Page 79 of Across His Line

And I mean it. Mostly. It’s her room. It was always her room before it was ever mine. But standing there next to her, looking at the dress form and the bins of folded fabric and the place where my bed used to be, something old and small and ugly comes up in me, something I’ve kept at the back of my head for years. I know it’s true. That she never really wanted me here. That the room was a favor. That four years of me in her sewing room were four years of her waiting to get it back, and the second I was gone, she was glad for it.

I know it isn’t fair. I know she took me in when nobody else did. I know she loves me.

I can’t help the feeling anyway.

“We’ll make up the couch for you,” she says, already moving down the hall. “Dylan, honey, you can sleep in my room on the cot, and Tessa can have—”

“Grandma.” Dylan doesn’t even look away from the TV. “My back.”

“Oh. Right. Your back.” She turns around. Looks at me. “You don’t mind the couch, do you, Tess? Once they’re gone?”

Once they’re gone. Like his friends are going to leave. Like they ever leave.

“I don’t mind,” I say.

I look at Dylan for a second. It’s always about Dylan. Dylan’s back. Dylan’s hard week. Dylan’s struggling, Dylan didn’t mean it, Dylan’s trying. And Tessa doesn’t mind. Tessa never minds. Tessa can sleep anywhere. I glance at the floor, knowing that could realistically be where I’m sleeping tonight.

She tucks a twenty-dollar bill back into her wallet when she thinks I’m not looking. The twenty Dylan gave her, I guess. Out of the money he made this week.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Rafe: You good?

I stand in between the kitchen and the living room and stare at his text.

I could tell him. Two letters. No. It would be so easy.

Me: Yes.

Rafe: Grandma home?

Me: Just now.

The dots come up. Go away.

Rafe: Okay.

I stand there and look at his name at the top of the screen for longer than I should. And now I’m confused about why he’s checking on me like giving me the ride makes him partially responsible for me. I don’t like it. But I do. And then I have bigger problems, so I put my phone away and find something to do.

Dylan’s friends don’t leave.

My grandma heats up the soup for them. She puts out the saltines on a plate, the way she used to put them out for me when I was sick. She asks the one in the recliner how his mother’s doing, and he says fine, and she says she’ll keep her in her prayers. She brings Dylan a blanket, a second one, even though he already has the orange one over his legs. She asks him if he wants a pillow. She asks him if he’s eaten. She stands behind the couch with her hand on the back of his head and smooths his hair down, once, like he’s nine.

I watch from the kitchen doorway.

I’ve always known how much she babies him. I just never saw it this clearly. Maybe because I was always too busy trying to be invisible.

“So what do they teach you up there?” Dylan says over the back of the couch. “At the fancy school.”

“I’m studying business.”

“Business.” He laughs. “You gonna be a CEO? You gonna buy us all a house?”

The girl on the couch laughs. Not a cruel laugh. Just enough of one.

“Probably not,” I say.

“Bet you got yourself a rich boyfriend up there, too.” He looks out the window like he’s there. “Bet he’ll start a business, and then he’ll buy the house.”