The Safekeep(23)

“I’ve known Johan forever. Of course I—Our families are friends.”

“No,” Eva said. She’d gone softer, a soft that Isabel did not recognize on her: her body turned to Isabel now. Her face, unclear from the corner of Isabel’s eye, seemed blurred into sympathy. “No, I mean: do you not like him?”

Isabel swallowed once, twice. Her mouth still felt dry. She was not in control, she realized: not of the slump of her body, not of her words. There was something about the way Eva said that word—like. Like. Isabel closed her eyes, tried to find steady ground. She said, “Why did you lie to my brother about wanting to come here?”

“I—” An inhale. “Pardon?”

“You told him you wanted to stay with me. Because you liked me. Why did you tell him that?”

“Isabel…”

Isabel opened her eyes. Eva had stepped closer to her.

“You think that was a lie?” Her face came into focus now. Her crushed mouth, eyes the color of upturned earth. “I do like you, Isabel. I think you’re… admirable. It’s you who dislikes me.” She gave a silent huff, an inch of a smile. “Remember? Quite effortlessly…”

“I…” Isabel felt distantly dizzy: it wasn’t her own head spinning, but somewhere nearby something was spinning, and it was dragging her in. Eva’s gaze, heavy in the dark. She had never been called admirable. The kitchen felt so small.

“Is that so strange a thought?” Eva asked. “That you should be liked?”

The heat went, the heat returned. She was unsure of what the conversation was about. Where it had started, and where it was going. She swallowed again, wet her lips: that dryness, that parch.

Then Eva said, “Do you not want Johan to kiss you?”

Isabel took a breath to answer and then stopped. She said, “You mean to make fun of me.”

“No, no I—” She moved. She was near. “I’ve been kissed by boys I didn’t want to kiss, in the past. That’s all, that’s all I wanted…” She trailed off.

“How,” Isabel started, “how can you know?”

“Know?”

“If you want. Or if you, if you’re…”

“Well… Well, sometimes you just know, of course, and sometimes you have to try, and then you know.”

Isabel turned her face away. She was sure it was flaming. Isabel did not know what that meant at all: what it was to know, of course.

“You should just let him,” Eva said. “Next time he tries. Find out.”

Isabel kept her face tilted away. “I meant to. I intended to, tonight. I thought I would. And he—was very close and I…” She had said too much: she knew it the moment the words were out. More than she had told anyone, more than she ever imagined telling this girl, this burnt-edged girl. Eva smelled like she’d eaten a fruit: tart and sweet as she spoke. The night did not seem quite real. She had been so angry with Eva, exactly here, only just a few days ago. She had grabbed Eva’s arm, and her skin had been warm. It felt far away now, a different story, muffled.

Eva said, “You worry about it too much. It’s nothing, really, a kiss. It’s such a small thing, you wouldn’t believe.”

Isabel looked at her now, quick and scathing, meaning to say something about not being stupid, about having kissed before, though she hadn’t, but Eva was waiting for her there: a puff of a laugh and then she darted in, pecked Isabel on the lips.

“See! The smallest thing, isn’t it? Nothing at all.”

Isabel stared. Her mouth felt branded: lemon to a wound, salt. She could not take a full breath. Eva, before her, babbled around words with panicked eyes, saying how she barely remembered her first kiss, and how most boys weren’t good kissers at all, and you needed to search for the good ones or train them yourself and that Isabel should be fine, should be fine because she had “good lips, you should be very glad to have good lips, not all girls…” She lost her train of thought, unfocused. Her eyes were on Isabel’s mouth.

She was so short this close. So warm. She had made Isabel so angry and Isabel’s face felt heavy, and a foreign thing pulled at her from behind her navel. Pulled. She turned to Eva—a fraction of a movement. Eva swayed, leaned first away and then, all at once, toward—tiptoes. She kissed her again. It was a press of a mouth this time: Isabel’s sharp inhale, Eva’s top lip between hers. Heat, the quickest bloom: the pressure of Eva’s fingers to her shoulder, her chest to Eva’s, her kiss. Their lips clung when Eva pulled back with a raindrop of a sound.

“Oh,” Eva said. “You resemble him so much.”

Isabel leaned away. Eva’s hand fell from her shoulder. Her heartbeat a storm in her chest, her throat. She had never—she hadn’t—

She touched her mouth briefly, and then said: “I’m not.” Lowered her hand. Said, “I’m nothing like my brother.”

“I—” Eva was breathing fast. Her mouth seemed redder, though all they’d done was press close a moment: a cushion of a touch. “I’m—sorry, I—I didn’t mean to—”

Isabel was too muddled, all of a sudden too muddled. She turned and held her hands to her face and then righted herself, back straight. She needed to go to bed. She needed to shower, to wash herself. To sleep. To wake up and not remember this with the same clarity. She said, “I’m—” And cleared her throat. “Going to bed.”