Page 24 of Petite Fleur

Maeve is not coming to our fucking house!

Sanctuary and solace, remember?

Plus, I don't think she'd appreciate my favorite part of the basement.

The little room all the way in the back, the one tucked in the corner and shielded by a thick and soundproof door.

My favorite little room with an autopsy table built into the wall, perfectly hidden when not in use.

Could Maeve ever learn to accept or even love my favorite room?

Chapter 8

Maeve Henderson

My entire walk home feels like an eternity, but I know it's not. I know I practically speed-walked the entire way to avoid lugging these heavy bags for any longer than necessary.

I don't understand how these bags feel heavier than my paper bags. Maybe it's because all of their weight is digging into my shoulders?

It doesn't matter, anyway.

All that matters is that everyone I've passed on my walk has looked at me like a crazy person. Not that I blame them.

I'm sure I look like one of those older people who walk the mall before they're even open. The only part of the ensemble I'm missing is the fluorescent tracksuit and the fanny pack.

The image of me sporting a bright purple tracksuit in goofy shoes with a fanny pack has me giggling most of my way home.

I'd swing my arms, do the dramatic labor breathing with every step, and count my laps around the mall.

Gosh, I'm embarrassing.

Some guy walking his dog even stopped to stare at me as if I'd escaped the psych ward.

No wonder my friends never demand and beg me to go out drinking with them.

Nope, I tell them no, and they just go without me. Well, when they even invite me.

Carlie told them no once, and three girls cried until she changed her mind; they insisted it wouldn't be any fun without her.

It should hurt my feelings that I'm not as much in the group as she is, but it doesn't.

Two years at this school have cemented in my brain that I am only in the group because of Carlie and that none of those girls actually want to be my friend.

When I finally walk through the door to my apartment, I'm covered in a thin layer of sweat, and my skin feels sticky, but the cool AC hits me in the face immediately, and I sigh in relief.

I really do hate the Texas heat.

I lug my bags through the small apartment until I can lift them onto the counter, seeing a small sticky note stuck to an empty beer bottle that reads, “At the bar, meet us if you want.”

No, thank you.

I'm not even old enough to drink anyway, not for a few more months, but Carlie swears she could get me in.

Still, I'd rather not.

I'd rather bask in the silence of our apartment while everyone else parties.

As I unload my limited groceries, it dawns on me that my bags were so heavy because Leon had snuck both gallons of apple cider into them.

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