And not the metaphorical kind.
“And you’re not going to tell me why not?”
Was it because he was vain? Was he insecure? What a waste of time that would be.
“What do you think, Valentina?”
I rolled my eyes, but I wasn’t actually annoyed. I was intrigued—which, arguably, was worse.
“I think you’re avoiding the question,” I said, tilting my head. “And for the record, that only makes it even more suspicious.”
“You think I’m hiding something?”
“I know it.”
I was learning from him. Him and his stupid lawyer responses.
“Stop trying to figure me out. You’re not going to find anything.”
I hummed. “That’s what a guilty person would say.”
That actually got a laugh out of him, but he didn’t give me an answer. Marco didn’t lie—not outright. He let people think what they wanted. He let silence do the talking, just like he was doing now.
Which meant if I wanted answers, I wasn’t getting them from his mouth.
“Well, if you ever get the sudden urge to self-reflect, let me know. I’ll buy you a mirror.”
He just stared at me again.
God, it was like talking to a wall. Averytall, very repressed wall.
“Is that all, Valentina?”
I tapped my chin. “One last thing. If I’m going to be stuck living here, I feel like we should at least go shopping.”
“For what?”
I gestured wildly around the room. “Decorations. Objects. Items that suggest a human being lives here.”
“No.”
“Come on. Just one plant?”
“No.”
“A painting?”
“No.”
I sighed. “You’resofun.”
He pushed off the frame and walked past me like that was the end of the conversation.
And maybe it was. Maybe that was always how things went with Marco: I poked; he deflected. I pushed; he locked the door. But I still followed him back into the kitchen like I wasn’t done. Like I was still looking for something to hang onto in all that blank space.
Even if it was just a hook to hang my coat on. Or a mirror to remind me I was still here.
“Well,” I sighed, “how do sleeping arrangements work?”
