I know this, because the moment I close the door behind her, she silently falls apart until only the ghost of her is left. She sits on a fluffy pink couch, knees pulled up to her chin, arms pale with how tight she holds herself. The TV is on, but I can tell she isn’t watching.
Still. Unmoving. Unreachable.
I sit a few feet away, not wanting to leave her alone like this but also knowing my presence might be making things worse. I tried to ask her earlier, but she didn’t respond. Not to that, or the questions I read off the forms. Luckily she already filled out her part, so I let her be while I answer every tedious question listed.
“I think your tea is ready,” I say. “What flavor do you like?”
Slowly, her eyes move to meet mine, but she doesn’t say a word. That’s okay. They must have something in that tiny gray kitchen resembling tea. It takes some sleuthing, but in the last cabinet I try I find a little box of tea bags. I’m about to take out the strawberry flavor when I hear the smallest sound behind me.
“Cherry.”
“Excellent choice.” I trade in the strawberry for a cherry-flavored bag and make a mental note of the brand so I can stock up on them. “Do you want something sweet to pair it with? Sugar, honey, a pastry?”
Silence. I glance over my shoulder to find her curled up in a pink-dotted blanket, wincing as she flexes the fingers on her injured hand.
I raise a brow. Maybe I was wrong—maybe it’s broken after all. “Hey, you okay?”
She barely nods, so I don’t believe her. I pour some honey into her tea and carefully bring her the mug, placing it on the glass coffee table. I hover around, not sure where to go or what to do next.
I’ve never seen Alexis be loud or extroverted, but even I know this isn’t how she usually is. Maybe it’s time to call Levi or Alissa. They will know what to do, right?
And while they care for Alexis, I’ll make sure that son of a bitch pays for what he’s done. Yeah, that sounds good. Usually, I don’t like to show my anger anywhere else but on the ice, but Hudson has it coming.Big time. It might ruin my career, but I don’t care. It’ll be worth it.Sheis worth it.
But right now, I have to make sure Alexis is okay.
“You like books?” I ask, pointing towards the row of bookshelves pushed against the back wall. The green wallpaper is peeling, the paint chipped; even the air smells of mold. This truly is a poor excuse for a dorm. Maybe I can convince her to let me pull some strings, get her and Alissa a better place to live.
Alexis merely nods in response, but it’s a welcome first step. “Would you like me to bring you one? Or I can read you one. One you’ve never read, guaranteed.”
Her face turns to look at me. That caught her interest.
“It’s by a very obscure author. A quiet kind of genius really, written in the late zero’s. You’re going to love it. It’s calledCrooked Crownby a guy named Blake Taylor.”
Alexis blinks, and it’s like her eyes gain color. “You…wrote a book?”
“School assignment,” I laugh. “It’s very, very bad, but hopefully it’ll make you feel better.”
She sits a little straighter, creating room on the couch, and I let myself fall right into it before handing her her tea.
And so begins the great reading ofCrooked Crown, complete with terrible accents and dramatic reenactments. It’s somehow even worse than I remember it to be, but it brings a smile to her face, and that’s all that matters. I’m just glad I kept the PDF.
By the end I can barely hide my embarrassment, my cheeks burning and my face pressed into my hands as I force myself to continue. And that’s when I hear it.
A laugh.Thelaugh.
My eyes shoot to hers at the sound, never wanting to hear anything else. She looks at me, no doubt seeing my expression, and promptly laughs again.
“What did the penguin do to end up in the dungeon?”
“Nothing. Well, aside from the murders. But the penguin switched bodies with the king, so it’s the king who is in the dungeon in penguin form.” I smile at the quizzical look on her face. “Can you believe I got a passing grade on this? Just barely, but still.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that was oddly compelling.” Her brows knit together in thought, the sight needlessly adorable. “I mean, if you switch some things around and rework it, this could be a great children’s book. Why aren’t you doing something with this?”
I’m no novelist, and definitely not a literary genius. Hell, most days I’m barely a person. So what if I write poemssometimes, or a few short stories or bits of a longer story? That doesn’t make me a writer. My crap isn’t good enough for that.
Still, I can’t keep the smile off my face. Today, October 15th is the first time Alexis Moore has ever complimented me. It’s a rush I haven’t felt before, a tingly kind of feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I don’t think writing is the path for me.”
Alexis tugs at the blanket, pulling it tighter around herself. “So whatisyour path?”
