Page 37 of The Narrow

There’s no camera in the bedroom or the bathroom. She’s negotiated this much with her mother. I thought that it would be the scrutiny of the cameras in the other rooms that I noticed, feeling their gaze glaring down at me, but instead it’s when we’re sprawled on her bed together that I can feel thelackof them, like a tension in the air, a pressure. We lie on our stomachs side by side doing fruitless research on her laptop, six inches between us, and there is no one to see what we do. I am exquisitely and painfully aware of the distance between her hand and mine, of the strands of copper hair that have fallen over her face.

At the end of the week, I have memorized the map of the freckles on Delphine’s shoulders, but I have not discovered anything about our ghost. And I cannot ignore my friends’ texts anymore—they’re threatening to storm Abigail House. I stave them off with a promise of attending movie night.

It isn’t that I don’t want to see them. It’s that I can’t tell them what’s happening, and the thought of adding yet another lie to the many I already tell makes me ill.

I know the boys are in the Westmore rooms before I get there, as the door is propped open to the exact eighteen-inch regulation, intended to keep us from stripping off our clothes at the first sign of an eligible mate.

Veronica and Remi are as entwined as usual, with her perched on his lap in the armchair, and he has that dopey expression he gets on his face whenever she’s around, like he can’t believe how lucky he is. Meanwhile, she looks like that old saying—the cat that got the cream. Diego and Ruth are at the table together, Zoya folded up on the couch.

Everyone looks up when I enter, but no one says anything.

I don’t belong here anymore, I think, then tell myself that’s ridiculous.

I clear my throat. “Is this the sad singles couch?” I ask Zoya. As if I haven’t been avoiding them for the last week.

“I’m not sad about being single. You’re the sad one,” she informs me, but pats the seat cushion beside her in invitation.

I sink down onto the cushions. “What are we watching?” I ask.

“Fury Road. Girl-power time,” Veronica declares.

“I think that’s our cue to leave,” Remi says. He pats Veronica’s hip, and she stands to let him escape as Diego rises from his seat.

“You’re not staying?” I ask. The two of them pause, and a stricken look flits over Remi’s face.

“We decided it’s girls’ night,” Veronica says. She covers well, but Zoya and Ruth look guilty. What is this, an intervention? “See you two tomorrow for the Vespers run? Remi, we good to use the Land Rover?”

Vespers is next week, I remember. It’s the welcome-back party we throw every year. We always go into town to pick up supplies.

“Sure thing,” Remi says in his warm rumble. He’d order up ahorse and carriage if she asked. I don’t say anything as Remi and Diego make their farewells and filter out.

“Right. So, movie,” Ruth says. She comes over to the couch, dropping to the floor in front of it, her usual spot. Veronica reaches for the remote.

“I was thinking of asking you to do my hair,” Zoya says casually, not quite looking at me. It’s a common movie-night activity. “I’m in the mood for a change. But if your arm hurts too much...”

I blanch. I thought I was covering it pretty well. “It’s fine,” I say tightly. Veronica has turned on the TV but is now just looking at me. “I fell and bashed it on the curb at the airport. It’s feeling better.”

“It kind of seems like it’s gotten worse,” Ruth says. “I’ve seen you around campus. You’re always holding it like you’re protecting it. If it’s broken—”

“It’s not,” I say.

“And you’re kind of terrible at taking care of yourself sometimes,” Veronica says. “You should get it checked out.”

“Fine. I’ll go to the clinic tomorrow. Can we just watch the movie?” I snap, my cheeks flushed and my pulse speeding up. They can’t know. They won’t understand.They’ll pity you. Poor little rich girl, a whisper in my mind says.

“It’s just—” Zoya starts.

Veronica sighs. “Eden, look. You’ve been acting kind of weird. This thing with Abigail House and avoiding us—”

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” I say. “I just don’t live here anymore.”

“There’s no reason you can’t hang out here, at least until curfew,” Ruth points out. “And I still don’t get why you’d volunteer for Abigail House in the first place. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to get away from us.” She says it like she isn’t sure it’s a joke.

“Eden?” Veronica says.

“What?” I look up sharply. “Maybe I don’t want to spend every single second of every single day with my friends. Maybe I just want some time to myself. It’s not a big deal.” I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth.

Zoya scoots closer to the arm of the couch. “Hey, if you need introvert time, I get it. If I didn’t spend a few nights every week with noise-canceling headphones, ASMR, and not another living soul in sight, I would legitimately murder you all. But if there’s something wrong, we’re here for you.”

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