Page 188 of Across His Line

And her whole face goes bright, and I keep walking, past the island, and toward the back stairs.

“Hey,” I say.

I don’t stop.

I hear her slide down off the counter behind me. I hear my mother say something quiet that I don’t catch. And then I hear her socks on the stairs behind me, coming up fast.

“Rafe. I figured it out.”

I stop at the top of the stairs and turn around.

She’s three steps below me, out of breath, with her hand on the rail and the pen still in her hand. I’m looking at all of her. The piece of hair she’s tucked behind her ear, that’s already coming loose. The way her mouth moves when she’s about to say something and hasn’t yet. The sweater, which is the cream one my mom tried to give her. Her eyes on me, bright, like I’m the person she’s been waiting all day to tell.

I want to hear everything she has to say, and I can’t stand there and look at her while she says it.

“Okay,” I say, and keep going, down the hall, toward my room.

She follows me.

“Not figured it out like I know what I’m doing,” she says behind me. “But I don’t think it’s Woodbury next year. I don’t think that’s the thing. Your mom showed me—there’s this whole thing, there are people who make money online, but I know I could—”

I’m in my room. She’s in the doorway. I pull my hat off and throw it on the chair.

“That’s good,” I say.

It comes out flat. Flatter than the floor.

She stops talking.

I’m standing with my back to her, unzipping my hoodie, because I need to do something with my hands. I can feel her in the doorway. I can feel her reading me.

“Are you okay?” she says.

“Fine.”

“Did something happen?”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

I turn around, with my hoodie half off one shoulder, and I say the only true thing in my head.

“You.”

She stares at me.

I hear it. I hear exactly how it sounds. I hear it come out of my mouth and hang there between us in the doorway, and I have no idea what I meant by it. I don’t have an explanation.

“Never mind,” I say.

“Wait. What?”

“Forget it.”

I watch her face go from confused to something worse. Her shoulders come up. Her hand goes to the doorframe. Her eyes go to the side, to the hallway, to the guest room door across from mine, like she’s already measuring the distance.

“Did I—” she says. “Did I do something? Is it because I didn’t come? I can come next time. Or is it—have I been here too long? Is your dad—did he say something? Because I can go. I can leave. I can call someone, I can figure out—”