Page 27 of Saint Céline
She stepped closer to the table. “I have a boyfriend. Thad.”
“Temporarily.”
Her laugh was sharper this time. “I’m not breaking up with him because you dislike him.”
“No. You’ll break up with him because one day you’ll realize he is a locked door painted to look like an exit.”
“And you think you’re the exit?”
“No, Céline.” I set the packets aside. “I am the room itself.”
For the first time since I had met her, she looked at me without arranging her face around the looking. No grief. No charm. No practiced poise. Just anger, exhaustion, and something raw beneath both. It was the most honest expression she had given me so far. I wanted to keep it. Instead, I let her have the silence.
After a moment, she shook her head once, as if waking herself.
“I’m going to dinner with Thad tonight.”
“Of course you are.”
“And after that, I’m going to his apartment.”
I looked at her bracelet. Then at her mouth. She wanted the words to land. They did. Not as she intended, but they landed.
“How domestic,” I said.
“You don’t get to be jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“No?”
“No.” I stepped closer, slowly enough that she could move away. She did not. “Jealousy implies uncertainty. He won’t have the privilege to take you to dinners soon, I’m sure of that.”
Her breath changed slightly.
“Goodnight, Professor.”
“Goodnight, Miss Martin.”
She walked to the door.
Before she opened it, I said, “Selena.”
She stopped despite herself.
“Lock his door tonight.”
She turned back. For a second, something like unease crossed her face. “What?”
I smiled warmly. The way people usually expect me to.
“Blackwater is not as safe as people pretend.”
She stared at me a moment longer, then left. The door clicked shut behind her.
I stood in the empty lab and looked out at the cliffs through the glass. The ocean hurled itself against the rocks below again and again, tireless in its own destruction. On the table, Céline had forgotten her pen. Slim. Black. Expensive. I picked it up and turned it between my fingers. Then I slipped it into my pocket.
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