“Sure.” I rub a phantom ache on my forehead.
“Good girl.” He winks. Gross.
Coming back through to the shop, I see Stephan and Charlotte in a heated conversation. He grabs her wrist across the table, and she winces in pain. Before I can make it over to them, she pulls away, our gazes clashing. “What the hell was that?” I gasp.
“Nothing. He’s just being an asshole.”
I watch her disappear out the back, dumbfounded. Marching to where Stephan is still nursing a black coffee, I slip into the seat Charlotte vacated.
He looks up, surprised to see me. “Hey.” He smiles.
“What the hell was that?” I demand, slapping my palm on the table.
“What do you mean?” He furrows his brow. Was I imagining their interaction looking hostile?
“I saw you grab Charlotte’s arm,” I argue.
Exhaling hard, he leans forward. “She was being forward—too forward. I told her I wasn’t interested, and she got upset, then said something about you never being into me. She was being bitchy. I just told her to stop.” Embarrassment is becoming too familiar inside me lately.
“I’m sorry she said anything to you. She’s worried you see our friendship as more and blames me for it,” I mumble before chewing on my nails.
My muscles coil tight as we sit in silence, his eyes probing me. “We’re friends, right?” he finally says.
“Of course we are.” I reach across the table and rest my hand on his forearm.
“I don’t need your roommate warning me off and telling me you don’t see me that way. I’ve never made you feel like I want more from you, have I?” He looks pained. I’m going to kill Charlotte for making our friendship awkward.
“No. God, no. I appreciate you so much and need you as a friend. I’m sorry she gets in her own head and can’t help making everything about sex,” I groan.
“She just uses sex because she fears rejection of something more. You’re a psych major, Liz, it’s not hard to figure her out.” He shakes his head, irritated.
“That’s why you should give her a pass.” I beg with my eyes.
“Fine. Whatever.” He smiles, but it’s strained.
“Thank you. You want food? I have cake or a day-old sandwich.” This gets me a genuine smile. “I’ll pass, but thanks.”EightCharlotte’s giggles echo through the empty apartment. A guy’s voice mumbles something, making her screech. I sometimes wish my life was as uncomplicated as hers.
Pulling out a carton of juice from the fridge that’s empty and been put back in because apparently, I live with a child I silently fume tossing it in the trash and opt for a bottle of water to quench my thirst instead. Walking over to the window to check if our neighbor has returned the bottle falls from my grip, and my blood runs cold. It can’t be just a coincidence.
“Charlotte,” I bark, my voice booming through the apartment. “Charlotte, come here!” I urge. Feet pound across the hallway until she’s standing beside me, her hair a mess and lipstick smudged. “What?” she snaps.
“Look.” I point to the window. Looking between the window and me, she takes a few seconds to comprehend what she’s seeing.
“What the fuck?” Her jaw drops open.
“Did you take out our trash?” I ask, nerves eating away at my guts.
“Yes. It can’t be the same one. This’s too fucked up.” She cradles herself, her voice trembling. “Who sent you that rose?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. I had thought it was my aunt. They all dropped red roses into my mother’s grave, but mine was black. Who would know that unless they had been at the funeral?
“Maybe we’re just being paranoid.” She finally shakes off her fear.
“The curtain moved.” I gasp, rushing to opening our window and peering out.
“We should call the police,” Charlotte hisses.
“Hello?” I call out.
Nothing.
“Hellooo,” I try again.
“Let’s call the police.” Charlotte grabs at me in full panic mode.
Slamming the window closed, I turn to her, “Or we go over and knock on the damn door.” Is someone toying with me? Did Abigail die because of me?
No. No. No.
“Maybe she’s fucking with us. She could have sent the rose,” Charlotte announces, her hands waving around.
“How would she know?” I croak, wringing my hands.
“Know what?” she asks, incredulous.
Tucking my hair behind my ear, I pace the space between us. “I placed a black rose on my mother’s coffin,” I admit, shifting from one foot to the other.
“What the fuck, Lizzy?” she booms before shaking her head. “No. It could still be a coincidence.”
“Abigail’s murder was on the anniversary of my mother’s,” I confess, the weight on my chest growing heavier, compressing the air from my lungs.
“Of your mother’s what? Death? You know, you’ve never told me how she died.”
“I don’t like to talk about it,” I grunt, my nails seeking out scars to pick apart. She just stares at me, her brow crashing. The guy she brought home appears from her bedroom shirtless with his jeans open, scratching the back of his head. “We doing this or what?”