And then he brushes past me, not giving Aiden so much as a passing glance, and I’m left to wonder how he knows my name—and, more concerning still, when he plans to see me again.
19
IN WHICH AIDEN PONDERS THE HUMAN INCLINATION FOR WARMTH
Juniper asks if we can make a stop on the way home from Tonya’s house in the Heights. At first I’m hesitant—I want to get out of these clothes—but when she specifies that she wants to visit her mom’s grave, I relent.
You can’t really refuse if someone asks to see their mother’s grave. That makes you a huge jerk, and I already have a lot working against me. I don’t need to add to the list.
“Hey,” I say now, because something she said earlier has been bothering me. There’s still an ugly taste in my mouth from running into Lionel Astor, and even more so from his comments to Juniper. “I know I said I didn’t like you that one time”—that one time when I swear we almost kissed—“but I just meant…you know. Romantically.You’re a fine roommate. I don’t mind living with you.”
It’s more or less true.
Apparently Juniper is skeptical too, because she snorts. “In over half of our conversations, you rub your temples like I’m giving you a headache.”
Okay, well,that’sdefinitelytrue.
“I’m headache prone,” I say. “It’s not personal.”
And we’re back to half truths.
I sigh. “Honestly, Juniper, I’m just used to being on my own. Spending a lot of time around anyone is going to be an adjustment for me, much less someone so—” My voice falls away as I hunt for a word that’s neither offensive nor too revealing. When I come up blank, I just gesture at her instead, hoping maybe she’ll understand what I mean.
“I know,” she says quietly. “I’m a lot. Too much sometimes.” She doesn’t look at me; she keeps her head turned, staring out the window so that all I can see of her is her hair, her ear, and the faint curve of her cheekbone.
“It’s not that. You’re not too much. I’m just—” But I break off once again. How do I explain that she’s not the problem—I am? “This is going to sound stupid. But it’s not you. It’s me.”
This, finally, is what gets her to look at me. She gasps dramatically, clutching her hand over her heart—over the tauntingly low neckline of her silky blouse. “Are you breaking up with me?”
I allow my smile to break through, little more than a twitch of my lips, and redirect my eyes back to the road. “No,” I say as we wind through the Heights. “I’m just trying to explain. We’re roommates, so it’s important that we avoid misunderstandings wherever possible. That’s all.”
“I understand,” she says, and her voice is back to that light, detached tone she’s been using. “You like me but not romantically, and you want to maintain a peaceful roommate relationship.”
“I—yeah. I guess. I think so.” Something about her assessment doesn’t sit quite right with me, but it allsoundsokay, so I don’t say anything else.
The smile she gives me is bright, but her eyes don’t crinkle or squint. Maybe they always look like this, and I’m imaginingthings? “I understand,” she says again. “And I’m completely fine with that. I appreciate you speaking up. Communication is important when we’re living together.”
And once again, everything she’s saying sounds fine. It all sounds accurate. But…her words curdle in my stomach like sour milk, making me feel faintly sick.
“And you said you wanted to talk to me about something earlier…?” I say, because I don’t want to leave things like this.
“Oh,” she says, sounding surprised. She hesitates a few seconds too long before going on, “It was nothing.”
I just nod.
But that sick, sour feeling slithers further down into my gut, churning and squeezing. It continues to worsen as we drive to the little spot of land between Autumn Grove and Sunshine Springs where the cemetery is located. The miles pass in silence, and not the comfortable kind.
Strangely enough, it’s not even Juniper making things uncomfortable. She’s just looking out the window, glancing through the windshield every now and then.
It’sme.I’m the issue here. The quiet is torturous, and for the first time in probably my entire life, I’m desperate to say something—anything—just to fill it up.
A reckless, idiotic part of me wants to take back what I said, to tell her I was wrong. But that doesn’t make sense; I’m pretty sure I meant what I told her. Maybe I just want to say something that will get rid of that lukewarm expression on her face, the polite, distant, perfectly acceptable voice that somehow doesn’t suit her at all.
But who am I to decide what suits her? Who am I to tell her she can’t look at me like that?
So I bite my tongue and try to ignore the brewing discontent in my gut.
We arrive at the cemetery ten (painfully silent) minuteslater. It’s not big enough to be webbed throughout with any sort of road or street or trail; you park in the front and walk wherever you need to go. The lot is lined with trees, all of them in the midst of their color change, and the grass is that unpleasant yellowish-brownish that comes from needing more rain than we actually get.
