Page 22 of Glitter Rose
“Homeschooled.” I can tell him that. “I kind of was sick my whole life. Really sick. Some rare genetic thing no one could figure out.”
“That explains the penthouse quarantine vibe.”
“Yeah, well…” I roll up my sleeve, revealing the constellation of small, circular scars dotting my forearm. “My father dragged me to a million doctors and a million tests.” BC-7, but I can’t tell him that. “Eventually, we found a treatment. By then, I was already too old for school. I would have loved to go to college, but well, you know what happened.”
His gaze lingers on my scars, his expression unreadable.
I yank my sleeve back down. “What about you? High school football hero?”
“Hardly.” His lips curve into a half-smile. “Detention regular, but I was smart.”
“Let me guess—you were building pipe bombs while the teacher wasn’t looking.”
“Thermite, actually.” The smile reaches his eyes now. “In college. Burns hot enough to melt metal. Nearly took out the whole east building.”
I snort wine through my nose, unprepared for the mental image of Knox with singed eyebrows. “Did you get ex-matriculated?”
“Would’ve been, if the chemistry professor hadn’t vouched for my ‘scientific curiosity.’” He makes air quotes with his fingers. “Marine recruiter showed up days later. Said they’d pay me to blow shit up legally. My teacher had some connections.”
“Dream job.”
“It was.” Something shadows his face before he shakes it off. “What would you have been? If…” He gestures vaguely at the apocalyptic world beyond my windows.
“Fashion designer, maybe.”
“That I believe.”
The compliment warms me more than it should.
When we’re done eating, Knox stands, limping toward the sink with his plate.
“Leave it,” I say. “I’ll clean up.”
“I can help?—”
“You’re injured.” I take the plate from his hands, our fingers brushing, and I wish I could hold his hand for a teeny tiny moment. “Sit down. Please.”
He studies me, then nods once before relaxing on the couch.
The next morning, I wake to find him already up, attempting push-ups with his knees next to the couch. His muscles flex under Jacob’s borrowed t-shirt as he counts under his breath.
“Most people take sick days when they fall off buildings.” I step into the room.
“Most people don’t survive falling off buildings.” He pushes up one final time, then hauls himself back up on the couch. “How’s the pasta supply?”
“Almost extinct. Hope you like rice.”
Days blur together after that. Three more sunrises, three more sunsets. Knox’s ankle improves enough for him to pace the penthouse, and we establish routines. Breakfast together, checking his wounds, me in the garden while he exercises, afternoons reading side by side in comfortable silence.
Sometimes, he draws my feet onto his lap, and massages them or lets his fingers graze across my skin. Telly bristles at me for letting him do that, but I kind of like it. Who wouldn’t?
At night, we prepare dinner together and talk about nothing substantial.
By day six, he can walk without limping. By day eight, we’re almost out of rice, too.
“Running low?” Knox asks as I measure out the last cup of rice for dinner.
“We’re fine,” I say. “I’ve got canned goods.”
