Darkness Matters

by Jay McLean

  My head tilts. “For what?”

  “For the housewarming present.”

  “Oh.” The gift had been sitting on the counter for days, and I’d told Milky about it but didn’t know she’d given it to them. “You’re welcome.”

  He clears his throat. “Your sister”—he points to the thongs on the rack—“she said that you could tell me what the crystals mean. I tried to look it up online, but...”

  It’s endearing, really, that he would care enough to look it up. I crane my neck to look up at him. He’s taller than I originally thought, over six foot for sure. I say, “The orange one, citrine, it’s for prosperity and abundance, and the rose quartz is for love and peace...”

  “And the jade?” he asks. “I mean, I deduced that it was jade, but I wasn’t sure.”

  I smile, unable to help it, and pick up another piece of underwear from the fruit bowl and lay it on the rack. “The jade is for harmony and good luck.”

  Barely above a whisper, the boy mumbles, “Harmony and good luck, huh?”

  I nod.

  “Well, thanks again. From my roommate and me.”

  “Bradley?” I ask, ignoring my task and facing him fully. He seems more relaxed now, his arms loose at his sides, but he still doesn’t make eye contact.

  Nodding, he asks, “You know him?”

  “He’s been creepin’ on my sister.”

  My friendly, awkward, but-not-so-weird neighbor rolls his eyes. “If he bothers either of you, just tell him to fuck off.”

  That word, coming from his mouth, is like a shot of adrenaline straight through my veins. I look away, not that he’d notice, and stare down at his toes sticking out from the frayed edges of his jeans. “Okay, well…” he says.

  I nod at his feet.

  He clears his throat again, and I slowly trail my eyes back up, noticing how his knees bend slightly, how he effortlessly shoves his hands in his pockets, how his shoulders tighten from the placement of his arms, how his chest stretches the fabric of his t-shirt, how his throat rolls with his swallow, how his wet lips move, his mouth forming the words: “Andromeda, right?”

  His eyes are on mine for the first time ever, and it forces me to grasp the cotton of my sleep shorts. “My—my friends call me Andie.”

  A smile lights up his face, displaying confidence he was missing two minutes ago. “Are we friends?”

  There’s no cockiness in the way he says it, no flirtatious linger in his words. Just a pure, honest question, and I wonder if he’s as desperate for company as I am. Because that’s all this can ever be, regardless of how his presence makes my heart pound. “Are we not friends?”

  Another graceful smile, before he spins on his heels. I watch his back as he retreats to the balcony, only to stop on the first step and look over his shoulder at me. “I’m Noah, by the way.”

  Noah.

  Noah.

  Noah.

  The boy’s name rings in my head while heat forms in my cheeks… the same time my stomach drops. I quickly finish my task, head back into the darkness of my house while I try to ignore the memories of the last time a boy made me feel this way.

  His name? Matteo Rossi.

  And, he too, was my neighbor.

  Chapter Nine

  Andie’s Past

  “And what do you do for a living?” my grandfather asked.

  The man who’d just moved in next door, Matt—short for Matteo—sipped his iced tea, his lips crinkling at the corners. All the other times I’d seen our neighbor, he’d been dressed casually: faded t-shirts and workout shorts. Apparently, he’d wanted to impress my grandparents after they’d invited him over for afternoon tea, because tucked into khaki pants, his navy-blue dress shirt was crisp and clean, sleeves folded to perfection around his forearms. “I’m an entrepreneur,” he said.

  At fifteen, I’d just learned what “entrepreneur” meant. Next to me, Milky nudged my side. When I turned to her, she was grinning from ear-to-ear, her eyes dancing with desire. Not because the man opposite us had just used a word I’m sure she didn’t understand, but because she’d been crushing on the guy since we’d come home from school one day and seen the moving truck in his driveway.

  My grandmother placed her glass on the table and eyed the man. “And what exactly is it that you entrepeneer in?”

  She obviously didn’t know the meaning of the word, either, and I wasn’t about to tell her that “entrepeneer” was not a word.

  “A little of everything,” he said, his voice deeper than the boys I’d encountered during inter-school academic competitions. He added, “But mainly merchandise.” Matt offered my grandmother a smile that had Milky sitting higher. The man must’ve noticed, because he smiled again, this one directed at my sister, and ran a hand through his hair while he leaned back in his chair, getting more comfortable. I wasn’t blind; the guy was nice to look at. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin from genetics rather than UV rays. His good looks were movie star, yet rough around the edges, and it was hard to pinpoint his age. He could be anywhere from eighteen to thirty. Like those twenty-something-year-old actors who portrayed sixteen-year-old high school students in shows like One Tree Hill.

  The conversation went on and on while my grandparents asked more questions, Milky got more lost in her adolescent heart’s desire, and I watched the Saturday sun beat down on us, wondering when it would all be over.

  When enough time had passed, and I could no longer hold out, I stood up. “May I please be excused? I have homework to do.”

  Matt’s gaze swung to mine, dark, almost devilish eyes pinning me to my spot. Then he smirked the devil’s grin, and I found myself transfixed by the way his eyes settled over me. “Homework on the weekend?” he asked. “That’s dedication.”

  My grandfather spoke for me, pride clear in his voice. “Andromeda’s our academic wonder child. She’s in the National Honor Society, debate, drama and math clubs. Our girl’s on her way to Harvard!”

  Feeling a pressure pull in my gut, unease made me shift my attention to my twin. “Milky’s on the dance team,” I said, pushing the focus to her.

  Seconds ticked by as silence blanketed us. Finally, my grandmother said, “You may be excused, Andromeda.”

  I exhaled a breath and nodded once. But just as I turned to leave, a hand landed on my shoulder. I glanced back to Matt standing close behind me. He held out his hand, and when I took it in mine, my pulse spiked, and nervous energy caused my breath to catch.

  “It was really nice meeting you, Andromeda. Hopefully, I’ll see you around.”

  It was two weeks later when I ran into Matt, literally.

  I’d been so focused on running out of the concert hall doors to catch the bus home after a Mathletes competition that I didn’t see him on the sidewalk. His hands grasped my flailing arms until I was on steady feet, his laughter warm against the side of my head. “Whoa. Hey now,” he murmured, pulling back to take in my frame.

  My head spun, not just from the impact, but from the way I could still feel his heated touch even though his hands were no longer on me. Recognition formed in his features, and he grinned down at me, his eyes light against the spring sun. His gaze wandered up my body, before settling on my face.

  Maybe it should have been a sign of what was to come, but his reaction was common. I had a twin, an identical one, and that meant most people had to look twice, look longer, before attempting to prove they knew the difference between us.

  It was clear he was having a tough time differentiating, and he winced a little—charming, in a way—and then slowly, surely, he stood taller and announced, victorious, “Andromeda.”

  I giggled at my neighbor. “How’d you know?”

  He raised his hand between us, careful as to not scare me, and touched the right side of my face with his index finger. “Face like this, it’s hard to forget.”

  There was no stopping the way my body reacted to his touch. Heat spread, pooling in my cheeks until I could no longer face him. I was glaring
at his feet when he said, “What are you doing, anyway? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

  I blindly pointed to the bus stop. “I had a Mathlete thing, and I was running for the bus.”

  A hissing sound came from the man in front of me, above me, around me. “You mean the one that just left?”

  My eyes snapped to the back of the retreating bus. “No!” I cried, and he laughed at my expense.

  “I’m heading home. I’ll give you a ride.”

  From the stalking Milky had done, we knew that Matt owned two cars: a giant, black SUV, and an older, yellow convertible. That day, we maneuvered the streets from downtown toward our homes surrounded by butter-tinged metal. He kept the stereo low, his hands on the wheel, and it was there, in our own little bubble, that I finally found the courage to ask a question that’d been on my mind since I saw him carry an enormous TV across his front lawn. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six,” he said, not skipping a beat. He leaned to his side and glanced at me, his gaze trailing from my bare legs—where the hem of my school-issued plaid skirt met my thighs—and up to my eyes. He cleared his throat and focused on the road. “Which is too damn old to be having the thoughts I’m having.”

  Chapter Ten

  Noah

  Miles is home.

  And when Miles is home he “likes to party.”

  Who says that?

  He does, apparently, and when he throws a party, it’s like Halloween minus the already minimal clothing. Miles, with his blond hair, unnatural tan, and surfer-boy looks, is amidst it all.

  I’m going to assume that many of the people filling our house and the backyard are members of his profession or at least are open to the participation of the activities that make up his career.

  I stand taller and push off the balcony railings, pulling my gaze away from the two girls making out on the lawn to look at Bradley standing next to me, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, drool leaking from the corner. He must catch me watching him because he shrugs, wipes his lips on his sleeve. “What?”

  I slap his back, tell him, “Enjoy,” and ignore his attempt at shaming me for not giving a shit about what’s going on around me. I go back to my room, shut the door, close the curtains and sit at my desk. Then I open my laptop, try to block out the music rattling my walls and endeavor to get some studying done. I read the same two paragraphs four times and set a reminder in my phone to buy earplugs—heavy-duty, industrial type ones, which I’m sure won’t completely drown out the noise.

  My phone buzzes in my hand, Bradley’s face lighting up the full length of my screen. I answer, but I don’t speak. “Open your fucking balcony door!” he yells, so I stand up, phone still to ear, and slide the door open without bothering to look at what’s on the other side.

  “What?” I shout over the music. But it’s not him; it’s Andie standing in front of me, eyes wide at my tone. I immediately hang up, my embarrassment climbing from my neck to my cheeks, settling on the tips of my ears.

  Bradley’s standing behind her, pointing at her wild curls. “She’s been knocking for, like, ten years!”

  I look down at Andie, who’s grimacing from either Bradley’s shouting or the music—who knows—but she looks uncomfortable, and so I ignore the anxiety floating in my cells and pull her into the room gently, closing the door after her. The volume of the music settles to a dull thump. Andie shouts, “There’s a three-way about to go down in my house.”

  My gaze snaps to hers. “What?”

  “I opened the door to see what was going on, and these people barged in, and I’m pretty sure—”

  I don’t think; I just run. Out of the room, onto the balcony, down the stairs and into Andie’s house. She’s right. One guy, two girls, on the couch in various forms of undress. I kick the guy, not as hard as I’d like, but he gets the hint. “Out,” I snap.

  His glassy eyes meet mine. “The fuck, bruh?”

  “Get out.”

  “It’s a party.”

  Andie yells, using me as a shield, “This is my house!”

  I point to the door they weren’t invited through. “Get out!”

  The girls are the first to get dressed, and I look away at the sight of nipples. The guy, though? He doesn’t give a shit about everything he’s displaying and walks out of Andie’s house with cockiness in his step.

  “Thank you,” Andie says. “I tried to tell Bradley, but he was more interested in—”

  “Are you here alone?” I cut in.

  Andie nods.

  I remove my cap, run my hand through my hair, and replace it. “You got keys for that door?”

  “Yeah.” She picks up a set of keys from the coffee table behind us.

  “Come on,” I tell her, gently taking her hand. It’s soft, delicate, dwarfed by mine as I lead her out of the house and wait until she locks the door. The slight adrenaline mixed with anger at what happened overcomes my shyness while I guide her up the stairs and into my room. I motion to the sofa, and when she takes the hint and sits down, her eyes on me, I try to settle my breathing. I grab a soda from the fridge and hand it to her, asking, “Are you on your own a lot?”

  She pops the cap, takes a sip, and nods while licking the taste off her lips.

  My pulse skips a beat.

  Two.

  Then, “Milky works nights so...”

  “What time does she get home?”

  “Normally around 3:30.”

  I don’t know why I care about Andie enough to hate that she’s home alone most nights. I hate Miles for throwing this over-the-top party. I hate the people who entered her house uninvited. I hate Bradley for not giving a shit when she went to him for help.

  “Noah?”

  I hate that her voice seems to soothe me.

  “You look like you’re about to pop a blood vessel,” she says, standing up and walking toward me. I don’t know why she’s coming at me the way she is but I take a step back, and then another, and another, until the backs of my knees hit my bed and my ass lands on the mattress, my head tilted, watching her confused eyes taking me in.

  Erratic pulse and sweaty palms and a mouth too dry to swallow, I try to maintain my composure. “You want to get out of here?”

  Gunmetal-gray eyes swing to mine, pinning me to my words until I’ve realized what I’ve said and how it came across. Saving myself, I point to my laptop and open textbooks and say, “I need to study and I can’t here. And I don’t like the idea of you being alone with everything going on.” I find myself watching Andie, begging and pleading silently for her to not ask questions, but just to allow me to save her.

  “Okay.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Andie

  Noah’s silent as he packs his bags with books and a laptop, then shrugs on his ever-present leather jacket. I watch, enchanted by his every stride, every move. When he’s done, he simply ushers me out the door and onto the balcony. He doesn’t take my hand; instead, he guides me with his palm on the small of my back through the random strangers filling up our yard. My keys are still clasped in my hand, never once letting them go, and he pries my fingers from around them and unlocks the sliding door for me. I walk into the semi-darkness of my house, and I think about Noah and his reaction: quick to assess, to take control, to protect me from what he obviously thought was harm. The way his jaw set tight, the muscles in his neck taut, the darkness in his eyes—eyes flamed with fury and rage rather than worry— the boy’s an enigma, a paradox, a complete and utter mystery...

  I wonder how he sees me.

  “Get what you need, and let’s get out of here,” he says, arms crossed, stance wide as he stands in front of the door, almost as if he’s guarding it.

  I have no idea where he plans on going, but he packed his books, and so I do the same. Noah waits patiently for me to change from my sleep clothes to something more fitting in Milky’s room. I have to rummage to the bottom of her drawers to find something I’d actually wear, but it’s better than opening the trunk in the liv
ing room. I don’t want him to know I sleep on the couch, even though he can probably work it out from the lack of space in what used to be a two-car garage now a “one-bedroom studio.”

  It only hits me now what I’ve agreed to: to leave with him, a practical stranger. We might even go somewhere alone. I haven’t been alone with a guy since... too long. At least not one without authority. But he’s safe, right? After what he’d done for me...

  Inhaling a breath, I step out of the bedroom in a shirt too tight and sweats too cramped, but he doesn’t look directly at me when he asks, “Ready?”

  No. “Yes.”

  We go through the front door and onto the driveway that’s used by the “main house” residents. Milky and I have to park on the street as per our lease agreement. There are only a few people at the front of the house, a contrast to the dozens in the rear. Noah opens the passenger door of an old Honda, the same car he was standing in front of when we first “met.”

  My protector waits until I’m seated before shutting the door and rushing over to his side. The car makes a clunking sound when he turns it over. It dies on the first go, the second, and the third. On the fourth time, it comes to life, and the same silence that seems to exist when we’re together fills the car for the two-minute drive to the twenty-four-hour diner in town. Without a word, we get out, backpacks in possession, and meet at the front of the car, where his hand returns to the small of my back, guiding me toward the neon pink and orange diner.

  We get seated in a booth against the back wall. He still hasn’t spoken, and I’m suddenly mute. He hands me a menu, offers a tight smile, and looks out the window. I remember, too late, that there’s exactly $1.13 to my name, so when the waitress comes to take our order, my stomach rumbles on cue, and I ask for water. Going by the way Noah orders, this might be his place: the one he goes to when he needs an escape or a decent meal. At least it’s not Chubaret. His manners are impeccable, full of pleases and thank yous and even a glance to the waitress’s name badge so he can use it when he says, “Take your time, Celeste.”