“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she says. The tremor in her words betrays a thread that is about to snap.
I step closer, careful. I don’t want to startle her into anything. “I don’t want you falling off my roof.”
She lets out a laugh that’s part bitter and part weary. “Your roof? Really? Of all the rooftops in New York, I pick the one with a mortgage.”
“Exactly,” I say, and the edge in my voice has nothing to do with the mortgage. “Be considerate. Think of the headlines.”
That makes her scowl. So does my tone, so does everything about me apparently. Her hands curl. Her knuckles go white. I can see the way the chill bites beneath her coat. There’s a tremor that has nothing to do with weather.
“You’re analyzing me?” she asks, incredulous. “You sound like someone who’s read a few too many self-help books.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe I’m someone who knows what it looks like when life runs out of other options.”
She glances down over the ledge, the city yawns below, and I feel the thread between us stretch. It is the strangest thing: she is both a poison and the only salve. The thought is stupid. It is also sharp and immediate.
“Why are you here?” she asks suddenly.
“I came for air. For the quiet. For a minute when no one wanted anything from me.”
She studies my face. For a moment her guard drops and I see it, the way she’s trying to remember how to breathe. “You don’t look like someone who gets quiet.”
“I don’t,” I say. “I look like someone who is practiced at pretending.”
She takes a breath, then a laugh escapes, small and unbelieving. “Yeah, I bet.”
The edge of her lip quivers, and something softens in my chest—a dangerous, traitorous softness. Her scent hits me then, lavender and something green, like an afterthought of a garden in a city that forgot how to grow things. I should pull away. I don’t.
“I wasn’t actually going to jump,” she mutters. “I just like dramatic altitudes when I’m falling apart.”
There’s a wildness in her, but something soft, too. She doesn’t look like a jumper. I can see it in her eyes. But this isn’t about what she wants; it’s about what she thinks she deserves.
“So who was it?” I take a step closer, closing the space between us. “A boyfriend? An ex? Did he ghost you like you never mattered? Cheat on you? With your best friend?”
My voice sharpens, a blade twisting. “Or maybe you got fired? Screwed over by someone who smiled to your face?”
She stiffens, eyes narrowing to slits. “None of your business.”
“I think it is.”
“It’s not.”
She looks down, leaning forward ever so slightly toward the ten-floor drop. For a heartbeat, I think she’s going to do it, but then she closes her eyes and exhales, heavy and trembling.
Her resolve is cracking. I can see it, piece by piece, falling away.
“If I’m being honest with you,” I say quietly, “I’d probably do the same.”
“What?” Her gaze flicks to mine — quick, uncertain, like she’s not sure she heard me right.
“Jumping,” I say, glancing over the ledge. “Yeah, I get it. Life fucking sucks. It’s hard. Nothing ever goes the way you want. Jumping feels easier.”
“I’m not going to jump,” she blurts, too fast. Too defensive.
“Good,” I reply, voice flat. “Because I’m not in the mood to start my day with a police report and trauma counseling.”
Her lip twitches; she’s about to tell me to fuck off. But she doesn’t. She just stares at me, like I’ve intruded on something sacred. Maybe I have.
I glance at her feet. One shifts, barely noticeable. Her breathing’s too fast. Her hands are trembling.
