Ezra squeezed his eyes shut, swinging Aria’s hands back and forth. “I think you should look me up in a couple years. Because, I mean, I feel that way about you, too. But I have to get out of here. You know it, and I know it.”
Aria dropped his hands. She felt like someone had opened up her chest and removed her heart. Just last night, for a few hours, everything had been perfect. And then Sean—and A—had ripped it all apart again.
“Hey,” Ezra said, noting the tears spilling down Aria’s cheeks. He pulled her into him and held her tight. “It’s okay.” He peered into one of his boxes, then handed her his William Shakespeare bobblehead. “I want you to have this.”
Aria gave him a tiny smile. “Seriously?” The first time she’d come here, after Noel Kahn’s party back in the beginning of September, Ezra had told her the bobblehead was one of his favorite possessions.
Ezra traced the line of Aria’s jaw with the tip of his pointer finger, starting at her chin and ending at her earlobe. Shivers went up her spine. “Really,” he whispered.
She could feel his eyes on her as she turned for the door. “Aria,” he called, just as she was stepping over a big pile of old phone books to get out into the hall.
She stopped, her heart lifting. There was a wise, calm look on Ezra’s face. “You’re the strongest girl I’ve ever met,” he said. “So just…screw ’em, you know? You’ll be fine.”
Ezra leaned down, sealing up boxes with clear packing tape. Aria backed out of the apartment in a daze, wondering why he’d suddenly turned all guidance counselor on her. It was like he was saying that he was the adult, with responsibilities and consequences, and she was just a kid, her whole life in front of her.
Which was exactly what she didn’t want to hear right then.
“Aria! Welcome!” Meredith cried. She stood at the edge of the kitchen, wearing a black-and-white striped apron—which Aria was trying to imagine as a prison uniform—and a cow-shaped oven mitt covered her right hand. She was grinning like a shark about to swallow a minnow.
Aria dragged in the last of the bags Sean had dumped at her feet last night and looked around. She knew Meredith had quirky taste—she was an artist, and taught classes at Hollis College, the same place where Byron was tenured—but Meredith’s living room looked like a psychopath had decorated it. There was a dentist’s chair in the corner, complete with a tray for all the instruments of torture. Meredith had covered a whole wall with pictures of eyeballs. She branded messages into wood as a form of artistic expression, and there was a big wood chunk across the mantel that said, BEAUTY IS ONLY SKIN DEEP, BUT UGLY GOES CLEAN TO THE BONE. There was a large cutout of the Wicked Witch of the West pasted over the kitchen table. Aria was half tempted to point to it and say she hadn’t known Meredith’s mother was from Oz. Then she saw a raccoon in the corner and screamed.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Meredith said quickly. “He’s stuffed. I bought him at a taxidermy store in Philly.”
Aria wrinkled her nose. This place rivaled the Mütter Museum of medical oddities in Philadelphia, which Aria’s brother loved almost as much as the sex museums he’d visited in Europe.
“Aria!” Byron appeared from behind a corner, wiping his hands on his jeans. Aria noted that he was wearing dark denim jeans with a belt and a soft gray sweater—maybe his usual uniform of a sweat-stained Sixers T-shirt and frayed plaid boxers wasn’t good enough for Meredith. “Welcome!”
Aria grunted, hefting up her duffel again. When she sniffed the air, it smelled like a combination of burnt wood and Cream of Wheat. She eyed the pot on the stove suspiciously. Perhaps Meredith was cooking gruel, like an evil headmistress in a Dickens novel.
“So let me show you your room.” Byron grabbed Aria’s hand. He led her down the hall to a large, square room that contained a few big chunks of wood, some branding irons, an enormous band saw, and welding tools. Aria assumed this was Meredith’s studio—or the room where she finished off her victims.
“This way,” Byron said. He led her to a space in the corner of the studio that was separated from the rest of the room by a floral curtain. When he pushed the curtain back, he crowed, “Taa-daaa!”
A twin bed and a dresser missing three of its drawers occupied a space only slightly larger than a shower stall. Byron had carried in her other suitcases earlier, but because there was no room on the floor, he’d piled them on the bed. There was one flat, yellowed pillow propped up against the headboard, and someone had balanced a tiny portable TV in the windowsill. There was a sticker on the top of it that said in old, faded, seventies lettering, SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A WELDER.
Aria turned to Byron, feeling nauseated. “I have to sleep in Meredith’s studio?”
“She doesn’t work at night,” Byron said quickly. “And look! You have your own TV and your own fireplace!” He pointed to a huge brick monstrosity that took up most of the far wall. Most Old Hollis houses had fireplaces in every room because their central heating systems sucked. “You can make it cozy in here at night!”
“Dad, I have no idea how to light a fireplace.” Then Aria noticed a trail of cockroaches going from one corner of the ceiling to another. “Jesus!” she screamed, pointing at them and cowering behind Byron.
“They’re not real,” Byron reassured her. “Meredith painted them. She’s really personalized this place with an artistic touch.”
Aria felt like she was going to hyperventilate. “They look real to me!”
Byron looked honestly surprised. “I thought you’d like this place. It was the best we could put together on such short notice.”
Aria shut her eyes. She missed Ezra’s shabby little apartment, with its bathtub and thousands of books and map of the New York City subway system shower curtain. There were no roaches there, either—real or fake.