Fiona snorted, attempted to cover it, and failed entirely.
I almost smiled.
“How do I get up there?”
“Down the hall, past the bathroom. The door at the very end—the one that looks like a closet—goes up to the roof.” Lily paused, then added, quieter, “She’s been up there a while.”
I nodded once. “Thanks.”
I turned to go, then stopped.
“Lose the hoodie, Fiona.”
“It’s not in the bag!”
“It’s six inches from the bag.”
A groan. I left them to it and headed down the hall.
* * *
The door was exactly where Lily said it would be. I pulled it open, revealing a tight wooden staircase that wound upward into bright light, each step creaking under my weight.
I wasn’t sure what I was going to say. Probably that I was sorry, that this was a mistake we couldn’t repeat. The words felt empty before I’d even formed them, but they were the right ones—the only ones that kept everyone safe.
I reached the top and pushed through the access door into the open air.
I found her on the far side of the old chimney stack.
Libby sat tucked against its base in a rusted folding chair, knees drawn up, a cigarette burning between her fingers. The smoke curled upward into the gray morning air and dissolved, unhurried, like it had nowhere particular to be.
She hadn’t heard me yet.
I stood there, watching her stare out over the rooftops, still.
The odor reached me, pulling me somewhere I hadn’t meant to go. I never really smoked, but I remembered a corporal named Deets who kept a pack of Marlboro Reds in his breast pocket like a talisman. After anything bad happened, he’d pass them around without a word, and we’d stand there smoking in the dark. It was something to do with our hands while we waited to feel normal again. They never tasted good, but they gave me something to focus on besides fear, taking the edge off just enough to keep me functional for the next few hours. I understood the impulse completely.
“Mind if I join you?”
She jumped and looked up at me with wide eyes. For a fraction of a second, everything was there on her face, unguarded.
A flash of warmth that she killed almost instantly, replacing it with something neutral and composed.
Almost convincing.
I shifted my gaze away. I hadn’t come up here to read her; I’d come up here to close a door.
She didn’t speak, just extended the pack and a cheap plastic lighter. I shook one loose and lit it. The first drag burned, and I exhaled slowly through my nose, fighting back the cough.
I lowered myself into the only other chair on the roof and leaned forward, the cigarette smoldering between my fingers.
“Libby, listen.” I turned the lighter over in my hand. “I want to apologize.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t look at me.
“I think things went too far last night, and—”
I stopped.
