Free Split by Swati Avasthi Page B

you? I mean, you said—”
    I stand up so fast that the chair flips over. Suddenly the guru appears before me, screaming, “And walk away. WALK AWAY!”
    Right. Walk away.
    “Thanks for the food, Mirriam. It was really good,” I say. “For the record, I’ve never played chess in my life.”
    My plate is shaking as I scrape my leftovers back into the bowl and walk into the kitchen. I don’t want to go back out there, but there’s nothing to do in here but shake and breathe. I feel both of them staring at my back. I glance around for something, anything, to do. I will … wash dishes. Yes.
    I turn on the faucet, and water pours loudly into the metal basin. Their voices start squabbling behind me, but I can’t make out the words. I don’t really want to hear them; it’s enough that I walked away. Don’t break the plate . I rinse it clean and put it in the dish rack. I clean the soup pot and my fork, and then there’s nothing else.
    Damn my lack of bedroom, my lack of door.
    I settle on an urgent need for coffee.
    When I turn off the water, I hear Mirriam say, “He’s already stealing for the fun of it—” and goes silent as she registers the quiet.
    I dry my hands on my jeans and return. “I could do with a coffee. Anybody want some?”
    They both shake their heads. They don’t say anything as I right my chair, get out my car keys, and put on my new jacket; I escape before the explosion.
    When I’m in the car, I remember that I don’t have any money for coffee. I drive the one route I know, to the school and back again, so I won’t get lost.
    I slip in the apartment building’s security door as someone is walking out, and I had left Christian’s door unlocked.
    Christian is lying on the couch with his feet up, a book unfolded on his chest. No Mirriam. He watches me through eyes dragging against sleep.
    “Hi,” I say. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
    He closes the book and gets up. He stumbles to the bookcase and back and then, as if the couch cushions are heavy, slowly pulls them off. He must have been in a deep sleep. I’m surprised he doesn’t zombie off to bed. I yank the foldout’s handle, and the bed lets out a long, metallic moan. He gets the sheets from the table and hands me a corner. Together, we unfold it and tuck it in under the mattress. This isn’t roommate behavior. It’s brother behavior.
    “I’m sorry about Mirriam. About tonight. I shouldn’t have dragged you into our problems.”
    Oh, I see. It’s guilt behavior.
    “Mirriam did the dragging. Other than cooking, what do you see in her? Is it an older-woman thing?”
    “Jace,” he says, with a quiet reprimand in his voice.
    “What? So far, I’ve seen her pry and fight.”
    “Fair enough. She has not been at her best, but that’s my fault. I put her in a situation where she felt like she had to pry, and she’s not good at that sort of thing.” He shrugs.
    “So?”
    “She is a fighter.”
    “Yeah, I got that,” I say.
    “Not like that. She just doesn’t put up with any nonsense. And you have to admit that she’s pretty smart.”
    I grab the top sheet off the table and hand him the corners. “Hmmm,” I say, not convinced.
    He continues, “So, where did you go? There’s a Satellite coffee half a mile away. Did you go there?”
    We spread out the sheet. He leans over and starts brushing away the wrinkles. He brushes more and more until it’s smooth. And then he keeps on going. Brush, brush. I watch him, my head tilted, trying to figure out this sudden need for a lake-smooth surface on a bed I’m about to crawl into.
    “Did you think I wasn’t coming back?”
    He grabs the blanket from the table, and it spills open. I pick the ends up off the floor, and still he doesn’t say anything. His face is pale, and his jaw is tight. While we are putting the blanket, folded, on the foot end of the bed I’m thinking, He was sleeping out here, waiting to see if I would come back, waiting to hear the buzzer. Maybe he was