Page 25 of She Was Made for Me

“I’ve been thinking of finding my own place,” I hear myself say.

“You don’t have to. I don’t want you to feel unwelcome.” She looks concerned and I pat her on the arm.

“You’ve been wonderful, but yeah, I need my own space. I don’t know how long this project is going to last and I can’t stay on your sofa forever. I think it’s really great Tim’s going to move in. You guys are a good couple.”

I just don’t want to, you know, witness it quite so much.

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

I smile. “I’m sure.”

Now I have to figure out where to go.

* * *

Sadie insistswe all have one last meal together, which she cooks from scratch, while Tim studiously avoids eye contact with me. I pack my stuff into my duffel bag and do a quick search on AirBnB for any last-minute places, but they cost a small fortune. I have my severance, and Dad said he’d pay me for this job, but I feel uncomfortable taking a paycheck from my father. I’m still paying rent on my apartment back in Silicon Valley and I don’t know when I’ll get my next real job—still nothing in my inbox from the feelers I’ve sent out—so I need to be careful with the money I have. I absolutely do not want to end up having to move back in with my parents, unemployedandbroke.

Halfway through dinner, it hits me. I’ll stay at the house on Fruit Street. It’s a huge pain having to take the subway forty minutes each way to get to work there anyway—time I could use either working or sleeping. There’s electricity and running water, and best of all, it’s free.

I stop in at Target to pick up a few essentials, like an air mattress, a lamp, some towels, a sleeping bag, and a couple of folding chairs—maybe Kyle is annoyed I’m using his?—before taking an Uber to Fruit Street. It’s almost dark by the time I arrive, the June sun bathing the street in a copper glow as it sinks below the horizon.

This neighborhood really is beautiful. Rows and rows of brownstones and brick townhouses, carefully preserved. They look almost ethereal in the evening light, as if I’ve stepped back in time to the nineteenth century, when this neighborhood was born. The only thing reminding me it’s the twenty-first century are the cars parked along the street and the distant sounds of traffic.

I smile as I climb the front steps to the building, my arms laden with my supplies. I can see why Kyle fought so hard to preserve the history of this project. The entire neighborhood has a magical feel to it in a way that modern areas just don’t have.

I leave one folding chair in the parlor room—I’ve gotten used to calling it that now—and go down to the basement to set up the rest of my things, because I’m trying to be stealthy and I’m less likely to be spotted from the street with my little lamp down here. There’s a lot of junk from the previous renovation attempts, and mountains of dust, but I spend a few minutes making space and sweeping a clear area for myself. I decided to splurge on a fancy air mattress that’s the same height as a normal bed so I could get a decent sleep after Sadie’s sofa. It also has a built-in electric pump, because I’ll need to take it down every day and store it out of the way of the crew. No way do I want to spend an hour each evening inflating it. Knowing the late hour I usually crawl into bed, I’d probably just give up and sleep on a pile of my clothes.

I’m ecstatic to learn it only takes five minutes for the bed to self-inflate, during which time I venture into the small bathroom to brush my teeth and change into my pink PJ shorts and tank top. Then I stand in the dim basement, lit only by the tiny lamp I bought, listening to the silence.

Ahh, finally. Peace and quiet. No foreman growling under his breath about what a terrible job I’m doing, no friend having mind-blowing sex with her boyfriend. Just the sound of my own breathing, my footsteps on the dusty tiled floor.

It’s almosttooquiet. The kind of quiet where my mind can start to whir with boredom, where I get fidgety from not working or doing something. I pull my Bluetooth speaker from my bag, needing something to fill the silence, and select one of my favorite bands on Spotify: Rogue Valley. Then I put on their songFalse Floors, turning it up. The music moves through me and I sway my hips, dancing around beside my bed, singing along. I can’t remember the last time I danced, and it feels both weird and good. I glance down at my phone in my hand, cuing up the next song with a smile.

But when I look up, the silhouette of a large man appears in the doorway, and I scream.

11

Kyle

Violet flings her phone in shock and it hits me squarely on the cheekbone.

“Ow!” I say, raising a hand to my face.

“Oh, shit!” She scurries across to me, her brow dipped with concern in the half light. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was you.”

I press my fingers to my throbbing cheek. She has good aim, I’ll give her that. What the hell is she doing here at this time of night?

“Here.” She guides me to a chair, nudging my shoulder to sit down. It’s only then that I notice a large air mattress and huge duffel bag.

Wait, is shelivinghere?

She turns the music down on her speaker, then pops into the bathroom, returning with a wet washcloth. “I don’t have any ice, so this will have to do.” She presses the cool washcloth to my cheek and I wince. Her lips twist into a wry smile. “You should have learned not to sneak up on me by now.”

“I didn’t mean to. I heard music and wondered who it was.”

She folds the washcloth and repositions the cool side on my skin, saying nothing.

“What are you doing here, Violet?”

---