Nirav kicks Pax in the shin, shakes his head. He slides hishand into mine and flinches. In my mind’s eye, Spirit gives him a hug, surrounding him with warmth and light. His shoulders relax.
Go ahead, lass. Do it.
He’s a great kid.
“Oh, Pax,” I say. “You’re too generous. One room is fine.”
Pax looks from me to Nirav and back, as though gauging whether this will be appropriate or worse, run me off. He needs me now. Needs mygifts, actually. “You’re certain?”
I squeeze Nirav’s hand. “Absolutely.”
Miss Beverly sighs. “One room, then. The number to receive calls is Schuyler 8397, but no outgoing calls, you hear? Too costly. I’m supposing you want this room on credit?”
Pax playfullypshaws her. “No, ma’am! I don’t believe in credit.” He reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out the thickest wad of bills I’ve ever seen. “Three months up front, please,” Pax continues. He slides several bills across the marble counter. Miss Beverly doesn’t blink; she scoops the money directly into her apron pocket.
Three months? I feel a sudden need to run. Three months is far too large of a commitment. It’s the longest I’ve stayed in one place since…
Since I had a family.
“Maybe we shouldn’t—” I begin.
Miss Beverly hands me a large brass key. “Room 202.”
Pax senses my fear. He dips his chin at me, lifts his hand in a small farewell. “I’ll see you soon? I still owe you that nickel, after all.”
I don’t reply.
“I always pay my debts, Stella Bohdan.”
Stella. There it is. I nod. “Yes. You still owe me that nickel.”
I’ll stay. For now. But I must keep my heart in one piece. No shattered-glass soul for me.
Room 202 holds a tiny stove, two small, battered bedsteads with thin mattresses, a single chair with a mended cushion, an evil-smelling lamp with a wick not quite long enough, a tremulous kitchen table, and a leaky skylight.
“I thought she said these rooms were—” I halt my statement—newly furnished—when I see Nirav. He spins slowly, looking at this place with shiny eyes.
“Come on, roommate,” I say, gently touching his elbow. He jerks away instinctively. “Let’s unpack.”
“Unpacking” consists of me hanging my one torn hat on a nail behind the bed and placing my one change of clothes to soak in the tiny sink in the corner. There is a waved bit of looking glass over the counter. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen myself in a mirror. I look older. I run my fingers through my tangle of hair, suddenly self-conscious that it looked like this all morning.
Not that that matters. I clear my throat.
Nirav unpacks, too. He dumps his canvases and paints on the single chair, and he turns his pockets inside out on the lopsided table. I glance at the contents: A spool of thread. A fishing hook. A sharpened pencil. A jagged shard of blue glass.
I kick off my shoes and sit on one of the beds. “How do you like our digs, roomie?”
I was trying to make a lighthearted remark, but Nirav stillstands in the middle of the room, as if afraid to touch anything. It’s obvious he’s trying to piece together how exactly he wound uphere, now. His hesitation emboldens me: “Do you think we can trust Pax?”
Nirav bites his bottom lip, but eventually, slowly, he nods.
He’s young, but somehow, knowing that Nirav is also choosing trust comforts me. I shift into lying on the bed on my belly, my chin propped in my hands. “When I’m getting to know people, Spirit… well, I sometimes picture a flower in my mind’s eye. It gives me a message about what I can expect from that person. And Pax, well, I see oleander.”
Nirav finally looks my way.
“Oleander has lots of varieties,” I explain, kicking my feet. “My favorite ones are pink with dozens of small, lacy blooms. It’s beautiful. It’s also very poisonous.”
Nirav considers this, then nods. He at last sits on the edge of the bed and begins to take off his shoes and socks. He points to himself.And what flower do you see with me?
