She shakes her head. “That’s your career. What do you do when you have time off?”
“Like I was just saying, I don’t have much time off.”
“You have to have some time off,” she insists.
“A little.”
“So,” she signs, giving me an expectant look, “what do you do with that time?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re kind of relentless, you know that?”
“Yep. Now, come on. Tell me what you do in your free time.”
“I like to read.” I gesture to the small end table, where I have a stack of fitness magazines and some books. Ali tilts her head sideways, reading the titles on the spines.
“You like mystery novels?” she signs.
“Yeah.”
She gives me a small, knowing smile. “Because the bad guy always gets caught.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t bother with an answer, aside from a small shrug. I’m not sure I like her being able to understand me so easily.
She gestures to the fitness magazines stacked next to the books. “You’re an athlete?”
“Not really, but I work out a lot. I like to stay healthy.”
“Okay. So what else besides reading and working out?”
“Sometimes I sketch random stuff.” I shrug. “You know, like scenes from my songs. Killer’s trying to teach me how to use Photoshop—so I can draw digitally with that—but I kind of suck at it.”
She laughs a little. “I can’t do Photoshop, either. There are way too many buttons. I mean, why not just use a pencil?”
I tilt my head, considering her. “You draw?” I don’t know why I find it surprising; her hands are delicate and precise when she signs, so I guess it’d make sense for them to make art along with words.
Ali nods. “Yeah. It’s kind of my hobby. Well, that and . . .” She trails off and gives a shy smile.
“That and what? Frisbee golf? Cat training? Knitting hats?”
She tries to cover a laugh with a scoff, but totally fails. Her laughter seeps through, and it’s just as pretty as she is, the sound high and soft. “No!”
I smirk. “So then your hobby is all three?”
“No, you jerk.” She flinches the moment she signs that, but I just keep calm and shoot her an amused smile. As soon as she realizes I’m not going to get angry, she hesitantly adds, “My other hobby is coding.”
“Coding?” I repeat. “Like with computers?”
“Yeah. I design websites and stuff.”
“That’s cool.”
“You don’t have to say that. I know most people think it’s lame.”
“Not me. Killer’s really into that. I don’t understand it at all, but he seems to enjoy it.” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder, motioning to the laptop on the desk behind me. “He has some coding programs downloaded on there, if you want to check them out.”
Her eyes light up, like I’ve just offered her a free sports car. “You’d let me use your computer?”
I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah, sure. Just . . . don’t mess with the desktop background, okay?”
She quickly shakes her head. “No. Of course not. I won’t change a thing.”
She looks all anxious again, like she’s honestly worried about upsetting me by simply using my computer. And here we go again. Excited Ali is gone, replaced by Cautious Ali. The fear in her eyes is gut-wrenchingly familiar, and I hate knowing I’ve just accidentally caused it.
I rub my temples, trying to clear my head. Her fear shouldn’t matter, because she’s not actually in danger right now. My job is to get her safely to NYC, not to be her personal counselor. As long as she’s physically safe, she’s okay.
“We need to figure out sleeping arrangements,” I mutter abruptly.
“Um,” Ali says hesitantly, “I . . . I can just sleep here.” She pats the couch.
“Cool,” I say. “I’m going to turn in early. I’ll be in my room.”
With that, I stand from the couch and head toward my bedroom. As I glance back at her one more time, I can see Ali frowning. She’s probably wondering what just happened, but I’m too rattled to stop and explain things: The more I get to know her, the more I like her. And the more I like her, the more I want her to like me. Which was never supposed to be a part of this. My goal was to get her to safety, not to dredge up a bunch of memories and emotions I’ve shoved away for years.
I press my bedroom door firmly closed and collapse on my bed. My pillow smells like Ali. Kind of sweet, like apricots or something. Maybe plums. I think back to the duffle bag she brought and wonder just how many things she was able to fit in there. Should I offer to buy her some soap and stuff, so she doesn’t have to worry about sharing mine? Or is it just going to embarrass her if I bring it up?
I groan and squeeze my eyes shut. I know what happens when people make an effort to care about others: they get taken advantage of, and then they get hurt. Ali is already bumming a ride with me, so I should draw the line there. There’s no need for me to do anything else for her.