The Red

Chapter 13

Later that night, I learned why Ronny was in the library.

He stayed close to me as I moved around the house, washing small loads of laundry and making mac and cheese. As I finished dinner, I attentively listened to him watching reruns of The Twilight Zone at the loudest possible volume. He almost instantly appeared in the kitchen as I set the baking dish on the stove, the cheese still bubbling in the corners like molten lava.

He didn't look at me as he dished himself a generous portion and disappeared back into the living room. As I ate in solitude at the dining table, I attentively studied the tense and ethereal sounds of the music in that old show as the echoes slithered into the kitchen. I sat stiff with wonder as to what emotions were flickering across Ronny's face as he watched. I was intensely curious about how he digested those dark and riveting stories as someone who invented dark and riveting realities.

But he ate quickly, and soon, the program was silenced, and I was left to rot in that wonder.

I left the kitchen as the dishwasher hummed its sloshing song, and once I had my teeth brushed and hair braided, I learned why Ronny was in the library.

As I entered my room, I stopped dead in my tracks, the purple comforter invaded by a short stack of books, a spiral notebook, and a freshly sharpened pencil. I approached them slowly as if they'd vanish in fright if I came over too quickly, and I pushed them off of one another and read their titles: The Old Man and the Sea, The Call of the Wild, and Brave New World.

Classics that all had crippling spines and frayed edges, maybe years' worth of fingers tumbling through the wilting pages. He picked these because he liked them and assumed I would, too. I leafed through the shiny, blank spiral notebook, and something warm blossomed in my stomach. I stared at my new possessions with watering eyes, and my bed very well could have been slowly levitating into the night sky as the weight of my tension began cracking and falling apart. I held one of the books to my beating chest; Ronny truly had made his decision.

At that moment, I realized I wasn't in danger around him.

Morning arrived like an orchestra warming up with sour notes of aching floorboards, and soon an impatient voice calling out:

"Agnes."

I opened my eyes, my arm pressing into the thin metal of the notebook, my right hand still clutching the pencil. A pair of legs were next to my bed. My eyes traced them upward until they met the face at the top.

"What is it?" I asked, my voice gravelly from sleep. I pushed the pencil and notebook away from me.

"It's almost noon."

I lifted my head, scanning the room as if noon meant it would look different. I then saw the books sleeping soundly next to me.

"I was up late last night," I admitted, blinking intensely to banish the urge to close my eyes again and drift off. I returned my attention to the books as I propped myself onto my elbows; I'd skimmed several chapters of each one, hungry to read anything after spending weeks reading nothing but the ingredients list on packaged food. Afterward, I scribbled passages I enjoyed in the notepad until my fingers were sore.

It was one of the best nights I'd had in a long time.

My attention returned to Ronny, still eyeing me, his face shielded, not unlike how he often looked at me, careful not to broadcast his feelings through his features. I cleared my throat, and my sleep was almost completely gone.

"Should I make us something to eat?" I offered.

"I ate."

"Oh," I looked down at the comforter I was wrapped in. "I'm sorry I slept in."