Page 23 of Can't Fight It

“Come in.” She waves me forward, quickly shutting the door behind me. “You must be freezing.”

I honestly hadn’t noticed the cold, my mind too focused elsewhere.

“Thanks again for offering to do this.”

“Yeah, of course.”

I wipe my palms on my shorts, glancing around her place. There are colorful throw pillows on the couch, plants on the shelves along one wall, framed art, and a ton of books on her bookshelves.

I point over in that direction. “You read a lot?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

Do I even own a single book? I can’t remember at the moment. What would she think if she came over to my place? That she entered a barren wasteland? This looks like an actual adult’s house.

“To be fair, some of them I only bought for school.” She crosses the room to pick up one of the books. “I don’t read Shakespeare for fun.”

I let out a weak chuckle, coming over to join her. On the way, I pass a cozy throw blanket laid across the back of the couch and an artfully arranged trio of candles on the coffee table. Is she a part-time interior designer, too?

“Your home is nice.” Seriously, other than a mirrored layout, you wouldn’t think our two apartments were even in the same complex.

She beams. “Thanks. I’ve spent a lot of time decorating over the last month. It’s my first place that’s all my own, so I wanted to go all out.”

My gaze passes over the titles on her bookshelf, only recognizing a few, and lands on a picture frame with what looks like a young Tessa and a woman in her late twenties. “This is you and your mom?” The resemblance is too strong to be anyone else.

“Yeah.” There’s a wistful note in her voice, too faint to notice if I wasn’t paying attention.

“You look a lot alike.”

She nods, giving a brief smile.

There’s a pause and I can hear my sister in my head, urging me to keep the conversation going.

You have to actually talk to people, Austin. Stop standing there like a bump on a log.

“Are you two close?”

She bites at her bottom lip, not answering for a few moments. “She died when I was eight,” she finally says.

Ah, shit. Why am I even asking questions about mothers, anyway? I know better than that. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

She waves away my statement. “Why would you?”

Picking up the photo frame, she gently strokes the glass, then sets it down. “You mentioned a dad and sister the other day, but what about your mom? Are you close to her?”

I rub at the back of my neck, feeling foolish for even bringing up the topic to begin with. “She died when I was four.”

Her eyes widen. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”

“Guess so.”

She turns away, moving to the center of the living room. “Well, this got depressing, didn’t it?”

Fuck. This was a bad idea. “I—”

“I’m joking,” she interrupts. “Humor as a defense mechanism and all that. Except, I’m not funny, so it doesn’t work.”

I stare at her for a moment, thrown off. What’s she talking about? She’s funny.

---