CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
LINA
W hen I get home from Grant’s apartment, Kara is gone, and Meredith and Eden barely say a word to me.
They’re too focused on taking down the Christmas tree in our living room—which appears to be quite the struggle.
Pine needles are scattered all over the floor like deadly confetti, and the taped-together box is leaning against the wall.
“Do you guys need help?” I ask from the doorway of my bedroom, still halfway in my coat.
They both shake their heads.
“No, it would probably just make it harder to have another set of hands,” Meredith tells me, taking another branch off and packing it in the box.
Why do we have a Christmas tree that’s at least twenty years old, where each individual branch has to be attached? I have no idea, but it’s an absolute pain in the ass to take apart and put together.
“Alright, well, I’m going to take a shower. Let me know if you need any help.”
They both nod, and I retreat into my bedroom. It’s as messy as it normally is. My desk is covered with assignments and different books for my international relations classes. There’s a pile of clothes collecting next to my laundry basket despite it being empty, and my bed is haphazardly made.
My bag lands on the bed before slipping into the bathroom. The counter is still a bit of a mess from last night, as it usually is.
I’ve come to accept that I’m not the most organized person in the world. My brain is much more organized than my physical space, and the messy state of my room is a reflection of that.
My clothes from last night fall to the floor as the shower door slides open and hot water begins to run.
Not bothering to do much else beforehand, I step into the hot spray, letting it cascade down my back. There’s way too much for me to think about. I hate it.
I press my forehead to the tile, exhaling slowly, trying to let the heat undo the lingering tension threaded down my spine.
Last night felt like peace, but standing here now, I’m afraid that I skipped a few steps.
I’ve been so focused on feeling normal again, like trying to forget what happened during and after my mom’s death, fixing my sleep problems, and letting Grant hold me without flinching, that I haven’t really looked at the ache underneath it all.
The one shaped like my mom. Like the conversations we’ll never have. The milestones she won’t see. The way I still catch myself reaching for my phone to call her.
Being with Grant makes it quieter. Being back at Yale the past semester has made it lighter. But quiet and light aren’t the same as healed. And maybe I’ve been using them to pretend they are.
It’s a hard realization to come to. After months of trying to convince myself I’m okay, it feels almost unfair to admit I’m still carrying all of it.
Yet, confronting my own feelings feels like pulling teeth a majority of the time, and that just leads to me avoiding them.
I’m halfway through washing my face out of my hair when the bathroom door flies open, crashing against the wall.
“Evangelina!” Savannah sings, now standing in the middle of my bathroom. “I want to hear everything!”
“Jesus!” I yelp when I see her through the barely fogged glass. “What the hell, Savannah?”
She crosses her arms, her platinum blonde hair pulled up in a claw clip, a silk set hanging loose on her frame. “Oh please, I know you spent the night with Grant last night… again.”
I grip the ceramic shelf behind me, steadying myself. “Savannah, I’m naked.”
In all honesty, I don’t really have a problem with her seeing me naked. I live with three girls who are way too comfortable with one another, after all. Nudity is not exactly uncommon. I’m just thrown off guard.
“You were also naked with Grant less than twelve hours ago, but it would have been socially unacceptable for me to be there. So consider this a compromise.”
“I just got home. I’m in the shower!” I thought I’d at least have the time it would take me to rinse my hair before I’d be relaying the events of last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.
But Savannah did text me last night saying she’d be at my place in the morning to hear everything, so I can’t say I didn’t see this coming.
She starts clearing off the counter, and I hear the sound of her opening drawers to put stuff away.
“You don’t have to clean up after me,” I tell her.
Savannah waves her hand, like she doesn’t mind. “I’m a neat freak. It’s what I do. Seriously, I saw that pile of laundry sitting on your dresser when I walked in. You might have to hold me back from it.”
I admire how eager she is. “Have at it.”
“I will as soon as you give me details,” she demands, finally able to sit on the counter next to the sink, directly across from the shower. “I want the whole nine yards. Verbs, adjectives—feel free to throw in a metaphor or two.”
I run a hand over my face, not being able to hold back the laugh that escapes me. “Seriously?”
“I mean, all I got the first time was, ‘ It was good.’ And I know last night had to be different. I want to hear about it. I’ll sit here all day if I have to.”
“Okay, okay.” I grab my shampoo, squeezing a dollop into my hand and lathering it through my hair.
Deciding what I do and don’t want to reveal to her feels like walking a dangerous tightrope.
After all, Savannah has had sex with Grant more times than I have.
I’m sure she’d be able to sense if I were downplaying it, so I don’t want to lie.
But I also don’t want to hand her every detail like they’re hers to keep—like this thing with Grant isn’t still delicate and new and something I’m still navigating.
Then again, in the past three days, Savannah has become my friend. In the way some stars are a part of the same constellations, despite being light-years apart. Or how in Greek mythology, souls split in half find each other again, strictly on instinct.
Elephants can form lifelong bonds within hours. I think Savannah and I are a bit like that.
“Your tits are phenomenal by the way,” she adds, sounding amazed.
I glare over at her but can’t help the small smile that crosses my face when she pretends to look down at the collar of her shirt, examining her own.
“I’m being serious!” she says, looking back up. “Want to compare?”
I wave her on, wondering if she’ll take the bait. Of course, I shouldn’t have bothered. Savannah is brazen, wearing confidence like it’s some kind of expensive necklace. It’s no surprise that she easily pulls the silk pajama button-up over her head, leaving her in a sheer bralette.
It doesn’t bother me, either. I’ve learned enough about Greek mythology to gain the perspective that nudity is a social construct. The Greeks viewed it in a much more beautiful way. Bodies are natural symbols of beauty, and there’s no purpose in hiding that or being ashamed.
She’s still perched on the counter, now looking like she belongs in a lingerie catalog. “Should I take my hair down too? Bite my lip to give you the full effect?”
Savannah and I are fairly similar in regard to confidence, but hers is loud—bright and unapologetic, always demanding attention—while mine is quieter now, sharper at the edges.
Where she’s all spotlight and sparkle, I’ve settled into shadows and soft glances.
I used to be more like her—almost exactly like her, actually. Before everything happened. Before Boston stopped feeling like home and started feeling like a place I barely survived. Back then, I lit up every room I walked into because I didn’t know what it was like to feel dimmed.
But life happened. Grief happened. And somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to be the center of anything.
Still, watching Savannah smirk like she could rule the world with one raised brow and a lacy bra, I can’t stop myself from laughing.
Being pulled into Savannah’s orbit makes me feel a glimmer of hope that I’ll one day get back to the person I was. Even if it seems entirely unrealistic now.
She’s ridiculous. Gorgeous and infuriatingly comfortable in her own skin.
“I think this is good.” I pretend to survey her in the same way she did me. “It’s official: we could both be nude models.”
She giggles. “Yeah, right. Mine are cute,” she says, looking down. “But yours are seriously Titanic-painting worthy. I bet Grant would agree.”
I snort, ducking back under the water to rinse the shampoo from my hair. “Whatever you say, Sav.”
“Anyway,” Savannah muses, acting as if this is the most normal thing ever as she pulls her top back over her head. “I want details.”
“You were right.”
“Yeah, usually. Are you specifically referring to what I’m hoping you are?”
Maybe I’m still riding the high. Or maybe I just don’t have the energy to pretend I’m shy about it. “He’s a sex god.”
The squeal Savannah lets out is a sound I thought was only reserved for Eden, reaching an octave that makes me wonder how good of an opera singer she could be.
“I told you!”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
“Would you get out of the shower already?” she groans. “You’ve washed your hair three times already. It’s obvious you’re trying to avoid this conversation, but I really don’t want you to. So I’d really appreciate it if you’d hurry the hell up.”
She’s not wrong.
I’ve been replaying the moment in my head since I woke up—how everything feels different now. All because my body still remembers the way he touched me, and my brain can’t keep up. It’s easier to focus on shampoo than on what any of this might mean .
But I know she can tell how abnormal this is for me, and Savannah isn’t one to let people spiral in peace.
“Alright, Sav. I get it.” I rinse the remnants of soap from my hair one final time before grabbing my robe off the hook and wrapping myself in it.
Savannah exits my bathroom, plopping down on my bed while I comb through my hair and brush my teeth. I don’t even notice my roommates are also sprawled around my bedroom until I look over.
“Good morning,” I say, my mouth full of toothpaste.