Condemned

9 | Sam

The sun is just rising when the door downstairs scrapes open and claps shut.

I jolt beneath my comforter, stay tense, and then relax, just a touch, when I hear obvious footsteps and keys dangling.

Is the haunted house thing over?

Sitting up a little straighter, correcting my glasses, tucking my stray, staticky hair behind my ears, I'm wide eyed and probably pretty pathetic looking when Jael walks in.

His face is pale and grim. He looks more exhausted than I am, like he's been sick and hasn't slept well in weeks.

It takes him a few blinks before he spots me on the couch and acknowledges how settled in I am, watching his TV, thankfully and surprisingly loaded with everything I would ever need to stay sane on a lonely, eerie night.

I've been watching British period dramas. There's nothing scary about that, except that, for every lost virgin, their whole lives are ruined. They lose their security, reputation, and all respect from their family and friends, if these girls ever had any of that to begin with. The guy either dies, doesn't stick around, or they're forced into an unhappy marriage.

Maybe I should be watching something else. The Omen or The Exorcist would probably be more comforting and reassuring.

Jael squints his eyes, cocks his head. His gaze skims down me, in a blanket bundle, to the glass of water on the coffee table, down to the last few sips, to the box of tissues—a few of them used—and the open box of Captain Crunch.

"You're up early," he comments.

I shrug. It takes effort to avoid bawling my eyes out. "Never went to bed." The lazy coolness I was going for doesn't make it through the voice quiver.

"Everything all right?" He seems about to cross the threshold, through the archway and into the living room. Not even a full step closer, his nose flares, his mouth quirks with distaste, and he takes a step back instead, like I smell bad or something.

I showered, brushed my teeth, and even flossed quickly. I'm almost positive that I put on plenty of deodorant, too. But, I admit, that was hours ago. And all this time, I've been shivering through the draft. The windows aren't great. The wind is still so intense.

I've probably broken into a cold sweat, one I didn't even notice or consider until now. Is it really that bad?

Jael holds up a finger to say, hold that thought. Then he darts into the bathroom.

While he's gone a few minutes longer than I expect, I have a chance to drain the tears that were welling up without him watching.

I grab a few more tissues. I'm just barely cleaned up when he returns, pausing, once again, with indecision in the archway.

He leans into it with one shoulder. His black hair is gleaming with moisture. It looks like he just ran his hand through it. Though I saw him amble toward his room with just a medium-sized white towel around his waist, he's now wearing sweatpants and a well-loved black T-shirt. It's too faded to read what it once said. It's probably some band I would have never heard of anyway.

His eyes widen at the sight of me—still here, still pathetic—and then dip to the empty couch cushion beside me. "Is it something I said?" he jokes, but through the forced smirk, he looks nervous or unsure.

He gets points for a willingness to deal with a distressed girl after a sleepless night. A girl he's not dating. Someone his girlfriend doesn't even seem to like. And said girlfriend might still be lurking about, somewhere on the premises.