I think about that last comment, her final line. There was a double meaning to it that I don’t like, an insinuation I can’t ignore. Was she trying to comfort me, a metaphorical hand squeeze as she sensed me backing away, retreating into myself the way I did on Eliza’s death day? The same as a gentle knock, a cleared throat, another invitation to Penny Lanes in an attempt to pull me back out?
Or was she trying to warn me, threaten me, somehow remind me that whatever happened that night on the island is something the two of us are in on together?
I watch as Lucy rounds the corner before I make my way to her bedroom, tentatively placing my hand on the knob. Of course, I’ve been inside her room before. I’ve fallen asleep on her bed, inhaled the essence of vanilla and smoke permanently pressed into her pillow. I’ve flipped through the hangers in her closet, tried on her clothes. Smeared her blush across my cheeks and grimaced in her mirror when the reflection staring back was still indisputably me. This house belongs to all of us now, every single corner of it sacred and shared, but with that kind of belonging comes an intrinsic understanding. An unspoken rule all roommates abide by—the good ones, at least.
I’ve never been inside without her permission.
That doesn’t mean I’ve never felt the urge. Like that night on the roof when I poked my head in, I could have done it so many times: a clandestine binge, secret and shameful, like sneaking into the pantry and gorging myself sick. She keeps her door closed but she never locks it. She’s at Penny Lanes for hours at a time. I’ve always wondered what kind of things I could learn about her by simply looking, observing, no different than flipping through Eliza’s planner or digging around in her dresser.
I could have done it, but I never did.
I suppose I wanted to see if I really could be different. If I could turn into someone who wasn’t probing or jealous but comfortably confident with the way things were. Someone who didn’t care so much about another person that I was willing to push away my morals, my pride, just to catch a glimpse of the things they wanted to keep secret.
Now, though, going through Lucy’s stuff doesn’t feel nosy. It feels necessary.
I hold my breath as I twist the knob, taking a quiet step inside. Immediately, I catch the familiar whiff of her, the whirring fan in the corner churning up all those conflicting smells. Sloane and Nicole are just upstairs and I think about shooting off a text, asking Sloane to keep watch, but at the same time, so many of the things I’ve come to learn about Lucy are things I’d like to keep secret for now. Things I want to understand myself first.
I start with her vanity, dragging my fingers across various bottles of makeup and hair products; foundation smudged on the chipped white wood and red streaks on the mirror, little doodles in lipstick. Her purse is resting on her bed, already opened like she flung it down in a hurry, and I wonder why she didn’t take it with her—but at the same time, Lucy carries more than one bag. Sometimes she has a backpack, another reason I always assumed she was a student. Sometimes a clutch, like when we go out. She could have grabbed a different one on her way out the door, so I start digging around, pulling out clumps of wrinkled receipts, a pack of Altoids. Lip balm, sunglasses, and finally, an ID. This is definitely a going-out bag, then, because the driver’s license I’m holding has to be a fake. I’ve seen her flash it at bouncers and bartenders; grocery store clerks while grabbing bottles of wine. I’ve marveled at how convincing it is, the birth year listed making her twenty-three years old … but then I see the address, that familiar town name.
Fairfield, North Carolina.
The ID shakes in my fingers, Lucy’s blue eyes staring back from that thin strip of plastic. All the other information is correct: her name, her picture. Her hometown. It could still be a fake, my mind tries to reason. The little part of me that still desperately wants to believe the best. She could have found someone to copy her real one and only alter her age—but already, I know I’m lying to myself.
I know, deep down, this birthday is real.
“Who are you?” I whisper, Lucy’s expression in the picture as cryptic as always, and suddenly, I remember Danny’s voice beside that fire on Halloween. His incredulous stare as the three of us sat outside, sparks glowing in our eyes.
“Do you go here?” he had asked. “What year are you?”
I pull my phone out of my pocket, snapping a picture of the ID before putting everything back in her purse and making my way over to her desk. I flip open her laptop next and tap at the keys—it’s locked, of course it is—so I close it again before reaching for the drawers and pulling them open … but those are locked, too.