Page 41 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“I think it means that probably I should have picked up one of those hammers at the hardware store. I just read my first E.J. Hartley book, once I found out who she was. She’s a little scary.”
“And don’t you forget it.” But she grins at me.
And shoot. I like it.
We fall back into comfortable silence, both staring out the window toward the old rink.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, biting into a cake doughnut this time, “I like the red hair.”
Her lips quirk upward again. So close to a smile. “We should get going.”
Our flashlights paint a pale path toward our next stop on our blizzard-bunker tour. Everly walks ahead of me, one hand resting on her camera bag as though she’s not quite convinced it’s safe yet and she’d better stay vigilant. Her other arm is wrapped around the bakery bag, still surprisingly full after our “dinner.”
I carry one of the flashlights, the other stashed safely in the backpack along with the rest of our supplies. High above us, the wind scrapes over the wide glass ceiling. Without the standard mall music, the storm outside feels almost ominous.
“Listen…about earlier,” Everly says, the words rushing out as though she’s been working up the courage to say them.
“Earlier?” I’m not sure when she’s referring to. We’ve had a lot of earliers.
“When I told you to deal with it.”
“Oh. Right.”
She glances back, the flashlight washing over her face. “Yeah…”
I shrug. “Forget about it. I have.”
Something flickers in her face—a hesitation, or maybe suspicion. Either way, she turns back, continuing down the hall.
But that look’s nagging at me. And just like this morning, when I should have stayed away, let her be, I can’t help myself. I hear myself say, “So…what is this between us? Are we friends now?”
It comes out like an accusation. Oops. See, I say things, and it all turns out wrong. I need an editor. A voice coach. Superglue.
She stiffens, every line of her body going rigid. “No, Benson. We’re not friends.”
There it is again, that sharp no, striking like a whip. I should have expected it. As though a few shared doughnuts could overwrite all the wrong in our history. That’s not how people work.
People don’t forget.
No matter how much you’ve changed.
Everly stops walking, however, and a sigh escapes her lips. She rounds on me, and I step back, but she’s not swinging anything. Instead, she says, “I don’t know how to do this—whatever this is. Being stuck in a building with someone I’ve been angry at since I was eleven.” She gestures between us—a quick, efficient motion, like she’s drawing a line on a diagram. “I don’t know how to reconcile this version of you with the one from my memory.”
Oh. Maybe here is where I tell her that I’m not a huge fan of that guy either. He had issues. But any confession is quashed by her next words.
“I’m not sure I can.”
Right. It stings—no, more than that. It slices deep.
But it doesn’t surprise me.
People only ever see you for the worst version of who you’ve been. I guess she’s no exception.
Then she takes a breath. “But I think I’m willing to call a truce. A temporary, blizzard-specific, expires-when-the-doors-open ceasefire.”
Huh. But if that’s all I have to work with…I nod. “All right, then. A ceasefire.”
“Renewable upon mutual agreement. Terms negotiable. Not transferable to any future interaction.” She extends her hand across the dark.
