He’d been avoiding the camera, but now he made eye contact with it, and she felt like he was staring right into her. And that smile … it broke her heart.
‘Love you,’ he said, and logged off, as if he was afraid to be caught at it.
It made her eyes fill up with tears, and she sat for a few more minutes, starting it over, replaying it, watching his lips say the words.
We can be lonely together.
She was reaching for her phone when Elizabeth – without knocking – threw open her bedroom door with such force it knocked over one of her empty suitcases. ‘Hey!’ she said brightly. The dark mood she’d been in was already gone, and looking at her brilliant smile, Claire wondered if she’d imagined some of it. ‘Ready for some delicious home-made dinner?’ Liz asked. ‘Because I’m totally starved.’ She put her hands on her hips and looked around the room, then looked around again. ‘Um … did you unpack?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wow. I really need to show you how to decorate, don’t I?’
Not if this paint colour is any clue, Claire thought, but she kept it to herself. She’d quietly get a can of something neutral and redo things to the way she wanted them – no confrontation, no drama, no fuss. ‘So, what’s for dinner?’
‘How about mac and cheese with some chicken? It’s leftover KFC, but it’s still good, I swear.’
It did sound good. Claire hadn’t even realised she was hungry until her stomach started growling, and she slid out of the chair behind her computer and stuck her phone in her pocket on the way out the door.
Dinner wouldn’t take that long.
… Except, it did. Elizabeth was hell to cook with; she wanted everything done just right. Claire stuck the macaroni in boiling water, and Liz got upset and took it off the burner because she wanted to check the temperature of the water first. Claire asked why, and that brought on an insane volume of information about cooking pasta at just the right temperatures, and the physics and chemistry of food, and honestly, even as much of a physics junkie as Claire was, she couldn’t really apply it to box pasta with reconstituted cheese substance that sold for a buck a box. She just backed off and let Liz conduct all her temperature observations, mix the sauce, and generally obsess about getting the chicken chunks just the right size to go into the pasta once it was done. All this took about an hour, which was about half an hour more than Claire wanted to spend on mac and cheese, even if Liz added something she said were Chinese herbs and white truffle oil. In the end, it tasted pretty much like she expected, but by then Claire was willing to eat the box, too.
Claire took the cleaning up role, which seemed to suit Liz, and when that was done, she headed for the stairs.
‘Wait,’ Liz said. ‘So – you’re leaving? Just like that?’
‘What do you mean, just like that?’
‘It’s our first night here! Don’t you think we ought to, you know, celebrate? I have a movie we can watch, or we can just catch up and talk—’ Liz was practically begging her. ‘Please? I know it’s been a really long time and maybe – maybe you’re just really feeling lost, and I want you to like it here. So let me help.’
I just want to go upstairs, call Shane, and spend all night talking. But if she said that out loud, it would sound like she was some girl who couldn’t exist without a boy, and wasn’t that what all this coming-to-MIT had been intended to prove? Pretty ridiculous to fail the first test, on the first day she was apart from him.
‘Sure,’ Claire said, and tried to force some cheer into her voice. She felt horrible, but it wasn’t Liz’s fault. Her former best friend was trying to fill the void, and the least Claire could do was let her.
Besides … she could call Shane later.
Elizabeth was, as it turned out, a movie fanatic, and six hours later, Claire finally begged off from the video assault and climbed the stairs, feeling more like a zombie than a survivor of the living-dead attack. Watching gory horror movies on the first night in a creaky old house, with a flaky roommate, was not nearly as much fun as it had been in the Glass House, surrounded by people she loved and trusted. That house had always seemed – and been, on some level – alive, and protective of them.
This one felt cold, alien, and utterly indifferent to her life or death, which made imagining the creaks and bangs to be serial killers intent on murder all too easy.
Claire made it up the steep climb, turned on the lights, and climbed in bed with her phone. She thought about shutting the lights off again, but in her sleep-deprived, overstimulated state, every shadow looked like a monster, and she thought she could see things moving at the corners of her eyes.
Better to leave them on.
She dialled Shane’s number and snuggled down in the pillows, warm and safe, finally, beneath the covers even if the mattress felt weirdly hard, and the sheets smelt of unfamiliar detergent.
His cell rang, and rang, and rang, and finally it went to voicemail.
That was like an ice dagger to the heart; she felt numbed and destroyed, all at once. He didn’t answer. She’d called, she’d watched the video, and he wasn’t there, wasn’t answering. She was too tired to think rationally, so the next thing in her mind was that he’d gotten angry, turned his phone off, maybe even blocked her calls. What if he’d gone out? When she’d moved to Morganville, Shane had been dating other girls, though not seriously … maybe he’d already called one of them, gone out to the movies, or …
… Or worse. Maybe he was already forgetting her, laughing at some other girl’s jokes. Someone older and prettier.
Stop it, she told herself angrily, and shut off the phone. Just stop it.
Claire shut off the ringer, tucked the phone under her pillow, and tried very, very hard not to cry.
She’d never felt so abandoned, or so lonely, in her life.
CHAPTER THREE
It hadn’t taken me long to pack most of my crap up. Truthfully, I didn’t have that much; I wasn’t a fashion victim like Eve – hell, even Michael had more clothes than I did – or a collector of stuff. A few well-aged tees, some jeans that had seen the worst of acids and bloodstains and buckshot, and not in that fancy-ass designer way. More the ‘I survived that’ way.
I decided to ditch the stereo – it was a third-hand ancient thing anyway, and cheap – and that was the biggest thing I owned, besides weapons.
It was the weapons that were going to be tricky. A shotgun weighs a decent amount. Throw in multiple other deadly sharp things, some stakes, a couple of crossbows, and you’ve got a problem … particularly if you’re planning on having no fixed address for a while. In other words, I had to pick what I could easily carry in the battered camping backpack my dad had once used for the same purpose. Turned out that minus the clothes, my phone, some basic stuff for not smelling gross, the pack weighed about fifty pounds when I finally got it on to test it.
Doable. Soldiers pack that much plus body armour, and I wasn’t exactly humping it through the mountains of Afghanistan.