Page 64 of Touch the Sky
“And you?”
She pauses with her finger hooked around the door handle. “Me?”
“Do you love it?”
Tess nods, swallowing hard enough that I see her throat bob. “I do. I really do.”
I nod too. “That’s good.”
The whole truck feels heavy, like we’re buried under a landslide of unspoken words pressing down on us from all sides. There’s not even room for air anymore.
We’re going to choke.
I reach for the handle and fling my door open. Cold night air whooshes in to fill my lungs. I gulp mouthfuls of it down like I’m suffocating and jump out onto the driveway.
Behind me, I hear Tess do the same. I swing the door shut and lean against the side of the truck, still breathing hard. My attention drifts up to the sky, where there’s a silvery half moon hiding behind a few wisps of clouds.
I don’t know what it’s halfway towards: full or empty.
Maybe empty. Probably empty. It must be getting smaller and smaller the longer I stare, fading away into nothing but a black hole in the sky.
Tess comes around the other side of the truck, and I scramble for something to say.
“I am sure you’re taking much better care of the place than my cousin.” I nod towards the back. “He was kind of a slob. I didn’t even know how nice it could look back there until he moved out.”
Tess glances over at the house and then back at me.
“It’s still a work in progress, but I think we’re doing all right. Shel is having a lot of fun helping with the decorating.”
There’s nothing forced about my grin as I imagine all the kooky stuff Shel must have picked. I’m sure she’s got posters of her favourite animals all over her room. Just a few days ago, she was telling me all about her passion for star-nosed moles. I almost screamed when she pulled up some pictures of the weird, alien-looking rodents on my phone, but Shel thinks they’re adorable and has a star-nosed mole plushie on her birthday wish list.
“That’s good,” I tell Tess. “I bet it looks great.”
She shoves her hands into the pockets of her blazer.
“Do you want to, um, come see it?”
She looks down at the tips of her shoes and kicks at a few pebbles scattered on the driveway.
“I mean, uh, you are the landlord,” she adds without looking up. “I’m sure you’ll want to check in sometimes.”
“I’m not your landlord.”
Something hot and bitter shoots through my body.
“My mom is your landlord. My name is not on the lease.”
“Okay, yeah, but technically, it’s your house,” she argues.
“It’syourhouse,” I insist. “You live there. You don’t have to show me anything. I don’t want you to think I’m, like, the boss of your life. You’re my…”
I trail off, my throat getting tight when I realize I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
I don’t know what word is big enough to swallow everything that we are—and everything that we’re becoming.
“Your what?” Tess prompts.
I clear my throat.
