“Chairs?” I quirk my brows, waving toward the splintering Adirondacks that haven’t been replaced in ages.
“Easier to see the sky from down here,” she says, already onher back, blonde hair spilling across the dark comforter I found in the back of the closet.
I join her, knowing better than to try to convince her of anything, surprised that the ground isn’t nearly as icy as I thought. Taking the wine bottle I unplug the cork and offer it to her, hating that I notice the way she doesn’t avoid brushing her fingers against mine as she sits up to take it.
26
Sloane
A harsh winter swell rasps across the roof deck, and suddenly, we’re in a snow globe. Andrew’s laughter floats from somewhere unreachable, flits across my skin just like the snow, and melts right into me.
“Maybe we should?—”
“No,” I insist, crossing my arms, hands tucked under. “I love it up here.”
From here, I can see that someone’s window is still lit with lights, can still sense the sporadic brave soul daring to drive through a street that’s piled high with snow. I’m a small, unimportant voyeur to the stars and the moon and the breeze, a witness to the ones still unable to let their mind rest for the night—like me.
“So. Rank them,” Andy says, clearing his throat as he finally drops down next to me after starting the fire, unbothered by me or my holiday intrusion. “Rooftops.”
“One: my roof in Atlanta.”
“Okay, fair. Nostalgia or whatever.” Tightlipped, careful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—all charm. Andfrom the moment I decided to be normal about all this, about being snowed in here with him and Carmen and their sweet as pie mother, he’s been nothingbutcharming. Like my transgressions over the past month are that easy to forgive. I smile into myself, slowly breathing out.
“Or whatever,” I chuckle, pulling my coat tighter like it’ll stop his contentment from bleeding into me. “The one from the party. And yours.”
“Really?” he asks, chuffed, his cheeks already rosy from the blistering cold, and I roll my eyes. “That’s it?”
Cocking head, I run my tongue along the tip of my teeth, curious. “I wonder what you really think about me. That I’ve been on a million roof tops with just anyone?”
His cheeks turn rosy as he takes a quick swig from the bottle.“Maybe? You’re like…an heiress.”
It dawns on me that he has, most definitely, looked me up, typed my name online and seen the overexposed snapshots of me leaving a bar when I was far too young to be served, seen the up-skirt ones that you simply can’t pay anyone enough to take down. Seen the photos of me clinging to some guy’s arm as we slipped out of a night club, the way I would before I took Elliot’s seminar, because that all stopped when I met him. It had to. It wasn’t the kind of thing a girl like me, so talented, with so much potential, should be doing…he’d said.
I take a cleansing breath. “The tabloids aren’t real life, Andy,” I tell him. “I mean, I go out. But I think they run the same photos every few weeks.” I flick my gaze over to him.“So no. No other roofs.”
“Why do you like them?” he pivots, eyes sparking with a curiosity that should feel invasive but instead feels like the warmest invitation. And when I suck in a breath, taking his curiosity and trying my best to serve it, it’s because I, for some inane reason, want him to be satisfied. Because I can’t helpmyself from seeing his eyes light up when I give him a little bit of me.
“I just…could always think better lookin’ at the sky. Feels like my thoughts have room to exist, like nothin’ can box them in.” I pause, remembering the suffocation that peppered my youth. I can still remember trying to outrun it. “And I love being around people, obviously, but sometimes I just need a minute.”
“It’s an escape.” And it’s the way he says it—like heknows, in the marrow of his bones, what it feels like to crave it. Like he knows me.
“Yeah,” I breathe out. “It’s exhausting…pretendin’, all the time. You know?” I ask, testing the waters, waiting for the invariable scoff or chuckle or silence.
A snow flake slowly falls between us, disappearing into the blanket.
“I do,” he confesses, solemn and far too earnest for someone I’m trying to not want. “Maybe we should have a word.”
“A word?”
“Yeah. If it’s ever too much, you know if we’re ever in the same place,” he explains, briefly glancing away, “just say the word. We’ll escape.”
“Find a roof,” I muse, wondering when it turned into this: him being someone who knows the right things to say to me.
“Find a roof,” he repeats, his eyes falling to my mouth before he self corrects. “The word could be…pineapple.”
“Why the fuck would I ever say that word?”
He chuckles, amusement manifesting in the fine lines near his eyes when he smiles. “Fair. Okay, how about…” he pauses, his gaze roaming over my face as I wait, my skin alive with a thousand small pricks. “Cassiopeia?”
