‘Norah. Is everything okay?’ he says after my second call gets no response.
‘Why is the door open?’ I’m twitching, scanning our open-plan living room. I grab the throw off the back of the couch and pull it around my shoulders.
‘I can answer that.’
I turn to him, glowering, fully expecting him to fess up to opening the door and invading our house.
‘Before, when you went inside, it bounced back when you tried to shut it,’ Luke replies with a nonchalant shrug.
‘No,’ I scoff. Ridiculous notion. He’s made it up. ‘No. I always make sure it’s locked before I walk away.’ It’s routine, robotic. Like how a dancer remembers every single step in her recital.
‘Okay,’ he says, drawing out the word. ‘But maybe this one time you forgot.’
‘No,’ I say, marching over to the door. At this point, I’m willing to believe witchcraft and wizardry are more responsible for this mishap than I am. I look at the lock, see that the bolt, the small sticky-out bit that’s supposed to slot into a hole in the frame and keep the door closed, isn’t poking out.
No.
I don’t forget to check locks. The latch clicks, and, ever since Helping Hands dude came into my house uninvited, I hit the bolt.
This can’t be right.
It’s either black magic or broken.
But it is right.
I run my hand over and over it. My fingers disappear into the groove where the latch is tucked away. Because that’s where it stays when you hold down the button and twist. The very reason we had it installed was that every time Mom went to collect the mail, she got locked out in her pyjamas.
I remember doing that, holding down the button and twisting. Keeping the latch hidden away while I watched the rain, just in case some freak thing happened and I found myself outside, unable to get back in. I knead an eye with the heel of my hand.
‘I can’t remember checking it or throwing the bolt. Why can’t I remember checking it?’ My nails creep down my thigh and start scratching at skin. Another new/scary/terrifying thing to add to my list. Before long, I’m going to need a wheelbarrow to lug this list around.
‘Norah. It’s okay.’
‘It’s not okay,’ I snap. How can it be okay? I don’t forget to do things that make me feel safe.
I don’t.
Except I did.
Who even am I?
Luke steps inside, arms open, but he looks less like he’s trying to touch me and more like he’s trying to round up a flock of spooked sheep.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask him, doubling over. I know there’s a science to this whole head-between-your-knees bit, but all it does is make me dizzy, so as quickly as I’m down, I’m back up.
‘Well,’ he says, dropping his arms. ‘I’m trying not to touch you but also kind of freaking out that you’re going to faint.’
‘Faint?’ What is this, a Bront? novel?
‘You know . . . pass out, hit the deck, kiss the floor?’
‘Yeah, but you said faint.’ I lower my butt on to the bottom step of the stairs, breathing like I’m giving birth.
‘Huh.’ Luke lifts his chin, tucks his hands behind his back, and starts strolling around the hall like a patrolling police officer in Victorian London. ‘You don’t seem impressed by my outdated idioms.’
My eyes follow him across the floor, but I keep the door in my peripheral vision, hope it picks up on the I’m-watching-you shade I’m throwing its way.
‘I prefer modern slang myself,’ I reply.
‘Word,’ he says with a grin so glorious I feel sorry for anyone in the world who will never get to see it.
When you take in air too quickly, it tends to have a hair dryer effect on your throat. Right now I could store sand in my mouth without compromising its consistency, but I’m not sure I can make it to the kitchen for a drink. I lean left, check the distance from the banister to the fridge.
‘You need something?’ Luke asks, killing the flirt that was apparent in his voice a few seconds ago. I can’t ask him to get me some orange juice. Can I? No. It’s too weird. He’s not working a shift at a restaurant.
‘No, thank you.’ I grab hold of the banister with both hands, squeeze it so tight I’m in danger of getting blisters. But when I heave my body up, my legs let go with a hell-no jerk. Luke lunges forward as my butt thumps back down, only this time I’m sitting on the second step from the bottom. That was embarrassing. And there’s no Mom here to buffer the impending awkwardness. Luke buries his hands in his pockets, I’m assuming because he doesn’t trust them not to reach for me a third time.
‘Norah, not that I’m not loving this gallant display of independence, but could you please let me go and get you what you need? Please?’ He might be about ready to throw himself at my feet.
‘I could use a glass of orange juice,’ I tell him, but talk to my curling toes.
‘Orange juice. Right. Where would I find that?’ he calls as he heads off towards the kitchen.
‘It’s in the fridge.’
‘Okay,’ he says and then starts humming. I hear him opening and closing cabinets. ‘Hey, Neighbour, where do you hide your glasses?’