Page 163 of Built to Fall
“You have sisters, don’t you?” Savannah teases as she approaches the counter, hopping on a nearby barstool.
Since I was here a few nights ago, the wooden barstools have been painted all different colors. It was no doubt a project the girls attempted with way too much wine flowing in their systems. Savannah’s sitting on the mint green one that has a tiny, hand-drawn daisy on the seat and glitter trapped in the paint.
“Yeah, but they did me the favor of staying dressed in my vicinity.”
At the same time, Lina hops up onto the counter in the corner of the kitchen between the stove and the sink. She’s close enough to where Savannah is sitting that she can easily lean down to whisper something I can’t hear.
Savannah barely lowers her voice when she replies, “She’s not here. I don’t know where she went.”
It makes me more aware of the situation than I should be. The topic of Kara was bound to come up when I’m standing in the apartment she lives in, especially given the current scandal.
Meredith and Eden take seats at the other two barstools—a pink one and a light blue one. Thankfully, Eden is now wearing clothes.
They quickly join in on the whispering while I pretend I’m not worried about what they’re discussing.
It takes me a minute to find their biggest frying pan, one I’m actually shocked they have considering the fact they can barely make popcorn in the microwave without nearly burning down our apartment building. I assume the only one who actually uses this pan is Kara, given the way Lina raves about her cooking.
Before I turn on the stove, I grab Lina by the waist and lift her off the stovetop and onto the counter beside it. She keeps her eyes trained on the girls, but she reaches out to grab my shoulder, keeping me within arm’s length.
Her fingers stay curled around my shoulder, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it—like holding onto me has become second nature.
So I don’t move away.
Instead, I lean in closer. Just a little. Enough to rest my hand on her bare knee, my thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against her skin. Her breath catches for half a second, so quiet it might not even be real, but she doesn’t pull away.
“She rushed out after she saw theNotes of New Havenpost. I don’t think it’s a good sign,” Meredith says, not sounding any different despite the way her face etches in concern.
“Do you think she’s…” Eden trails off. She doesn’t have to say the words ‘doing coke’for all of them to catch on.
“Are you asking in general, or at this very moment?” Savannah asks, moving the chain of her necklace back and forth.
Meredith doesn’t wait for Eden to confirm. “The answer is yes to both.”
Lina draws her attention toward me, giving me a sympathetic look that I don’t often see from her. I know she feels awful for putting me in this position.
I layer my small nod with a half-smile, trying to silently convey to her that I’m okay.
Softly, I pull away from her and begin assembling the grilled cheeses, setting them on the heated pan. After a few moments,the subject changes and the girls all lift from their seats. Lina holds onto my shoulder as she hops down from the counter, giving it a soft squeeze before departing to follow the girls into Eden’s bedroom.
I stay in the kitchen, flipping the sandwiches, watching as the bread crisps into that perfect golden color. The room is ten times quieter without them—even with the distant hum of their conversation and the occasional burst of laughter echoing from Eden’s bedroom.
When I finish the last grilled cheese, I stack them on a plate, lining them up like I’m feeding a small army. Which, in a way, I guess I am. I ladle the tomato soup into mismatched bowls that I’m almost positive the girls swiped from a nearby cafe.
By the time I’ve wiped down the counter and set everything out, I hear the creak of the bedroom door and the rising tide of voices again.
The girls trickle out one by one, barefoot and loud, like they never left. Savannah’s the first to make a beeline for the food, followed closely by Eden, who immediately dips a sandwich into a bowl like it’s a competitive sport.
Lina’s the last to come out, her eyes catching mine across the room. She doesn’t say anything at first—just walks over slowly and bumps her shoulder into mine as she reaches for a sandwich. Her version of a thank you.
While the rest of the girls rave about the food, each suggesting that Imightbe allowed to stick around if this is what I bring to the table, Lina and I stay in the corner of the kitchen.
“You’re being quiet,” she says, mid-bite. “Too much estrogen for you?”
“No such thing,” I reply.
Somehow, in this strange, chaotic apartment with glittery barstools and girls who forget pants are a thing, it gives me the same feeling I had growing up.
And I think I’d be okay making grilled cheeses for the foreseeable future.
