, squirting shampoo onto the material and using the ledged corner of the tub as a makeshift washboard. By the time I finish up with the shirt, the water’s gone cold. I twist the knob.
The only sound is the percolating noise of the last water making it down the drain as I wring my clothes. I toss them over the shower door to dry and step onto the bathmat. They’ll be damp in the morning, but if everything plays out the way I need it to, it isn’t going to matter. For once, I can leave them. Have a place to set my things where I won’t worry about them getting nicked by someone with hands quicker than mine.
When I pick up the towel to dry off, I notice it’s damp. The image of her using it sometime earlier in the day jackknifes my brain. Jesus, why can’t she make the first move? If she kissed me, I could justify going along with it. Tell myself I was doing it to get in with her, get closer. And what’re you going to do when it all blows up in your face? I think furiously.
The girl is glue. If I touch her once, I’m not going to be able to stop.
I think about tucking that long blond hair behind her ear. I think about draping an arm over her shoulder when we end up on the couch watching one of those terrible comedies that I would sit through every night for the chance to hear her laughing. See a smile on her lips that isn’t tinged in sarcasm. The ones I put there never seem quite genuine. But I could...
Stop.
There are rules in place for a reason. Don’t get caught up in her. Don’t pretend it’s real. The hope that it could be only makes it hurt more. I need distance to get a clear head, but I can’t leave now. Not after what happened to Brand.
It’d been different with him than it is with Allie. Brandon and I had both known where we stood. We watch each other’s backs. Watched, I correct myself.
Even with what happened to him, I can’t bring myself to feel as guilty as I should. He hadn’t trusted me. If he had, he’d be alive right now.
Frustration twists through me, balls up inside until my fist explodes toward the fogged mirror. I pull the punch at the last second, but my knuckles strike hard enough to send pain shooting through the bones of my hand. I swipe through the fog on the glass, stare into the brown eyes blinking quickly back at me.
“You can do this,” I whisper to the reflection. I only ever meant to use her. I’ve gone through our hangouts a dozen times in my mind, searching for the moment I messed up. The moment I started to like her. “You don’t,” I argue.
I step into the sweatpants she keeps for me. They’re old, stretched out on her but a perfect fit for me. It’s weird how the simple act of putting them on relaxes my body, leaches the tension from my neck and shoulders in a way even the hot water couldn’t. They’re a stupid pair of sweatpants but they mean I get to sleep tonight without waking up to look over my shoulder every few minutes. That I’m safe.
My fingers grip the counter of the sink until they turn white.
“She’s just another girl,” I tell myself.
I’m so screwed.
Allie
The scent of coffee yanks me out of inky dreams. From the kitchen, I hear the last few gurgles of the machine and the loud beep as it finishes brewing. I stretch and roll my neck. The smile’s on my lips before my feet even hit the floor; I can’t remember the last time someone made me coffee in the morning. I wonder if it’s some sort of bribe, buttering me up for whatever he’d wanted to talk about last night. From the smell alone, I’d accept.
When I get to the kitchen, Ploy’s bent over the table, his back to me.
“Hey,” I say, my voice gravelly with sleep. I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Thanks for coffee.”
“There’s more,” he says, stepping aside to reveal two wrapped bundles on the table. “Borrowed your keys.” He gestures at the set. “Figured you didn’t want me to leave you sleeping with the door unlocked.”
“Thanks,” I say as I unwrap the paper from my breakfast.