Page 9 of Such Sharp Teeth

“You should go out with him. Really go out with him, not just to hook up.”

The optimism. She gets it from our mother, who covets romance above all else. We were raised by a woman who honestly believes that men are the key to happiness, no matter how many times they’ve proven otherwise. No matter the fuckup. No matter how heinous the offense.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, instead of Are you out of your goddamn mind?

“Okay, that’s a no,” she says. “Why? He’s super nice. Good sense of humor. Attractive. A musician. And he’s not some rando you met out. You know him. He’s a good guy.”

“Ah, yes. A good guy.”

She pops the lid back onto her coffee cup and begins to wipe the table, which is pointless because it’s raining.

“I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t want to talk about it, but he isn’t a bad guy.”

“Sure. Matty is right up there with Mister Rogers. He’s Clark fucking Kent,” I say.

This is the first time she’s brought him up since I’ve been here, and it’s the first time I’ve said his name out loud since finding out he bailed on my pregnant sister. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

Pain ignites my side. It’s so intense, the world blurs for a moment. It burns white.

“All right,” Scarlett says, putting her palms flat on the table and pushing herself to stand. “I’m taking you home.”

“But I want to stay in this Starbucks parking lot forever,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m in excruciating pain.

It’s not as bad as it was a second ago. It was a bizarre flare of absolute anguish.

Scarlett scoops up the cups and napkins and walks them over to the trash. I follow her to her car, a black Prius with a series of tarot card bumper stickers. The image of the moon card catches me. Two dogs bark at a stern moon; behind them, what’s maybe a scorpion emerges from a river. I stop to study it further, and an invisible nail drags itself up my spine. I shiver.

“Coming?” Scarlett calls to me from the driver’s seat.

“Yep.”

We stop at the grocery store for ingredients, and when we get home, I sit at the kitchen island as Scarlett makes bread.

“You should be lying down,” she says, violently kneading a pale slab of dough.

“I like watching,” I say. “It’s relaxing.”

“You know what’s relaxing?”

“Lying down.”

“Very good.”

I draw a smiley face in the flour on the countertop.

“Helpful,” she says. “You know, you don’t have to hang out for my sake. I don’t need constant supervision. You being here is enough. Just knowing you’re here. I’ve never lived alone. It was . . . I don’t know. It was weird.”

When Scarlett was eight, mom accidentally crushed her fingers in the car door without realizing. Scarlett cried quietly the entire drive to the mall, not saying a thing about it, cradling her injured fingers in her lap. I noticed only as we pulled up to Macy’s. She’d spent twenty minutes suffering in silence.

Had I woken up alone in the woods this morning, and had I been physically able to get up and walk, I would have walked home instead of calling for help. It’s how we are. I assume it’s a trait inherited from our father, because it’s certainly not from Mom, but it’s not something I’ve ever been able to confirm since he fucked off to Florida when we were toddlers.

For Scarlett to call and ask me to come here and live with her for the next six months, I knew she must really need me. But I haven’t seen any hint of need from her since I arrived.

I don’t know why I thought I would. She, like me, suspects that exhibiting a sliver of vulnerability will cause the universe to implode.

“I haven’t been here for that long,” I tell her. “It won’t be like this all the time. I’ll figure out my own things to do. But it’s been fun to hang out. I missed you. Missed this. We should get bunk beds. I feel like the time is right.”

“Finally,” she says. “I’m not trying to get rid of you. I’m just saying you’re free to do what you want. You’re not beholden to me.”