Page 19 of Sunsets & Other Dangerous Things

When she turned, it was like she was in a different world.

A thick layer of blue and red vintage rugs hid the rough floors. The brown paper ceiling was disguised beneath mandala tapestries tacked in place. And the bare wood beams running horizontally between the arches of the ceiling were looped with strings of lights, giving the space a warm, yellow glow. A plain mattress, propped on recycled pallets and covered with a slightly mussed, white linen duvet, dominated the center of the space, and in the far corner under the round window rested a vintage tufted armchair next to a small, overflowing bookshelf.

As though entering a holy place, Ashley stepped cautiously, reverently into Esther’s room.

“It’s beautiful.”

Esther stood in a corner by the chimney separating the two halves of the attic, her attention on Ashley, as though waiting and judging Ashley’s reaction. There was something disarming about the way Esther watched the world. Like she saw through the face Ashley presented, the smiles and the cheerful words, to whatever she was in the dark.

They certainly couldn’t have that, so Ashley pasted on an especially bright smile and moved to the far side of the room, plopping into the armchair. It wasn’t until she was seated on the worn cushion that she noticed the record player on the floor and the crate nearby with a handful of vinyl. She combed through them like the nosy busybody she was. It was a small collection of about ten. All vintage and mostly classical music, though there was Barbra Streisand’s album,Wet. She plucked it up and held it so Esther could see, only raising a brow in question. Esther walked closer. A blush traveled up her neck and colored her cheeks. Delicious.

“It’s my mom’s.” Her answer was almost apologetic.

“Barbra’s a classic,” Ashley said, tucking the album back with a shrug. “What do you have in the player? Please tell me it’s Debussy.”

“Are you a fan of Debussy?”

The quick way Esther asked had Ashley regretting making the reference. Here she was, trying and failing to makeTwilightreferences when Esther actually cared about Ashley’s musical taste.

“He has some good ones.”Probably. But Ashley only knew the one.

A glance at the bookshelf provedTwilightwas nowhere to be found. Bram Stoker’sDraculawas there though, which also made sense. Esther seemed like the type to enjoy thedarker classics. She’d probably love talking to Claribel about the authors Claribel had met and eaten over the years.

On second thought, she should probably keep Esther away from Claribel.

Ashley picked up the book resting on top of the shelf, half-heartedly flipping through the pages. “I used to love to read, but…” She broke off, years of solitude flashing before her eyes. She pulled them back into the box in the back of her mind where she kept them. “I haven’t had a chance in a while.”

“You could borrow one,” Esther offered. “If you’d like.”

If she’d like? Sharing books was a sacred thing. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” Esther shifted from her spot by the bed and knelt in front of the shelf. “I couldn’t fit my whole collection. Some of these I’m borrowing from Uncle Pete.” Her fingers combed through the spines.

Ashley slid off the chair to join Esther on the floor. The space was small, and she sat close enough that only a whisper of space separated her knee from Esther’s.

“Which one would you suggest?” Ashley asked.

Esther’s smile faded, and her shoulders pulled up. Her hand fiddled with her ear, hidden within her curls, as her gaze—darting across the shelves—turned more frantic than loving, and Ashley realized her mistake. Esther didn’t give advice.

“I mean, which is your favorite?” Ashley asked quickly.

The tension in Esther’s shoulders loosened at the change in wording. Ashley resisted the urge to rub Esther’s back like she was soothing a scared animal.

“They’re mostly old reads,” Esther said, “so I don’t know how many you’ve read already. I’ve always loved Poe.”

Maybe she would hate Claribel.

“What’s your favorite of his?” Ashley’s legs were losing feeling from kneeling for so long, so she shifted off her legs,her knees pointing to Esther. In a burst of confidence, or maybe recklessness, she placed her hand on Esther’s ankle in that small stretch between jean and sock, her thumb resting lightly on the knob at her joint. Esther didn’t move or say anything, but Ashley heard her heart rate pick up.

A chuckle that was only a quiet puff of air escaped Esther, and she turned her attention from the books to Ashley. “You want me to pick a favorite? Impossible. And where would I begin? Favorite short story? Favorite poem? Something scary, romantic, a mystery?”

Esther shifted to her side too, and Ashley’s hand was brushed away in the motion, but their socked feet ended up touching. This felt more intimate.

“Start where you want,” said Ashley. “I want to hear everything.”

“I probably sound like a creep, but when it comes to short stories, I love his dark stuff. ‘The Pit and the Pendulum,’ ‘Masque of the Red Death,’ ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’ More revenge and torture than mystery. But with his poetry, I’m all about the tragic love like ‘The Raven’ and ‘Annabel Lee.’ Though there’s something to the hopeless fortitude of ‘Eldorado.’”

“I think I read ‘The Raven’ in school.” Ashley laughed. She was way out of her element but wanted to keep Esther talking.

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