“So she didn’t kill herself either.”
I meet Ravi’s eyes over the workspace. “I don’t see how. And she drank, but she wasn’t into recreational drugs. So not an accidental overdose either.”
He grins. “Then it’s murder.”
“Try not to look so happy about it.”
“That’s not what I’m happy about.” For a split second, his face softens into something impossibly tender. Love isn’t a recognized micro-expression, but if it were, it would look like this.
I don’t acknowledge what that look does to my heart. “You’re such a cornball.”
“But I’m your cornball.”
“You think there’s an ointment for that?”
He throws a scrap of donut at me. “Focus, woman. We have a murder to solve. Give me suspects.”
“Owen. Dated Emma and thought she was cheating thanks to Kylie. That’s motive for both murders.”
“Check.”
“Jacob. Implicated in said affair, but was actually just supplying drugs to Emma. No known connection to Kylie beyond crossing paths in school and at parties. Will need to look into that more. Could definitely have access to the drug that killed them.”
“Great. Who else?”
I sprinkle a donut with sanding sugar and consider. “Peter Vernon. We can’t discount a known offender.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that he’s our guy?”
“Seven,” I say. “No, wait. Five. Kylie was found in the school. I’m not sure a grown man, even looking as young as he does, could sneak into the building and not be noticed.”
“Fair enough. So worth looking at, but below those with regular access to the building.”
I’m decorating faster than Ravi can dip now, hands keeping pace with my thoughts. “We can’t rule out that we’re dealing with a serial killer. Two victims and he’s a murdering scumbag, three and he’s a serial killer. I think we need to talk to the police again. I’m all for uncovering this on my own, but I don’t want anyone else to die before I can do it.”
“You think that’s wise?”
“I think we should at least try. Maybe an anonymous tip this time. That way, they won’t know it’s coming from us, and they might actually pay attention.”
“Okay, sure. I’m all for not walking back in there again.”
“I’ll do it tonight. In the meantime, I think we need to consider the next victim. If we can figure out who she is, we can protect her.”
“If it’s Vernon, I’m still keeping you on that list,” he says. “And just to be clear, I don’t like thinking about that.”
“Dually noted.” A new warmth has been suffusing my body as we’ve talked—nothing like the shame and doubt of before. Ravi has fixed my brain in a way that only he can, and I realize that’s what love is. My heart flutters like a trapped bat against my sternum, but I don’t fight it. I can’t, not when it feels as vital as breath. “Okay. So the real Watson—Sherlock tells him he has a grand gift for silence that makes him an invaluable companion. You’re the opposite. It’s not your silence that matters; it’s your not shutting up.”
“Gee, thanks,” he says, but he’s gone still, his body belying his light tone.
The air in the kitchen is different now, charged in a way I’m not used to. The electricity gives my next words power. “I know I’m not an easy person to deal with. I’m so worried about being the perfectly objective investigative reporter that most days, I’m bad at being an actual human. But somehow, against all odds and logic, you still like me. You are better than me in every way, kinder especially, and I would be utterly adrift without you. You always know exactly what to say to save me from myself.” I go to his side of the table, where he’s rooted, eyes boring into mine. My heart and brain are at war, but it’s time for objectivity to rest. I touch his cheek—a gesture more intimate than I normally would’ve done. My voice is raw under the weight of it. “You are my invaluable companion.”
It is the highest compliment I can give him. And when I kiss him, it’s not because I want to devour him or because I want anything more than that singular action. It’s because I need him to know that he is loved as wholly and as completely as I am capable of.
The donut he drops drowns in the bowl of icing as his hand comes up to my neck, pulling me in. It’s a strange thing to be kissing my best friend, but perhaps most strange is how nice it is. His lips are warm and soft, insistent without making demands. It’s a kiss that doesn’t ask to be more than it is, which makes it safe to get lost in. His hands cup my face, and there’s a swallowed-up feeling, like going over the falls at Reichenbach, only with the knowledge that the landing will be soft.
He was adrift, as alone and isolated as ever, until Coach Miller appeared, like an angel. Miller was the new gym teacher and wrestling coach, and when he announced tryouts were coming up, he specifically invited the boy. Coach said that he had the right body for it and that he could get him on a program to build more muscle before the season started. The boy instantly forgave God, realizing everything else had merely been a test. He learned everything he could about high school wrestling so that he would be ready, and when tryouts came, he was. The workouts were grueling, but the boy was good at suffering. He’d had plenty of practice.
Seeing his name at the top of the list of chosen athletes was the happiest day of his life. The monsters made the team too, but he didn’t care, because the curse had lifted and everything would change.
But the monsters didn’t change; they just let the boy think they had. They lulled him into a false sense of security and ambushed him in the shower, one with a video camera and the other in a ski mask. They didn’t jump him, because he was too strong for that, but they took his clothes and filmed him as he ran naked through the locker room in pursuit. They passed the video off to one of the monsters’ girlfriends—a drama student with full access to the auditorium—who rigged it to play on the projector during a school-wide assembly. By the time the principal turned it off, the whole student body had seen the boy’s entire body, and even if some of the hoots and whistles were appreciative, he only heard the taunts as he fled.
“There’s no way this isn’t going to be complicated,” I say.
Ravi laughs. “It’s you. Naturally it’s going to be complicated.”
“Bite me.”
It’s the day after the kiss, and while I don’t regret it, I don’t want to examine it. Not now. Not when it’s still so new. But here we are, sitting side by side on my bed, as if that doesn’t make having the talk even more awkward.
We decided against meeting at The Donut Hole, because the last thing we need is Mr. B lending his opinion to anything. Privacy is now important in a way it never was before yesterday. And how many times have we sat on this bed over the years? Just because we kissed shouldn’t make it weird. And yet I know Ravi. I know what he likes, and it’s not something I can give him, and that makes it weird.
“This doesn’t make me any less asexual,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“It’s not going to magically change. You’re not going to cure me. I’m not going to wake up one day and ravage you.”
He grins. “I know.”
I heave a frustrated sigh. “But that smile says you like being ravaged.” I hold up a hand to stop his interruption. “It’s an important thing for you, and that matters. I know right now you think you want to give that up, but you don’t. Not any more than I want to give up not having sex.”
And god, what does this mean for sleepovers? We’ve always been allowed to have them because there’s never been a question of our relationship being anything other than platonic, and even though I still have no intention of sleeping with Ravi, I can already see my father outlawing sleepovers on the mere principle.
This is exactly why I’ve always kept my brain in charge. Hearts are stupid and only lead to poor decisions and complication.
“Just because I like something doesn’t mean I have to have
it. I’d like a Hasselblad camera and car that isn’t running on luck and duct tape, but that doesn’t mean I’m not happy with what I have.”
“But you have a sex drive. I don’t. Period.”
“And I also have a right hand for when it becomes an issue.” He waggles his fingers at me. “Give me some credit here.”
“I am. I’m just trying to be realistic, and the reality is, this is the one area where we’re just not compatible.”
“You’re the one who kissed me,” he says, as if there is any way, on any planet, that I could’ve forgotten. “I’m not pressuring you to do anything you don’t want to do, but I don’t want to pretend it didn’t mean anything when I know it did. I’ve left this ball in your court for a long time, and now it’s in play. We’ll figure it out. There are ways to make it work. I’ve looked into it. And you have too. I know you have, because you’re the one who showed me the websites.”
He’s right, of course. Because he always is. The “ways” include everything from voluntary celibacy to open relationships to agreeing to sex on very specific terms. Hell, I think these relationships are a perfect market for sex robots, but who knows. What I do know is for each success story about an ace dating an allo, there are dozens more where it all ends in abject failure. I don’t want to risk that with Ravi, because what if we can’t come back from it? The thought of throwing away everything we are for something we might never be is enough to tie my stomach into knots.
“It’s just us,” he says gently, as if reading my thoughts. “We’ve been halfway to this for a long time now. We make sense. We make too much sense not to at least give it a try.”
I tuck my legs up to my chest and lean against the cool wall. “This is the literal opposite of sense.”
“You know it’s not.”
And I do. It’s the chill of the wall against my back that brings forward the memory of the day after Kylie was killed, when we sat snuggled together in 331 and I understood, in an abstract sense that was entirely inappropriate for the circumstances, the appeal of having a romantic partner. No, not just a romantic partner, not just anyone, but Ravi specifically.
Only…
Maybe we really have always been halfway here.
There’s only one way to be sure, and as Sherlock said, any truth is better than indefinite doubt. “It’s better to know than to wonder,” I say, more to myself than Ravi. I look at him, and his dark eyes are as familiar as my own. If I make sense with anyone, it’s him.
I stretch my legs out so they’re draped across his. He rests a hand on my calf but doesn’t say anything. The weight of his hand is comforting, cozy like a favorite blanket.
“I have no idea what this is going to look like,” I say. “And you know I hate—”
“Not knowing things,” he finishes, squeezing my leg. “I do know who you are.”
“Better than anyone.”
“I also know that we’ll make this work, however it has to look, even if it means returning to just friends.”
“I hate that phrase. Just friends. It’s like the just barges in and tries to make it seem like friendship is somehow less valuable than a romantic relationship. It’s so stupid. There are more friendships that last forever than marriages.”
“Exactly. So there’s no lose here. Either we defy the odds—”
“The many odds.”
“—and make this work, or we be friends until we’re a couple of old geezers getting in trouble at a nursing home for having wheelchair races and sword fights with our canes. I’m down for any and all of those eventualities.”
I laugh in spite of myself, because I can totally see us ending up like that, and it really isn’t a bad outcome. “I just don’t want to implode and miss out on our elderly shenanigans.”
“I’m morally opposed to imploding. Promise.” He raises three fingers like a Boy Scout, then grows serious. “Look, however I get to have you in my life, I’m happy with. Even if we decide going out doesn’t work, it’s not the end of us. There’s no such thing as the end of us.”
We decide to put this new venture to the test right away, on the idea that if it’s going to fail, I’d rather fail quickly so we can move on.
The plan is simple to the point of cliché: dinner and movie. But it’s the first time I’ve ever worried about what to wear on an outing with Ravi.
After swearing Cassidy to secrecy, I endure a barrage of whoops and I-told-you-sos while she tears through my closet.
“Do you even own anything other than hoodies and T-shirts?” She groans. “This is hopeless.”
“He already knows how I dress, and it hasn’t put him off yet,” I say, wondering if telling her was a mistake.
“Because he’s been smitten with you since before he understood what the word meant. I’ll be right back.”
She disappears down the hall, and I consider my wardrobe. My clothes aren’t exciting, but they’re mine. I’m comfortable in them.
Cassidy returns with a bundle of gray fabric over her shoulder and a pair of shoeboxes in her lap. She throws the shirt at me. “This and your black skinny jeans. Trust me.”
She spins around while I change. The shirt is long and flowy with a scooped neck and a lighter gray ruffle peeking out from the bottom hem. The fabric is soft, and even though I’m not thrilled with the ruffle, I admit it’s a step up from the Stranger Things shirt I just took off.
I step around so she can see. “Yes?”
She claps her hands together with delight. “Yes! Okay, now shoes.” She opens the first box, revealing a pair of silver heels that would guarantee me a trip to the emergency room. I shake my head. She rolls her eyes and tosses them on my bed. She offers me the second box. “Ankle boots it is then.”
The second box holds a pair of black suede booties with a chunky heel. “I’m not sure this is a high heel kind of outing.”
“They’re boots, not high heels.”
“So says the girl who doesn’t have to walk in them.”
“That was low,” Cassidy says, but she’s grinning. Her postaccident affinity for ankle-breaking shoes hasn’t been a secret. “Just try them on.”
I sit on my bed and undo the little zipper on the inside of the boots. What’s even the point of a two-inch zipper? “I feel like I’m cheating on my Chucks.” I slide the boots on.
“Life is more than sneakers.”
“Thank you, Gandhi.” I stand and take a slightly wobbly step to the mirror.
Cassidy squeals. “Ahhh, you’re adorable. I love it.”
“I feel like a baby giraffe.”
“Which are adorable,” she insists. A wicked gleam lights up her eyes. “Can I do your makeup?”
“Negative, Ghost Rider.” She pouts, but I have to draw the line somewhere. “I already feel like I’m playing dress-up as it is. Maybe next time.”
“Oooh, so you’re already planning a next time? This is so exciting! We should totally go on a double date. Ravi would like Bryce. We could do that escape room at the mall! Yes? Please?”
I laugh. “We’ll see. This is all weird and new. Let me get through tonight first.”
“Fine,” she says. “But I want details when you get home.”
“My details are going to be much more PG than you’re looking for,” I remind her.
“So what? Romance is way more than just the sexy bits. It’s the little looks he gives you and whether he opens doors for you and if he says nice things to you.”
“Ravi already holds doors and says nice things. It’s who he is.”
“A romantic.” Cassidy nods.
“Perfect for the asexual.”
She misses the joke. “Exactly what I’ve been saying for literally ever!” There are practically cartoon cupids in her eyes, and I’m worried she’s going to burst into song like a Disney princess at any second.
My phone chirps, saving me from having to throttle her. A text from Ravi asking, Still on for 6?
I text back a yes and banish my sister to finish get
ting ready.
“I better get to be maid of honor,” she calls as she leaves.
I meet Ravi in the driveway to spare him—and myself—from another wave of sisterly enthusiasm. He jumps out of the car and runs to open the passenger door.
“You’re such a dork,” I say, but it’s cute.
He bows. “At your service. You look amazing, by the way.”
I feel my cheeks flush. “Style by Cassidy.”
He looks good too, clad in his dark jeans and burgundy shirt. His hair is still a bit damp from the shower, so the curls are contained, but by the end of the night, they’ll be wild. The spicy-citrus scent of cologne hangs in the car, and I decide it’s a scent I could get used to.
In the objective journalist part of my brain I can never shut off, I’m aware that it’s self-indulgent to be doing this—going out and having fun while a murderer is still on the loose—but my heart, which has gotten obnoxiously loud these past few days, insists it’s as necessary as any investigating. What good is uncovering the lives of others if you’re not living one of your own?
I let Ravi pay for dinner and the movie because I understand chivalry is important to him. We find seats at the back of the mostly deserted theater for a superhero movie that’s almost finished its run. We have an impressive array of smuggled-in candy, and Ravi managed to con us extra bags to go with our supersized popcorn from the kid at the concession counter. We spend the opening credits topping our popcorn in a way that would make Mr. B proud: M&M’s and Reese’s Pieces into one bag, Hot Tamales into another, and Raisinets into the last. Raisinets are the unsung hero of the candy world, because even though they’re nobody’s first choice, there’s something about the chewy texture with crunchy popcorn that just works.
For the first half of the movie, it’s exactly like every other time we’ve been out together. We prop our feet on the seats in front of us, fight for the gooiest popcorn pieces, and whisper predictions about what’s coming.
Then the popcorn runs out and something shifts.
It’s not that my head is on his shoulder, because that’s not odd. It’s not even the way his arm snakes around my shoulders.
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