Under Rose-Tainted Skies(28)

He’s wearing a white tee that clings to his torso like a second skin and an unbuttoned, baggy green shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. And just to add serious insult to injury, he smells like a mouthwatering mix of winter and sweet spices.

Garbage. That’s what I look like in comparison. Ten-day-old garbage that’s been left to fester under a blistering summer sun. I didn’t brush my hair. Didn’t wash my face or brush my teeth, and now I’m piling an unforgivable amount of pressure on a twenty-four-hour-old squirt of rose-scented Stay Dry.

Just smile through it. No. Don’t smile through it.

I lift my hand to my mouth, use it as a shield. What am I thinking? I can’t smile when my teeth aren’t clean. And I drank orange juice, the one liquid besides coffee you can still taste on your breath hours after your first sip.

‘Is this a bad time?’ Luke asks.

I shake my head, try to run the fingers of my free hand through my hair, but they get caught up in knots. What is supposed to be a stealth manoeuvre turns into a brief tug of war that ends with a stinging scalp and a handful of loose hairs. I fight back a wince and scream Ouch internally.

‘Should I come back later?’

‘No!’ I yell.

Waiting for him to show up has already liquefied most of me. If I have to wait for a second showing I might just dissolve entirely. There’s no way my body can survive another wave of anxiety so soon. I’ll just have to fix it. ‘Can you give me another minute? Last one, I swear.’ He doesn’t have a chance to answer before I slam the door in his face.

I’m halfway up the stairs when I realize how rude that must have seemed. He’s been here ten seconds and I’m failing miserably at being normal.

Freak. Not killed off. The exact opposite. It’s very much alive and kicking, like a monster living off lightning.

I look at the door. It would take more time to go back and explain to him why I can’t let him sit downstairs in my house alone than it would to just carry on. Screw it. I’ll be five minutes.

I jet into the bathroom. My toothbrush lives in a plastic case in the cabinet. I brush fifty-two times, twenty-six strokes on the top, twenty-six on the bottom. I don’t compromise on this. I can’t. But I scrub in double-quick time, then cannonball back downstairs, taking the last step twice and narrowly avoiding a broken limb.

Without pausing for a breath, I fling open the door. I don’t know if a small part of me is expecting him not to be there. But he is, exactly as he was the first time.

‘Hi,’ he says again.

‘Hi,’ I reply, fearless of morning-breath fumes rendering him unconscious. ‘How’s it going?’ My voice is weird. I’ve adopted a Boston twang to my accent. I have no idea why. I’ve never been to Boston and I don’t know anyone from there.

Cramp kicks in, sucker-punching me in the spleen, and I have to lean on the doorjamb, swallow back air like a drunk knocking back whisky.

‘Are you . . .’ he starts, stops, looks over at his house. ‘You know, maybe I should just come back later?’

‘God, no. Please. I’d rather you didn’t.’ I miss how ugly that sounds at first because I’m too busy working through pelvic pain, but I realize the second I see his face melting into misery. My jaw hits the floor.

‘Ouch,’ he says and forces a smile that wobbles before it takes shape.

‘Oh, no. No. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m so sorry. I just meant . . .’ Don’t know how to explain. My brain has stopped turning. It’s gotten stuck, like a scratched CD. ‘I meant . . . I meant . . . what it is . . . I was just trying to . . .’ I blink. See my head burst and watch chunks of grey matter slide down the wall.

‘Norah.’ Luke grins and something inside me sighs. ‘It’s okay.’

I’m not sure it is. I’m not sure I wanted the first time I have a boy over to turn into something I just have to get through.

I’ve no idea what to say now. Any armour I was wearing has started to peel off me. As thin and as brittle as snakeskin, it blows away in the wind. Luke looks down, stares at his Chuck Taylors. I stare at them too and am tackled to the ground by a burly wad of instant regret. They’re laced differently. It’s just one tiny bit, on the left shoe. Instead of going across like the rest of the lace, it criss-crosses. My nails hit my neck, and I try to soothe the sudden itch.

Don’t think about it. It’s irrelevant. Don’t think about it. Totally unimportant.

‘Coffee,’ I blurt out. And he startles. ‘I mean, coffee,’ I repeat at a regular pitch for regular people. ‘Would you like some?’

‘Sure.’ He nods and I scuttle off into the kitchen. The rubber soles of his shoes, his laced-wrong shoes, squeak as he follows me.

Don’t think about it.

Have you ever been able to not think about that itch? The one that blossoms in the centre of your back, right between your shoulder blades? The one that you can’t reach? Impossible.

I can feel his eyes burning holes in my back as I root around in the cabinet for cups.

‘How do you take it?’

‘However it comes. I’m not fussy.’

Oh, brother.

I’m not channelling the right line of focus to figure out how to work the coffee machine, so instead I grab the jar of instant.

‘So, Norah,’ he says when I hand him the steaming mug. He chews his nails; they’re brittle and broken. I watch his fingers, wince when they almost connect with mine. He doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Have you lived around here long?’