She enters the cottage’s bedroom—that’s whattheycall it, a cottage—and starts the work of cleaning it. She knows that eventually, someone will arrive and explain why the house is empty. They won’t realize that she doesn’t need an explanation. She may not be allowed to share their secrets, but that doesn’t stop her making sense of them.
She already understands that the person who slept in this bedroom will not be coming back.
22Florence
“Sorry.” Andrew flips a switch, illuminating the kitchen island, and him standing behind it, appearing as unexpectedly as he did during my therapy session. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
He’s wearing the same gray uniform and black hoodie, though now his sleeves are down over his wrists. I wonder if he had to prove he could enter a room silently to get this job.
I swing the guitar onto the couch beside me. “I don’t scare that easy.”
“I thought you might want something to eat,” he explains. “You barely had any dinner.”
“What, they keeping track of that, too?”
Andrew shakes his head. “Just a chef trying to please his customer.”
“I’m not a customer. And you’re not really a chef.”
“I’ve cooked every meal you’ve had since you arrived.”
“Just admit that they hired you more for your muscle than your skills in the kitchen.”
Andrew opens his mouth to protest, then smiles instead. “Fair enough.” He holds his hands up like I’ve beaten him.
I move toward the kitchen and sit at one of the barstools across from him.
“Candy?” he offers.
I nod, feeling like a little kid. The light is dim enough that maybe Andrew can’t see the wrinkles framing my mouth, the sun damage freckling my cheeks. I think about the celebrities who died young, beautiful, their faces still pristine: James Dean, River Phoenix. Kurt. Scott.
It’s already too late for me to go like that.
The not-really-a-chef procures a bowl of Swedish Fish. I dig in.
“I like your ink.” Andrew’s gaze runs up and down my bare arms as hereaches into the bowl and pulls out a handful of red fish, popping them one by one into his mouth.
“I don’t think your boss approves.”
“My boss?”
“Eeeevelyn.”
Andrew laughs at the way I say her name. “Yeah, she’s not exactly punk rock.”
“She make you cover that up?” I nod at his forearm. Andrew pulls up his sleeve, revealing theNever Settletattoo. I reach out, running my fingers over my own words. The letters are slightly smudged, like ink is forever bleeding beneath his skin.
“Not really appropriate,” he says.
“The tat, or what it says?”
Or the way I touched you?
“The tattoo.” He leans forward, his arms flat against the cold kitchen counter. “Though I don’t think Evelyn would get the reference.”
Maybe if she’d looked me up online when I told her to, she would.
“You know, the label hated that song? They wanted it off the album.” I twist my hair around my fingers.
