No One Knows Us Here(55)

I had to suppress a smile then. He’d been watching me, too.

“And what about you?” I asked. “You and . . . Emmeline Wu? How’s that working out?”

“Imogene,” Sam corrected. “She’s from my old band.”

“I know that.”

“She’s visiting.” Sam was staring out into the living room. “She was my brother’s girlfriend.”

“Oh,” I said. “Really?” This made sense, then. Sam and Imogene, they had been in a band together. They had that bond. They had both loved T. J., they shared that sadness, and—

“We did hook up a few times,” Sam announced, without changing his expression. “After T. J. died.”

I squeezed a decorative pillow to my abdomen, just for something to do with my hands. “Huh,” I said, trying hard not to picture it. In trying not to picture it, I was picturing it, the two of them having sex. She would be on top, whipping her hair all over the place. I squeezed my eyes shut and then opened them again, too wide. All of a sudden I started to cry. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I wiped my face with my hands, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

“Rosemary.” The hard expression on Sam’s face was gone, and he tried to scoot closer to me, but I held up my hands.

“God,” I said. “It’s none of my business, anyway. And you deserve to be happy. Maybe not with Imogene”—I made a vague gesture in the direction of Sam’s apartment—“but someone. Someone else.” Sam opened his mouth to respond, but I interrupted him. “I’m sorry.” I tried to smile and wiped my face again. “This isn’t about you.” I was aware of how unconvincing this sounded, though it was true, more or less. “It’s my sister. Something’s wrong with her. Two dead parents, that suicide attempt. And now—I don’t know.”

Sam reached out his hand to touch my shoulder but then seemed to think better of it, letting it fall against the back of the couch again. “She seems like a normal enough kid to me.” His mouth opened and then shut again, as if he were debating whether or not to add something.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing. I mean—it’s not exactly relevant.”

“Just say it—whatever it is.”

“It’s just—they’re Ferguson fans, actually. Wendy and Hannah.”

I laughed. “I know.”

“They follow us on social media. I’ve run into her a few times. You know, in the halls.”

I straightened up, struck with an idea. “You should talk to her—talk to Wendy.”

“Me?”

“She likes you, right? She’s your number one fan.”

“I wouldn’t go that—”

“You’ve been through this, with your brother.”

“You think she’s an addict?” Sam’s eyes narrowed in concern. I could tell what he was thinking—he was thinking that I was officially losing it. Going off the rails. Again.

“Wendy fainted. In school. She just—dropped straight down onto the floor for no apparent reason whatsoever.” I threw up my hands. Just take her out to coffee, have a little conversation, I begged him. She would listen to him; I was sure of it. Sam was nodding, considering it. After everything I’d put him through. If I scooted closer, he would put his arms around me. If I kissed him, he would kiss me back. It would be that easy. And then, what? We would have sex here in my living room while Imogene Wu and her stupid fake British accent drank coffee on the other side of the wall, and then I would come to my senses and have to leave him all over again, and he would hate me even more than he probably already did, and he would refuse to help my sister, and I would be left worse off than before, and all of this would have been for nothing.

The sound of breaking glass rang through the apartment, startling both of us.

“I’ve got to go,” I told Sam. “I have to answer that.”

Sam gave me a worried look. I was already pulling him off the couch, scooting him out the door. The sound of shattering glass continued. It seemed to be getting louder, glass breaking over and over again on a loop.

With Sam unceremoniously pushed into the hallway, I ran to the Mirror and touched my finger to the screen. Leo’s face stared back at me. He wouldn’t make it back in this storm, he told me. He was going to wait it out. “Sorry I had to rush off this morning,” he said. He had flown up to Seattle. It was snowing there, too, he said. A whiteout.

“I’ll miss you,” I cooed. He liked that kind of talk. Then I hated myself that I could do it, snap into my role that quickly, like some sort of sex robot.

“You all set with supplies?”

“Supplies?”

“You’ll need food, enough food for a week. Bottled water in case the plumbing stops working.”

“I live two blocks from Fred Meyer.”

“I don’t want you going out in this.” He was talking like we were in the middle of a blizzard, as if I’d wander out and not be able to find my way home. Like I’d have to dig myself a snow cave and pee on my own hands to stave off frostbite.

“If I need anything, I can always go out and—”

“If you need anything, Alejandro will bring it to you.”

“Okay.” I rolled my eyes at him.