Past tense.Wentblind.
I’m already there.
The bed wheezes as Yasmin sits down beside me. I keep my breathing even and my eyes closed. It’s easier this way. If I keep them closed, she won’t notice that they don’t track movement anymore. Won’t notice that I don’t flinch when she waves her hand in front of my face to see if I’m really asleep.
“El,” she whispers, “I know you’re awake.”
I don’t move.
“Your breathing changes when you’re faking it. Always has.”
Dammit.Busted.
I open my eyes, though only because that’s what she expects. It’s a stupid charade, because it simply cannot last much longer. But whether it’s fear or pride steering the wheel of Eliana Hunter these days, the outcome is the same: I’m going to keep on pretending for as long as I can. So I stare in the direction ofher voice and hope I’m looking close enough to where her face actually is.
“Can’t sleep,” I mumble.
“Me neither.” Her hand finds mine in the dark. Well, dark by her standards. For Yas, there’s probably still the glow of the digital clock, the sliver of light under the door, the red exit sign bleeding through the thin curtains.
For me, it’s all the same. All nothing.
“We should probably talk about what happens next,” Yasmin starts.
“Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
“You’ve been saying that for a week.”
“Then one more day won’t hurt, will it?”
She sighs but doesn’t push. That’s the thing about Yasmin—she knows when to fight and when to let things be. And we’ve both had enough of fighting for a long, long time.
She releases my hand and grabs something. The TV clicks on. It’s a violent assault of canned laughter and manufactured dialogue that crashes rudely into the suffocating silence we’ve been drowning in for days. On the other hand, it does fill the void with something that isn’t the sound of my own ragged breathing or the grim, relentless thunder of my pulse in my ears.
It’s a nice change. I’ll take it.
“Cheer up,” she says in a half-hearted attempt at a playful voice. “There’s aSex and The Citymarathon.”
I feel her settle under the covers beside me. She sighs again, then lays her head on my shoulder. Samantha says something about the size of a guy’s yacht, though she’s not talking about boats. Charlotte gasps. Miranda rolls her eyes and snarks, and Carrie muses in voiceover about whether any of us ever really know what we want.
I don’t watch. I can’t. But I listen.
Yasmin laughs. “Remember when we binged this whole series sophomore year?”
“Youmade me watch it,” I correct. “I wanted to watchBreaking Bad.”
“And I saved you from becoming insufferable about prestige television. You should be thanking me for keeping you grounded.”
I almost smile, but it dies before it can quite make it to my lips. Smiles are getting harder and harder to come by these days. The episode continues. We sit together in our shitty motel room, and for just a moment, the white noise fades.
Yasmin wriggles in place, trying to get comfortable. I hear a plastic crunch, an “Oops,” and then the laugh track cuts off mid-guffaw. She must’ve sat on the remote.
The channel flips and a new voice fills the room. It’s serious and male, the kind of voice that delivers bad news for a living. “—police have confirmed that they have a suspect in custody following a violent assault in River North last week. Brandon Michael Torres, twenty-nine, faces multiple charges including assault, battery, and breaking and entering?—”
My entire body goes cold.
“Yas—”
“Shh.” Her hand finds mine again and squeezes. Hard.
