Page 51 of Redd

Stopping short, I yanked my hand free. “What the hell are you doing? Do you think that I'm just going to strip for you?”

His smile perched higher, and I watched him hold in a chuckle. “You need something else to wear.”

Looking down at my tattered shirt, I touched the thin fabric with my free hand. It had been a bright green shirt, but not anymore. The green had faded, turning the color of burnt grass, the fibers had started to separate, creating worn patches.

Snagging my hand again, he pulled me into his room. His skin was warm, heating my palm and sending tingles up my arm. The feeling worked through my chest, coalescing into a knot in my stomach.

What is going on?

What the hell is that feeling?

It was foreign to me, a weird sensation that didn't make any sense. The tingles, the heat, the prickles and goosebumps; it was nothing like I had ever felt before.

Releasing my hand, he stalked to his dresser. “You might be able to find something in here.” Pulling open the bottom drawer, he fumbled through the top layer and tugged out a few items from deep underneath. “I don't know if they'll fit, but they'll be better than that.”

Laying them down on the bed, he placed some items out for me to see. One was a navy blue floral teacup dress, the second was a bright yellow ankle-length dress, and the third was a thick lavender sweater, with small white flowers embroidered onto the fabric and a pair of black yoga pants.

“Whose are these?” I asked, stepping to the clothes and running my hands over each one. All the fabric felt different, but the feeling of real cloth on my skin; thick and soft, fuzzy and thermal—it inebriated my senses.

“They were my Mom's.”

“Your mom's?” Nodding, he kept his gaze on the bed, eyes reminiscing with old memories. “Where is she now?”

His head stayed still, face burning with a flood of emotions. “She's dead.” There was so much anger and hatred, love and loss in his voice, I could feel the shadow of pain in his words.

“Oh.” That was all I could say. I thought about apologizing for her death, telling him I was sorry that she was gone.

But what good would that do?

You hear people say it all the time. You tell someone a loved one is gone and they tell you they're sorry.

I never understood that. It's not their fault, they had no hand in their death. An apology was meant for something you did, it was meant for a feeling or sadness, an action that you took that caused someone else's pain. How did apologizing for death help the person in mourning?

It didn't.

Brushing my fingers over the sweater, I traced one of the flowers, thumbing the tiny petal. “Why did you keep these?”

Redd stayed quiet for a long second, his eyes glazing over. “I don't really know.” Straightening his back, he shook his head, driving out everything that was just going through his mind. The look of sadness was gone, swept from his face as if he hadn't just shown me a moment of weakness. “Take your pick.”

“You don't mind me wearing her clothes?”

“You can use it. And unless you'd rather wear something of mine or try to squeeze into something of Vicki's, these will do the job.” Folding his arms over his chest, his confidence was bold and unwavering. “Go on, pick one. I know they're not fancy or anything, but they're better than that rag you have on.”

Rolling my lips against the sharp edge of my teeth, I looked over the clothes, wondering what his mother was doing the last time she wore one of these outfits.

The teacup dress made me think of church, I could picture someone wearing it as they gave praise to a higher power. The yellow dress reminded me of a family gathering, maybe a birthday party or anniversary celebration. It wasn't super fancy, but casual dressy. The sweater and yoga pants I saw as a relaxing Saturday afternoon outfit on a cold winter day just like this.

Stepping back and forth between them, a curiosity brewed in my stomach, making me wonder about Redd, about his family and what had torn it apart. It was just him and his younger sister.Why?

“Can I ask you something?” I asked, flicking my eyes up to him.

Nodding, Redd's lips thinned into a smile. “Go on, ask.”

“What happened?”

Glancing up at the ceiling, it looked like he was asking permission to tell her story. His eyes searched the white canvas, mouth pursing, chin crooking to the side. The silence was eating me alive. I hated the quiet, I hated not knowing what someone was thinking.

Too many surprises came in the silence, too many that left me wounded and raw.

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