Page 9 of Out of the Dark

Before I can talk myself out of it, I walk down the hallway and knock on her door. The mattress squeaks with her shifting weight followed by quiet footsteps before the door cracks open just enough for her to peer out.

"I was just wondering if you wanted something to eat," I say. "I haven't seen you since last night and want to make sure you don't starve."

She opens the door a bit wider, but I notice the way her expression shifts to one of politeness, as if she’s remembering to put a mask up. "That would be lovely. I could cook something if you'd like."

"No, you don't have to do that. You’re my guest. I actually have some chili cooking right now—wait, you're not vegetarian or anything, are you?"

She smiles, and it’s a genuine one that catches me off guard with how much it lights up her expression. "No, I’m not vegetarian. And I appreciate you cooking."

I notice the book I gave her yesterday lying on the bedbehind her, along with the notebook that’s opened to somewhere in the middle of the pages. "What were you doing in there all day?"

Her cheeks flush as she glances back at the bed. "Reading and writing, mostly."

"Didn't realize I was running a study hall," I joke, but her face falls slightly. Shit. There I go again, saying something wrong. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," she interrupts. "I was homeschooled, actually. So maybe old habits die hard." There’s a flash of something in her expression I can’t quite place—longing, regret, worry? It’s gone before I can figure it out.

Homeschooled. Interesting. There’s one more piece of the puzzle falling into place. "Religious family?" I ask before I can stop myself. It’s not always the case, but it’s common enough that it’s a valid assumption.

"Very." Her tone makes it clear that's all she wants to say on the subject, but it explains a lot: her quietness, her hesitation, the way she carries herself like she's trying not to take up too much space.

"Well, food is ready anytime, so you’re welcome to join me for dinner," I say, not looking behind me to see if she follows as I make my way back down the hallway.

I ladle chili into a bowl for myself then turn to see Claire hovering at the edge of the kitchen. Another thing I’ve noticed about her is how quietly she walks, as if she’s making herself as unnoticeable as possible. I hope she realizes she can take up as much space as she needs to here, even if she won’t be here much longer. It’s the thought that counts, though, right?

She’s wearing another sweater that’s at least three sizes too big for her to the point that it almost looks comical. That’s yet another thing that seems to be a constant for her—wearingclothes that are much too large, that shroud her body in fabric.

I hand Claire a filled bowl before grabbing the plate of grilled cheeses I had made before I went to her room.

"I don’t know about you," I say, carefully setting everything on the table, "but I firmly believe grilled cheese and chili is the best comfort meal anyone could make during the wintertime." God, I sound like an idiot.

She nods and gives me a soft smile, and I notice again that she waits to take a bite until I do. Starting to connect the dots, I wonder just how strict of a home she grew up in between the homeschooling and religion. I desperately want to ask her, but I have a feeling that if I ask her outright, she’d feel uncomfortable.

Still, I can’t help but asksomething. "Do you have any siblings?"

She nods, finishing chewing her bite before answering. When she speaks, there’s a sort of hesitation surrounding her words, as if she’s weighing out how much to tell me. "I’m one of five. Two brothers and one sister older than me, and one sister younger than me."

"Wow, that’s quite a few. I can’t imagine that." I dip my grilled cheese into my chili and take another bite. It’s a little more bland than usual, but I made it that way on purpose. I wasn’t sure if Claire liked spicy food or not, so I toned it down for her sake.

After a moment, she asks, "What about your family?"

"Not much to tell," I say with a shrug, matching her vagueness. "It was just me and my father for a long time, but my best friend Shane and his parents are the closest thing I’ve ever had to a family."

We stand there for a moment, locked in an awkwardstalemate of unspoken histories, before I take an unnecessarily intense interest in staring at my food. What am I even doing, trying to get to know this girl? The last thing I need is to complicate my life by involving another person like this, even if I am just giving her a place to stay for a day or two.

She’ll be gone soon, which is good because, honestly, not being able to walk around naked anymore is a major check mark in the "negatives" column of her being here. In fact, the only thing I’ve done since she got here is worry about keeping myself in check and attempting to seem non-threatening. It’s exhausting.

"Thank you," she says. "For all of this. For helping me last night, and letting me stay here, and…" she gestures at the food. "Everything. It’s been a long time since I’ve been shown so much kindness."

"It's just chili," I tease.

"No, it's more than that. You didn't have to help me. Most people wouldn't have."

I study her expression from across the table, wondering again what she’s been through. "I think that’s more of a reflection of other people rather than me." It’s a little uncomfortable to be seen as so good-hearted when most people don’t look at me very closely. They only see the intimidation factor I put off, and even if they get close to me, they usually only see me as a jokester. Though, Shane is really the only person I’d consider myself to be close to anyway, and he’s too wrapped up in wedding stuff to care much about anything else right now.

Claire looks up at me with those deep, dark brown eyes but says nothing, only shrugs.

"So you live alone all the time?" she asks. "No, uh, girlfriend or anything?"

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