Page 49 of Corpse Roads

“Shit,” Leighton curses. “Are you okay with an action movie? I didn’t think.”

I’m so entranced by the screen, I don’t answer him. The scene changes, depicting a rich, vibrant city glittering with lights. I’m tempted to touch the TV, desperate to experience the alternate reality within its glass walls.

It doesn’t matter how I know what the magical contraption is. Like most things, I’m learning not to question it. There are a lot of items in this house that are familiar, even if I can’t remember why.

“Hunter hates these kinds of movies,” Leighton reveals, his foot brushing mine. “He’s a closeted rom-com lover.”

“Rom-com?”

“Fluffy shit.”

I snuggle into the soft blanket. “Hunter doesn’t strike me as a… um, fluffy person.”

Choking on a laugh, Leighton grins at me. “I love it when you say exactly what you’re thinking.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Hell no. You should do it more.”

We refocus on the movie as a fight scene unfolds. I shock myself by watching the whole thing, repressing a shiver when blood sprays against the heavy beat of fists.

By the end of the movie, I’m hanging on to the edge of my seat and ready for more drama. Stories have always fascinated me. My world was so small for so long, I learned to cling to the scraps I received.

Most of the girls spoke to me. Some told me all about the intricate details of their lives. Hopes, dreams, passions. I lived vicariously through them, and it was the most freedom I ever felt.

Humming under his breath, Leighton flicks the TV over to something else. A group of friends are trading jokes over coffee—a black, sludge-like liquid in their cups.

“That looks so gross.”

He collapses back into laughter. “Enzo drinks coffee like he’s mainlining heroin. You should smell his breath.”

“It smelled okay to me.”

Rolling onto his side, Leighton ignores the TV and watches me instead. “You’re a breath of fresh air.”

“Huh?”

“We live in a world where everyone knows everything.” His green eyes scour over me. “And in walks this gorgeous creature who can’t name cereal brands or recognise a show like Friends.”

We stare at each other, the show disregarded. There’s something in the way that Leighton looks at me—an almost playful challenge, like he’s daring me to prove him wrong.

He sees me differently than the others. I’m not treated like broken glass, a second away from implosion. Leighton is sensitive, but he still talks to me like we’re two normal friends, hanging out.

“You’re an enigma, Harlow.”

“Well, I’m not sure I like that nickname.”

Still chuckling, he bounces off the sofa in a blur of energy and disappears into the kitchen. When he returns, balancing two plastic bowls, I quickly grab one before he drops it on my head.

“What is this?” I ask quizzically.

Plonking himself down several inches closer to me, he indicates for me to help myself. I take a sniff of the contents, assaulted by sweet and salty scents. My mouth immediately waters.

“Popcorn,” Leighton says around a mouthful.

“Pop…corn?”

“Like popped corn, mixed with butter and stuff.”

---