Then I worry that startling him will set us back. Will he still trust me if I keep him trapped inside? So for the time being I’m content to coax him gently, to show him I won’t hurt him, night after night.
Whispering sweet nothings, I push the window up from the outside and pull out the food I left there this morning. Slowly, slowly I scoot the bo
wl to his side of the landing.
“Aren’t you a pretty one,” I croon as he sniffs at the food, then begins to eat. “Aren’t you sweet.”
I remain like that, crouched on the metal grate, watching as he downs the whole meal. Only then do I step in through the window. As soon as I’m inside, no longer blocking the stairway, Lupo rattles the steps on his way down.
“Good night,” I whisper into the damp night air.
The only response is the tinny sound of a trash can knocked aside. With a sigh, I pull the bowl in and shut the window. On impulse I turn back and push the window open again. My sister would freak if she knew I was doing this, but Lupo might come back while I’m sleeping. He might be curious enough to peek his nose inside if he knows it’s safe.
I drop the empty bowl in the sink and grab an orange from the counter for a late-night snack. Settling into the drawing table that I use for both my art and my schoolwork, I toss the peel into the trash can and set the split pieces on the pencil ledge.
The loft is really a single room with thin hardwood slats set diagonally on the floor and a high, peaked ceiling. A small kitchen frames one corner, the door to a small bathroom in the other. The open window splits the space between a twin bed and nightstand and a lounge my sister found at an estate sale. The drawing table and small wardrobe for my clothes round out the rest of the space.
It’s an ordinary apartment in this part of Tanglewood, except for the paint. I’ve covered almost every surface I can find. My landlord agreed that I could paint the walls as long as I paint them back before I move out. He probably thought I meant a soft beige or maybe a trendy sky blue. Instead there’s a patchwork quilt on one side and a mountain vista on the other. The starry night surrounding the window and a gothic Rapunzel on the other side. Not even the furniture escapes my brush. The squat wooden legs of the chaise are fashioned into chess pieces. Thorny vines wrap around the tall spindly legs of the drawing table.
Heavy sketch paper sits on top of the table, waiting for me to draw. Except I don’t want to see Giovanni’s face again, not like earlier. I’m haunted by his ghost, but he isn’t around me. He’s inside me.
I could do some studying instead. Or maybe browse Buzzfeed until I’m tired enough to sleep.
They would both be safe enough.
But there’s some kind of demon inside me that flips open my laptop. Some horrible impulse that clicks the bookmarked link. Why do I keep doing this? I can’t seem to stop myself.
The obituary is short and unbearably impersonal. There’s no picture.
GIOVANNI COSTAS, 18, of Henderson, Nevada, passed away of unknown causes.
Unknown causes. My mind had filled in a thousand horrifying possibilities in the years since I found this record online. What happened to him after I left? I remember his slight smile in the dim moonlight, the warmth of his body as he lay beside me. Those memories are bad, but even worse is my imagination—his body beaten, bruised. A bullet in his heart. Someone had hurt him, killed him, most likely because he had helped me. Whatever he did to distract them so that my sister and I could escape, cost him his life.
The temperature in the large room seems to drop a few degrees, and I shiver. On my darker nights I imagine that he haunts me. Selfishly I sometimes wish that he would, if only so I can see him again. The loft remains empty, light wavy on the knotted hardwood floors as clouds cross the moon.
The trill of my cell phone makes me jump.
I slam the laptop lid shut, feeling guilty and somehow afraid. I never told anyone about seeing Gio’s obituary, even my sister. Especially not my sister. She worries about me enough without knowing that I’m grieving.
Sure enough, the phone screen flashes her smile. I snapped that picture while Kip was behind her, pressing his face into her hair. The bliss on their faces burrows under my skin, uncomfortable and hot. Like anyone who’s been burned by love, it hurts to see two people so happy together. I can’t stop looking, though. Can’t stop pressing on that bruise.
“Hey, Sis,” I say into the phone, my voice a little husky with lingering emotion.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course I am.” Only barely, I refrain from saying that I’m always okay, that she has me wrapped up so tight that it sometimes feels stifling. I know it only comes from a place of love, but sometimes I long to break away from her caring arms as much as from my father’s harsh grip.
“I haven’t seen you lately,” she says, her tone contrite. She knows she can be overprotective, and she tries to curb it. Well, Kip helps her with that.
I may have missed a couple of Sunday dinners.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy with school.” And with not telling her about my boyfriend. At least I won’t have to keep that secret anymore. After tonight I’m officially done with Shane. “How have you been?”
“Good.” The smile comes through the line loud and clear. “It’s our third anniversary.”
I flop onto my bed, her happiness stealing away my earlier gloom. At least one of us can be lucky in love. “So what did he get you?”
“Too much. This gorgeous ruby necklace, an all-day spa gift certificate—for two, by the way, so I expect you to come with me. We’ll make it a girls’ day.”