“You’re a brave man, Stanmore...I mean Stan,” she muses, opening a door, “for choosing to live in a basement.”
“And you’re a brave girl. For letting a man stay in your basement.”
Amber snickers, but despite the laughter its obvious something is up with her. The reddened edges around her eyes, the way she looks like she’s carrying around a weight. I want to lift that weight off, comfort her.
I want to make her feel good.
“It’s not much,” she says, glancing at me, “changed your mind yet?”
“It’s perfect,” I answer and it’s true. The naked walls, the pipes up in the ceiling and the small window remind me of my childhood. I lived in similar conditions, for years all the way up into my late teens without child protective services ever noticing.
“Do you think the bed will fit,” Amber asks, “it won’t be too small for your size?”
She blushes at her words, glancing at the door like she should give me some privacy but that’s exactly what I don’t want. I don’t want any privacy from her. If it was my choice she’d be by my side at all times.
“Let’s try it out,” I say, jumping down on the bed and it lets out such a whine under my weight that Amber puts a hand in front of her mouth, her eyes widening in distress.
“It’s pretty old, forgot to tell you that. Maybe you won’t be able to sleep at night?”
I shrug, putting my arms under my head. “The sound doesn’t bother me. As long as it doesn’t bother you?”
Her hand traces the wall. “Won’t be able to hear anything. The basement is sound isolated.”
My brows rise. “Sound isolated?”
“Mhm,” she murmurs, shooting me a curious glance, “you’re from Colorado aren’t you?”
Tensing, I just nod because I don’t feel good lying to her. I’m not from Colorado, I’m from here and I gave up my apartment in the city to move in with her. The thing about me needing a place to stay because I found a new job, was something I made up to seem less suspicious.
“You don’t have an accent,” she continues and I clear my throat.
“My parents were from Chicago,” I answer because that’s not a lie at least.
Her eyes go to mine in pity. “Were?”
“Car accident. Old, wooden bridge. River. They didn’t survive.”
But I did. I was there with them, held my mother’s hand until the pain in my lungs from holding my breath under water, got too great and I managed to wiggle free and swim up to the surface. They didn’t.
I was eleven at the time and lived on my own ever since. No relatives, nothing. Just me in the basement of our old house, living on scraps from the neighbors thrown away food like a rat.
“I’m so sorry,” Amber murmurs, that secret glimmer in her eyes getting replaced by compassion, “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I don’t mind it when you ask,” I rasp and her eyes arrest on mine, something passing between us that makes her all jittery.
“I should let you get settled. When you’re done, maybe you could come up and we’ll have lunch...or well, maybe that’s brunch.” Taking a deep breath, I watch her cheeks turn pink and then she turns around. “See you soon.” Smile. Dimple. “Roomie...”
Rising in bed, my fists tighten and I almost reach out for her but she’s already gone. My heart starts pumping and I rub a hand over my face. Relax. She’s still here. Just upstairs and within my reach.
Closer than she’s ever been.
****
She never wears her hair up, always lets it coil in thick, brown ringlets between her shoulder blades. She always wears it down, like she doesn’t want me to get to her neck. I stalk over to her as she has her back turned to me.
My footsteps are soundless and she doesn’t notice me, humming a song to herself that for some reason makes me feel drowsy, like I’m underwater with her.
She jerks, and I realize that I’m brushing against her and she turns around with a surprised look on her face, before her eyes go hooded, her gaze going down to my mouth.