Page 44 of Half the Summer's Night
I melt into the shadows along the edge of her yard, following the trail of her scent until I find her standing on her front porch, elbows resting on the railing, the salty wind blowing her hair away from her face.
She’s holding a small, clear glass, and even from here I can smell the alcohol in it, something floral and antiseptic all at once. She picks the glass up distractedly, the ice clinking as she brings it to her lips.
I wish I were that glass.
For a moment, all I can do is watch her. The porch light is unnaturally bright and washes out her pale skin, making her look like a ghost. She’s in thin, flimsy shorts and a long, flowy tank top that clings to her breasts, but when she moves to take a drink, I can see the dark outline of her areolas through the fabric, which makes my breath quicken.
I move closer, my steps slow and careful as I skirt around the flower garden. The sunflowers bob their heads in the wind. But Abi’s looking straight ahead, at the cemetery, and her emotions are so strong that I almost feel them for myself. The fear and anxiety, yes. But something else, too. Confusion, maybe. Guilt. Whatever it is, it cuts like a knife.
Abi straightens her spine, takes another drink. There’s nothing to separate us. No walls or thick, distorted windows.
I step forward again, and this time I let my step fall heavy.
Immediately, Abi’s fear spikes. She jerks her gaze toward me, although she blinks blindly behind her glasses.
“Hello?” she calls out, her fingers tightening around the railing. “Who’s there?”
My heart is thundering. I don’t think I could turn back even if I wanted to.
“It’s me, little detective.” I take two large steps, moving into the edge of light cast by the porch.
Abi gasps, jerking herself back so her drink sloshes around in the glass. “You,” she breathes, and beneath my killing face, the skin on the back of my neck prickles. “What are you doing here?”
I step up to the porch. Her emotions have shifted again. The fear’s abated, which makes my chest warm. The confusion is still there. Heightened, if anything. But there’s also a curl of heat beneath it. A sparking of excitement.
“Making sure you’re safe.” I step onto the porch steps and into the light. I can feel the buzzing heat of it, even through my killing face.
“What do you care about that?” Abi asks.
The question cuts through me. How can she not understand what she is to me?
Because she’s terrified of you, dumb ass.
The voice sounds like Uncle Nash, and I hate it, especially since I know, deep down, he’s right. I can sense the fear coming off her, even if it’s nowhere as intense as the fear from the night she was attacked.
Abi stares up at me, lips parted, eyes big and glossy behind her glasses.
“Someone attacked you,” I say slowly. “I want to make sure it won’t happen again.”
“Why?” Abi’s voice wavers. “So you can attack me instead?”
Another slice of despair. “No,” I snap. “No, I wouldn’t do that.”
We stare at each other in the sallow porch light. The air smells like her. Like funeral flowers and sweet fresh lemonade.
I take a step closer. She doesn’t pull away.
“Can I ask you a question?” she asks softly, curling her glass up against her chest.
I stop; it brings me up short. But then I nod silently, my curiosity burning hotly.
“When you—” She stops and looks out toward the cemetery.
“No one’s here,” I say. “Just us. You can say whatever you need.”
“How can you know that?” She looks over at me again, her eyes narrow.
I don’t answer because I don’t have one. I just know when people are around. I always have.
