I change the subject. “Feel better?” I add a lightness to my tone, trying to turn this whole thing around.
I hate that she hates me. I know she has every reason to. And hate is probably a strong word. It’s not hate, it might be revulsion, which would be worse, in my opinion. I’d rather have the hate.
“Yeah. I do. Thanks.” She heads towards the kitchen. “I’m going to make dinner.” I watch her pull open the fridge and start gathering things, things I didn’t help put away because I was in my post-feeding high, or whatever it is. She places several ingredients on the counter. “Do you want some?”
“Do I want some?” I smile at her. “Yeah. I do.” She smiles back at me. “But”—her smile falls—“I don’t think I could keep it down, to be honest. So I’m gonna pass.”
She forces that smile again, but it’s fake. “Right. I figured, but I don’t want to leave you out.”
“I appreciate the offer. I really do, Syrsee. And I hate that we’re so distant right now. I wish it was different. Actually, I wish it was the same as before. I wish it was like it was.”
“Yeah.” She nods. “Me too.” But then she just turns away and starts preparing her meal.
I don’t know what to do next. I don’t have a TV here, so I can’t turn that on for background noise. I do have a radio, though. An old-timey one that takes up way too much room in one corner of the cabin. So I walk over there, turn it on, and then bend down, trying to find a station. It only takes a second to find the first one—polka music.
Which makes me laugh, and when I look over my shoulder, Syrsee is smiling as she cuts up some vegetables. “Do you polka?” I ask.
She shakes her head, still smiling.
I move the dial to another station and find classic rock. I don’t ask for her opinion on this. I’m not in the mood for Ozzy. So I continue down the spectrum and land on bluegrass. When I stand up and turn, she’s nodding at me. “This is kind of appropriate.”
West Virginia music, for sure. “Do you know how to play an instrument, Syrsee?”
“No. I took a little piano in college. Just for fun.” She scoffs. “Actually, I didn’t pick that class. The Guild chose all my classes and they put me in piano for two semesters. It was a private class. Just for me. And I kinda liked it, but I didn’t learn much. I didn’t even know how to read music when I started. So it was a whole lot of ‘Jingle Bells,’ and ‘Happy Birthday,’ and ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ for a while.”
“And what could you play by the end?”
She sighs, but not a tired sigh. More of a thinking-back sigh. “‘Für Elise.’”
“That’s impressive.”
“Trust me.” She’s slicing a cucumber. “It was tediously slow in tempo. And it took me the whole second semester. I learned that one and ‘Lean on Me.’”
“Fun.”
“Do you play an instrument, Ryet?”
“Guitar and violin.”
She stops cutting to look up. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Hmm. Just didn’t see that coming. But…” Her eyes meet mine. And we stare at each other for a moment. “You would’ve had a lot of time, right? To learn.”
“Yeah. I had lots of time.”
She sighs again. This time it is a tired one. Then she puts down her knife.
“Everything OK?” I ask.
She wipes her hands on a dish towel. A brand-new one that she must’ve bought today because I’ve never seen it before. “I have to tell you something.”
“All right.”
“I ran into Tristin in town.” She says this in a rush, like she needs to get the words out before she loses her nerve.
“Who’s Tristin?”
