Page 72 of Take This to Your Grave

"You're doing this on purpose," she whispers, her eyes fixed on the screen where Jake Gyllenhaal is buried in newspaper clippings and evidence boxes.

"Doing what?"

"Being nice," she says. "Making me stay. Using my favorite movie as a distraction so I don't feel like a failure for being sick."

I look down at the top of her head. I want to reach out and smooth back that mess of hair. I want to tell her that I’d stay in this dump of a hotel for a week if it meant she felt safe enough to just be. I want to tell her that she’s the only person I’ve ever met who actually makes any of this feel like it’s worth something.

"I’ve been wanting to watch it again, I just didn't want to watch it alone this time," I say instead. “It’s kind of unsettling. If I happen to reach for your hand during the scary parts, I'd appreciate your discretion.”

She hums, a soft, vibrating sound. "Lies."

She shifts, and the nudge of her body against mine knocks something loose inside me. The little moments I've been brushing aside assemble into a picture I can't unsee.

This is my Zodiac moment. The moment you step back and realize the evidence has been pointing in one direction all along.

Serena is carving out a space inside my head that I’d spent years keeping boarded up, and I am falling for her.

I reach over and take her empty ginger ale can, setting it on the floor. When I settle back against the headboard, my hand lands beside hers beneath the blanket.

Slowly, almost cautiously, she turns her hand over until our palms meet. I take the invitation and lace my fingers through hers.

There goes my carefully cultivated emotional detachment.

INDEPENDENT FINDINGS

SERENA

Calla: You’ve been suspiciously quiet.

Serena: Stomach virus.

Lila: Oh noooooo.

Calla: That will do it.

Lila: Are you okay?