“Anything,” she says. “We can start simple. Favorite color, your birthday, what’s your sign? I don’t know.”
Her gaze drops a little self-consciously, like those are all stupid suggestions. They’re not the stuff my psyche is made of, admittedly, but she’s 18 for Christ’s sake; I wasn’t expecting her to scrape my soul.
“My favorite color is gold, my birthday is February tenth, and accordingly I am an Aquarius.”
Brightening as she looks up at me, she says, “No kidding. My birthday’s in March—we’re pretty close together. Well, in months, at least. I’m an Aries.”
“Are you interested in astrology?”
She shakes her head. “Not really. It’s fun to read the horoscopes, though. They’re actually right sometimes.”
Because they make open, general predictions, but I don’t say that.
“Do you read your horoscope when you read your paper in the morning?”
“I do not. I don’t need someone else to predict how my day will go.”
“You’re kind of controlling, has anyone ever told you that?” she jokes.
“Never,” I deadpan.
A helpless grin steals across her face, but she bites it back after only a few seconds. “I think it’s cool how you still read a physical newspaper. Most people just use their phones now.”
“I like the routine,” I explain.
She nods. “I figured.”
We fall into a pleasant silence for a few minutes, then she gets up to go to the bathroom. I’m feeling better than I have in a while when she comes back in, flashing me a smile as she pulls back the blanket and climbs into bed.
“Oh, and mine is pink.”
I blink at her. “Excuse me?”
“My favorite color,” she specifies, pulling the blankets up around her. “You told me yours; I realized I forgot to tell you mine.”
“I could never have guessed; thank you.”
She rolls her eyes at me, but doesn’t seem too offended. After a couple of minutes, she turns her head and looks up at me again. “Tell me something else.”
Snaking an arm beneath her, I pull her back into my arms. “You’re getting bossy. Do you need me to remind you who’s in charge here?”
Rolling easily into my embrace, she cocks an eyebrow at me. “We literally just finished.”
“I finished. You didn’t.”
Her determined peacefulness falters at that. “I’m fine. Let’s talk instead. Please?”
I appreciate her attempt to figure out how to work me—she keeps defaulting to please, even though it hasn’t worked consistently. Nothing has worked consistently. Nothing will, either. She’s going to be so disappointed when she figures that out. I bet she found Vince’s buttons without much trouble.
Since I’m not answering but I keep watching her, she grows uneasy. Her fingers naturally fidget with the down comforter. Her gaze shifts away from me and toward the ceiling. I could tell her something insignificant and recharge her brightness, but I let her squirm for a few minutes instead.
“You have a daughter, right?” she asks rhetorically, since she already knows I have a daughter. “Vince said her mom isn’t around anymore, and you told my mom she abandoned you guys. What happened there?”
“She died,” I answer, simply. Before she can ask any additional questions about Beth, I remark, “You sailed right past small talk, didn’t you? From ‘what’s your favorite color?’ to ‘what happened to the mother of your child?’ Points for trying, but ease up.”
“I didn’t mean to pry,” she offers, looking over at me. “I’m just trying to get to know you better.”
“Why?”
Shrugging her shoulders uncertainly, she says, “I don’t know, it seems like I should. I don’t know exactly what’s going on here. I’m just trying to…”
Obviously feeling awkward about what she’s trying to express, she doesn’t finish this thought. I want her to, but I don’t say anything. Trying to make the best of a bad situation? Trying to stay alive? In all likelihood that’s the driving force here. I’ve told her on numerous occasions that her continued existence depends upon her proximity to my good side. I didn’t think she would be able to approach it that logically with what I’ve done to her, though. Knowing what she has to do in order to live is one thing, actually doing it is quite another.
Since I don’t help—but I also don’t stop her—she continues. “I have no idea where I stand or what’s going on anymore. I don’t know what this—” She gestures between us. “—is. I don’t understand what we’re doing here. This is unbelievably confusing, so I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or how I’m supposed to react to anything. When you’re here and I’m in your bubble, it seems… I mean, indescribable, but somehow almost normal. But then as soon as you’re not, reality drops on my head like an anvil in one of those old cartoons, and I don’t… I get overwhelmed.” She nods, apparently settling on that summary. “Overwhelmed. I’m overwhelmed.”
Already? I don’t say it, but I’m tempted to.