Page 53 of 912321

Calm down. You’re here. You’re okay.

For a moment, that works.

Then headlights wash over the front of the house below. It stops just in front of me and my chest tightens before my brain even catches up. The car eases to the curb. The engine doesn’t cut right away, like the driver isn’t sure what they’re seeing. I lean forward slightly, heart thudding, and then I hear it, that voice, saying my name.

“Is that… you? Miss Vitelli?” A pause. “What are you doing on the rooftop?” Another beat, softer now. “Are you okay?”

For a long second, there is only my breath and Blue’s small, furious purr. I count them both out—one, two, and big blue eyes staring at me, confused and waiting for a reply.

The muscle beneath my ribs lets go a fraction.

Mister Caldwell. My teacher. Of all people.

Shit.

He stands by his car like an apologetic statue, shoes planted, hands deep in his coat pockets, glasses on. He doesn’t seem sorry, or worried. He looks like someone who’s actually intrigued by me. He blinks as if deciding whether it's all right to be concerned. "What are you doing up here?"

"I—" I want to lie.

I want to say "stargazing" or "Taking some air" or something neutral. Instead I say, "I couldn't sleep."

He glances at Blue, at the notebook, and nods like he's cataloguing details. "You shouldn't leave the campus like that," he says quietly. "There are parties. People will be around. You can... socialize like everyone else, if you want."

Parties. Socializing. People.

Heat, stupid and sudden, rushes through me. When he says it, he makes leaving seem possible and also ridiculous.

“I can't," I tell him. "You should leave Mister Caldwell.”

He hesitates. For a second he looks younger, like a man who doesn't know where to put his hands, he then asks, "Are you sure you’re okay?"

Another engine curls down the block and my stomach drops to a place that isn't mine. I know the sound of my father's car is like a chord I can't unlearn. Tires, the predictable knock of his exhaust, it fits into my chest the way cold does. And if he arrives and sees a man talking to me while I’m on the rooftop, he will lose it.

So, I say it again, firmer. "Please. Go. Now."

He follows my eyes toward the street, then nods once like a decision has been made. Then he folds his hands together, gives a tiny, awkward smile, and backs to his car. "Okay. If you need anything—" he starts, then stops, unsure of what that could mean. “See you on Monday, Miss Vitelli. Be careful and wear something warmer, it’s really cold at this hour of the day.”

He drives away without turning his lights on, the car blending into the dim. I watch the glow of my dad’s car sweep the roof and reflexively pull Blue up closer, and slip back inside on silent feet.

Milo is still asleep in his room, and won’t be up until eight like usual.

So I’ll be alone with him.

I go downstairs quickly leaving Blue on my bed and closing the door behind me. He can’t know anything about what’s happening when he’s not here. I need to be quick, I need to make breakfast.

The front door closes and the whole place tilts into that familiar, held-breath silence. He always waits for the same things now, a cup left out, a beer opened.

Small rituals that tell him the house is operating on his schedule. Anything to show him he’s still in control.

I want to ask him again, why is he the way he is ?

But I know how it will end. So I bite the question down and put the coffee on because it's the only language he understands.

Obedience.

I place his mug where he likes it, open the new beer and set it where he'd expect it, like setting down a peace offering with two hands.

I move as if choreography can keep catastrophe at bay. But I should know better. You can’t control a storm that’s already happening. He comes in without a hello. He doesn't have to yell to fill the kitchen; the way he moves makes the walls smaller already.