Chapter 17: Unlocked

At one in the morning, I opened the door.

He was still sitting on the top step with his back against the wall.

His jacket was soaked through, and his hair had dried in dark curls against his forehead.

He looked up at me and didn't say a word.

"You'll catch pneumonia," I said.

"I'm a very healthy person."

"You're blue."

"Slightly blue."

"Get in here."

He got up slowly, stiff from the cold, and followed me into the studio.

I shut the door behind us and, for the first time in days, I turned the lock.

I wanted him to hear it.

I pulled a towel off the radiator and threw it at his chest.

He caught it, and he stood dripping on the floor with the towel in both hands.

"Take that off," I said, and pointed at the jacket.

He took it off.

The shirt under it was wet too, and it clung to his shoulders and his ribs.

I had known that body for fourteen years, in sandboxes and in school photos and in sweaters at the Christmas table.

I had never once looked at it on purpose.

I looked now.

He saw me looking, and a flush started at his collar and went up his neck.

"Hazel."

"Don't," I said. "You don't get to say my name yet."

"I'm not."

"You lied to me for eight days."

"Yes."

"You sat on a bench in the rain and watched my window."

"Yes," said Miles. "I'd do it again, probably."

"I'm still furious."

"Good."

"That's not a thing you say. You're supposed to say sorry."

"I'm sorry," he said, very low. "I'm sorry I lied, and I'm sorry about the glue. I'm not sorry I came."

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