The Safekeep(37)

Isabel sat down heavily on the edge of one of the beds. She waited.

“It’s,” Eva started. She wiped her hands along her ribs. It was a nervous gesture, and Isabel had seen it on her before. “It’s been an odd few days.”

“Odd,” Isabel repeated, flat.

“We’ve just been—” She turned to face Isabel, and she was all nerves now, eyes restless and a trembling smile. “Oh, we’ve been a bit stupid, haven’t we? Just—so silly, with—But it’s, it’s just, we shouldn’t think about it too much, right, Isabel? It happens, kisses are just—things, and they happen, and… Perhaps best if we—just. How about we don’t speak of it at all? Wouldn’t that be best? And Louis will be back within a week or so, of course, and we’ll—we’ll be like sisters, and… So it’s best if we…”

“It was a game to you,” Isabel concluded for her. “You meant to make—fun of me.”

“No! No. Not a—” She put two hands over her face, over her eyes, made a sound of despair. She said, “I don’t know, Isabel! I don’t know any better than you.”

“You don’t know what it—” Isabel’s voice had warped itself. She had to stop, swallow, say: “I’ve never… You don’t know what it, what it meant to me, to…”

“What are you doing?” Eva looked at Isabel’s hands—where she dug her nails into skin, was pinching it raw. She stepped to her, said, “Stop it,” took her by the wrist. Isabel let her. Looked up at her, slow. She was close. She smelled of wet cloth. She was heat, too. Her belly, so near, the rapid rise and fall of it.

Isabel tugged at the hold Eva had on her, did so gently. Closer, it said. She opened her legs. Eva held, a levered counterweight—then yielded. She stepped into the bracket of Isabel’s knees, a hiccupped sound, and Isabel swayed, put her face to Eva—her soft stomach. It gave so gently, skin so warm through fabric. She remained there a moment. Moved, the smallest gesture: nosing in, opening her mouth. Eva’s muscles jumped, and a hand went into Isabel’s hair, and they both shared a breath—a sound, a soft breath in unison—and then Eva was gone: stepping away with a hiss. She walked to the bathroom, closed the door behind.

At first—nothing. Silence like the stretched skin of a drum. Isabel sat in it, a sob stuck in her throat.

Then the rush of water, the shower turned on. It went on for a long time. Isabel did not move from her spot. When the shower ended, and Eva came out in a tightly cinched robe, Isabel did not meet her eye. She got up and rushed by—not a spared look, not a word—and locked herself in the bathroom in return. The heat was locked, the steam made it hard to see.

She undressed herself, peeling. She took down her hair. It had grown too long over the summer, now reached halfway down her back, sticking to her skin. She shook under the shower, shook under the heat of the water. She reached down and held herself between her legs.





9


A SOUND WOKE HER UP in the middle of the night. The storm had calmed, the room had settled, all quiet shadows and the blank faces of closed doors. Shallow sleep, strangers’ footsteps in the halls. And then that noise: a choked gag, a gasp. Isabel was upright in bed, heart racing, catching up with herself, with the dark and her body and where she was, who she was.

And whom she was with: Eva, tangled in the bed across the room. She sounded like she was suffocating. There was a fraction where Isabel stared wide-eyed into the room, looking for a cause—a huddled figure in a corner, outstretched hands, a menacing. But there was nothing, nothing but Eva, jerking under the sheets. Isabel couldn’t see her face, couldn’t make out the rest of her.

She went. Her feet were unsteady. She sought out Eva with flat palms, sought out her shoulders, her neck, looking for something—a necklace, a ribbon, something that was doing this to her. There wasn’t anything. A nightmare, then, and Isabel shook her, said, “Eva. Eva.”

Eva woke up and grabbed Isabel by the throat.

It was a good grip. Isabel struggled against it, and Eva tightened her hand, eyes wild and unseeing in the dark. Isabel scrabbled at Eva’s fingers, strangled out an “Eva—” And Eva’s wrist was warm. She was panting. Isabel choked out, “It’s me, it’s Isabel.”

Eva’s touch slackened. Slackened, then loosened altogether. She said, “Isabel?” It sounded small. Isabel said, “Yes, it’s me, it’s—” and got into the bed. Eva’s hand was still on her throat, now just a curling of fingers. Eva began to breathe loudly and Isabel held her. The robe had come slightly undone in the night, and now slipped under Isabel’s grip. She pulled Eva in. She said “Shh” when Eva sobbed, she said: “It’s me, it’s me.” And Eva said, “Isabel. Isabel,” and said her name like that: a statement, a reminder.

“Come here,” Isabel said, tried to tilt Eva’s face up. “Eva. Show me your face.” And when Eva wouldn’t, she held her closer. She said, “Look at me.”

A faint light through the window: perhaps an emergency lamp at the back of the building, a car with the taillights left on. Eva raised her face. Isabel wiped at Eva’s cheeks.

Isabel had never known an embrace like this. Had never been so close in the night. She put her forehead to Eva’s—damp sweat, hot skin. Their noses brushed. Her hand was on the sash of Eva’s robe, tightening. It wasn’t a kiss, it was only a nearness. Isabel could feel the heat of her lips. It wasn’t a kiss.