Page 74 of The Black Table
“Gwenna?” says a voice from outside my cocoon.
I freeze. I’m not alone, obviously, and at the one moment where I truly, desperately, physically need to be alone and unseen, and untouched and almost non-existent. I swallow hard, my throat swollen from all the tears I’m holding back.
“Are you alive?” comes Morgan’s voice a little more gently. The slight edge of humor disarms me so much that Iactually relax for half a second, but I don’t answer. I can’t; I’m not even sure if a yes would be accurate.
“I got you tea,” she goes on. “It’ll help you feel better.”
Doubtful, I think. If Dr. Riggs’s battalion of veterinary grade pharmaceuticals weren’t enough to fix what’s wrong with me, I’m not sure how a cup of Lipton’s is going to do the job. But at the same time, someone got me tea, and that’s more than I deserve. More than I’ve ever gotten, anyway. It’s comfort rather than trying to solve anything. I swallow again, pushing down the ache in my throat, and emerge, just barely, from my pretzel position.
Morgan sits backwards in one of the armchairs. Her hair’s in a high ponytail, a loose sweatshirt hanging off her shoulders. “Good morning, sunshine.” Her sarcasm is dry as a bone.
I blink, don’t say anything, but sit up a little more. I’m still in the T-shirt and sweats—Lanz’s presumably—but the clanking radiator and the sheer heat energy of my panic has me sweaty, my hair sticking to my neck. Between that, my bare feet, and the raw eyes from crying, I must look like an absolute lunatic—which, of course, I am—and now everybody knows it.
Morgan, though, doesn’t react. She just tips her head to the side.
“Tea?” she asks, swiveling around and holding out a mug the size of a soup bowl made of some earthy, hand-thrown pottery and smelling like…I’m not sure. No kind of tea I’ve ever had. I wrinkle my nose out of reflex, so taken aback by the smell that I almost forget what’s going on.
“It’s herbal,” she says. “I had them brew it special—my own blend. But it’s not poison, I swear.” She winces, realizing what she’s said. “Too soon?”
I shake my head dumbly. Joke about it, don’t joke about it, it doesn’t matter.
“Okay,” she says, but it doesn’t sound like she believes me. “Anyway, I put loads of honey in it, too.”
I reach out a hand—then two, when I realize how big the thing is—and take it from her.Even if it is poison, I think,who cares?It’ll make me feel better, do nothing, or end everything.
The first sip is earthy, with a hint of grass and a flowery sweetness at the end that I can’t put my finger on—honeysuckle, maybe, or passion flower. I wouldn’t call it…good, exactly, but it does make me feel better surprisingly quickly.
“Attagirl,” Morgan says, as she purses her lips and stares at me like I’m a child she’s waiting to finish her dinner. I resist rolling my eyes and take another big sip. It’s weirdly the perfect temperature—not hot enough to burn, but not that tepid, microwave-level heat that you get in cafeteria tea.
I don’t want to talk, because talking just reinforces that I exist. But Morgan doesn’t seem concerned with what I want.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
I narrow my eyes. “Why do you care?” It comes out harsher than I mean it to. And Morgan’s brow furrows.
“Jesus, I’m sorry,” she says.
So am I. I want to slap myself in the forehead, but I’d have to let go of my tea to do that.
With shaking hands, I set it on the edge of the armchair and hunch over myself, staring into my lap.
“No, I…”Fuck, I think. I look up. “You’re being really nice. You’ve been a good roommate?—”
“Have been?” she asks, cutting me off. “What do you mean? Am I about to die or something?”
“No, I just…” I hesitate. “I mean, I can’t stay here.” My voice cracks as I say it. “Obviously.”
“Obviously?” Morgan scrunches up her face. “I think not. You mean just because Elena’s a bitch? I mean”—she lowers her voice—“allegedly.” She stirs her own cup of tea with a dainty spoon and a scoff. “Word is they’re saying one ofmycandles started thefire. And I’m like,please, I amnothingif not careful about fire safety?—”
“Did the candle write the fucking note, too?” I interrupt.
Morgan pauses. Then laughs.
“That’s what I’msaying,” she mutters. She sips her tea. “You could raise a stink about it to the college, you know. Press them to?—”
“No.” I cut her off swiftly. I’d thought of that, too, but immediately rejected it. Anything that could make its way back to my mom—an inquiry, an official investigation—will only add insult to injury. Majorly. I can’t.
“Mm.” She casts a glance around the shop, doesn’t push back. Anyone whowasstaring at us has politely retreated. “Well, I guess my point is, no matter what they decide, you can’t let her chase you out of here. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”
