Page 54 of The Two of Us

I freeze in place, invisible chains preventing me from running like I usually do as the groans continue. They’re low in volume, yet they reverberate throughout my skull, as if amplified to a hundred and twenty decibels.

Help him, help him, help him.

I reach for the doorknob but hesitate. Maybe it’s the nightmares, the fear, or even the lack of sleep, but I swear I see a cloud of cold air fog up the doorknob. I jerk my hand away and retreat upstairs. As I settle back into bed, the entirety of the dream slowly becomes a blurred spot in my memory, but one thought remains. A kernel of truth that travels from my subconscious into my reality with great fervor, solidifying into its own being with bones and flesh and dark inky talons.

There’s nothing I can give him.

***

Ambrose hasn’t been by the house in a week. I pretend that the only reason I know the exact number of days I haven’t seen him is because the realtor called me three times to inquire about the progress of the house’s renovations but every day when my hands sink into the earth, I debate walking across the street to check in on him.

I could tell him that I need help choosing the best paint primer or ask what the difference between a flathead and a tri-wing screwdriver is, but pride prevents me from doing so. Thanks to the world of knowledge that is the internet, I’ve become well informed on home projects and I won’t play dumb to quench my curiosity. Not even for Ambrose King.

So when I spot a skinny white envelope with Ambrose’s name on the front lying on the kitchen table and Laura tells me it’s a check for him, I insist on delivering it myself.

“Are you sure?” Laura asks, hesitation clear on her face. “I was planning on forcing him to take the money. That boy doesn’t budge.”

“Of course,” I say. “I’m on my way out anyway and I need to ask him a question about the wood in the backyard.”

If Laura calls my bluff, she’s kind enough not to verbalize it. I run upstairs for a quick shower. If I’m going to fib about needing to leave the house, I may as well run a few errands. I’ve been meaning to go back to Nadine’s Nursery and buy more plants for my dad’s room. Maybe if I surround him with other living things, he won’t notice that my visitations have dwindled. Again.

The leaves outside are accumulated on the lawns and I purposefully walk across Ambrose’s front yard instead of the driveway so I can hear the familiar crunch under my feet. No matter how old you get, that crunch never stops being satisfying.

Fiddling with the envelope in one hand, I knock on the door, practicing my excuse as to why Laura couldn’t drop the money off herself. The last time I saw Ambrose was in the comfort of Old Maple. But in the light of day, everything within me says to retreat, to disregard the secrets we divulged in the dark.

The door opens and my smile tightens when I see that it’s Anya. She always looks effortlessly beautiful and today’s no different. Never mind the fact that the hollows under her eyes looked bruised from exhaustion and her cheeks are hollow, she pulls it off, looking like some sort of supermodel who’s experienced nothing more than a late night at the club. When I have dark circles, I look like I’ve survived a brawl with Rocky Balboa. Barely.

“Yes?” she says coolly.

I swallow. “Is Ambrose here?”

“Does he look like he’s here?”

The smart-ass in me begs to rear its nasty head. How would I know if you answered the door? But it’s a Tuesday morning. I can take the high road on a Tuesday morning.

“Well, when you see him, can you tell him to stop by the house? I have a check for him.”

I don’t dare leave the money with Anya and she’s smart enough to refrain from suggesting the idea herself. I turn to leave.

“Do you want to wait inside until he comes back? He should be here in a few.” Her saccharine smile makes me sweat.

A trap.

She’s a siren beckoning me toward the dark, murky waters and alarms sound off in my mind, but I still reply, “Sure.” Like a dumbass.

We enter a den that bears no resemblance to the one I remembered. As we sit on the sofa—a deep, L-shaped monster that looks like it came from a modern design catalog—I take in the rest of the room. The accent pieces scattered throughout are sleek and sophisticated. Sexy. The only piece of furniture I recognize is the antique teak entertainment center. Its shelves are still packed with an absurd amount of VHS and DVD movies, despite the fact that streaming reigns supreme these days. My eyes travel to the corner of the bottom shelf and Practical Magic rests there. Just like it always has.

Promise me, Mar. Promise we’ll always be sisters like Sally and Gilly.

I promise.

Where I go, you go, right?

Where you go, I go, Cat.

“So,” Anya pierces the silence. “Ambrose tells me you’ve known each other since childhood.” Her tone is bored, but her eyes are sharp. Predatory.

“Yes,” is all I say.

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