Page 101 of These Tears

It’s the promise I’d made to keep the blizzard from swallowing me whole.

I fold the damned undershirt tighter into my hand as my heart kicks up. ‘Not at all,’ I murmur, attempting to sound unbothered.

‘Mm,’ he hums suspiciously and goes on with preparations. ‘We share everything, Leah. Bed included.’

I grind the unease and the wrongness of those words until I can feel my limbs again.

Leaving the door cracked open, making sure I can’t see any part of the bed, I leave the clothes on a shelf away from the water spray and wash quickly while keeping to the wall. I imagine this place as just somewhere I’ve travelled to. Another room. Another thing I’ll turn into art. And then safely leave behind.

My long hair gets a rough towel-dry, then relaxes along my back in damp, tangled ropes that seem to belong among the shower room’s brown shades.

I hadn’t brought any oils with me as I was meant to go to the shops the morning after I settled into the flat in Oslo – before my new life was supposed to begin. A fresh start, a new job, a string of mornings that belong to me.

But now… I am thoroughly, irreparably fucked.

My mind snags on that.

Stutters.

Wrong word choice.

I don’t even bother with a second glance in the mirror spanning one of the walls. My curls are already frizzing at the ends, puffing out in a halo of static defiance.

Anna and I both hate that about us – loose curls that don’t obey and rise in riot when humidity sticks.

Lotion, face serum, cream. I slather it all on like war paint. The clothes follow.

Opening the door, I step into the room. He has turned off the lights. Nothing but the fire from the hearth shivers across the floor.

‘Do you think there’s a chance I could buy hair oil somewhere?’ I ask without looking at him, trying to soften the thick atmosphere while keeping my voice casual.

He’s standing at the wardrobe by the door, pulling out folded sets of pyjamas one after another.

‘No.’

Right.

‘You can make it yourself.’

The sound I let out isn’t quite a grunt, but it’s not a word either. More like an unformed protest caught in my throat. ‘I don’t know how—’

‘I told you,’ he interrupts, scowling at the grey fabric in his hand as he examines the label, folds it between his fingers. Folds it again. By the third time, the cloth has curled at the edge. ‘I don’t want to hear such things. They’re a death sentence in this kind of place.’

He pauses just long enough to throw the question over his shoulder. ‘Have you ever tried to make oil?’

Curiously, I’ve been recklessly dependent on civilisation for that.

I glare at him sideways, grinding the last of the thought between my teeth so that nothing can escape.

The muscles in his shoulders are too relaxed for someone who always feels like a loaded trap. But… damn him… he has a point.

‘No.’

‘Then try. When you fail, try again.’

He starts shuffling the clothes again.

I chew on that, pushing my bag a little deeper into the corner where it sits too obviously like a refugee from a different life. A few pieces of clothing fall out.