Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
I started again from scratch.
No memories pad across these hard floors, no stories infuse themselves into these bare walls, but the house still makes noise at night, groaning like it's in mourning for what it never got to be.
Because walls and a roof? They don't make a house a home.
There was a small house on the other side of Brooklyn, within walking distance of my favorite pizzeria, that I used to think of as home. It had one floor, one bedroom, and the smallest kitchen I've ever seen, but it was the first place I ever got to call my own.
It was the first place I ever felt safe and secure.
The first place I found happiness.
The first place I felt love.
But it had nothing to do with the building that stood there. It was what existed inside those walls that made it that way.
I lived there for less than a year… less than a year before my home came under attack… but nineteen years in this house never came close to adding up to what I had there. I understood Karissa when she told me home wasn't a place to her, because it was never one to me, either.
Johnny took my home from me that day.
I burned the house down afterward.
"Guess it's true what they say."
The sound of Karissa's voice draws my attention. Turning around, I see her standing at the bottom of the steps, eyes trained past me at the front door. Early morning sunshine bathes the area around it in a soft orange glow, making the brand new locks lining the door shine brightly. I spent all night fortifying the house, doing everything in my power to make the place secure.
I can't stop Carmela from showing up here, but I'll keep her from getting inside if she does.
"And what, exactly, do they say?"
Karissa's eyes shift from the door to meet mine. Her hair is a mess, her pajamas disheveled. She clearly just woke up from sleeping hard, lost in tranquility, while I spent the past few hours drowning in paranoia. Every time the house creaked, I damn near clawed my way out of my own skin.
"History repeats itself," she says, "first as a tragedy, second as a farce."
Karl Marx. I recognize the quote.
Daniel Santino must've taught it to her.
Huh.
I wave toward the front door. "Something about this is funny to you?"
"Not really funny," she says, slowly stepping closer. "It's sort of curious, though, that I spent my entire life trapped behind locked doors and here it is, happening to me again. I always knew something was going on when my mother started buying extra locks and nailing down windows. It's just a bit of déjà vu seeing you doing the same thing."
Hesitating, I reach into my pocket and fish out a set of keys. I toss them to her without warning, and they hit the wooden floor by her feet with a clang. Bending down, she picks them up, eyeing me curiously.
"You're not trapped here, Karissa."
Her fist closes around the keys, her gaze burning through me as she arches an eyebrow, silent for a moment before asking, "Aren't I?"
"No, you're not. You can leave the house whenever you want."
"Can I?"
"Of course," I say. "Doesn't mean I won't follow you, though."
She glares at me for a moment before looking away, focusing back on the locks lining the door. "I take it back."
"Take what back?"
"It is funny," she says, although there's no humor in her voice. "The entire reason I was on lockdown growing up was because of you, and here I am, on lockdown once again, all because of you. Ironic, don't you think?"
"Does it make you feel like an Alanis Morissette song?"
Her brow furrows. "Who?"
Shaking my head, I stroll toward her. "Never mind. Sometimes I forget how young you are."
Her eyes meet mine once more. "I'm not young. You're just old."
"Huh." I pause right in front of her. "I remember once, not long ago, you were adamant I wasn't old. But then again, that's the same night you told me to stay, and you've been pretty vocal about how you regret that. Guess I shouldn't be surprise if you take back everything you've said."
She holds my gaze for a few seconds before closing her eyes and looking away. I don't linger, shuffling past her on my way to the den. I'm exhausted, and frustrated, wanting nothing more than to collapse in my bed and sleep for days on end, but there's still too much to do.
I've wasted enough time being unconscious.
I'm sitting at my desk, on the phone with American Express when Karissa appears. I expect her to take a seat on the couch, to turn on the television and do whatever it is she does, but she surprises me by approaching my desk instead. She perches herself on the corner of it while I lean back in the chair.
"I need to cancel my card and order a new one," I tell the person on the phone. "I also need to know if it's been used recently."
The lady gives me the usual spiel about timeframes and security as she looks up my history. Last swiped at a gas station north of the city limits the night it was stolen. Huh.
I hang up once it's settled and continue to watch Karissa as she stares out the vast window behind me. She's switching up her routine because of me, but not much has really changed. Not really. I don't want her to feel like a prisoner, but it's obvious she feels trapped.
She even said so herself.
"I have something for you," I say.
"I don't—"
"Want anything from me," I say, finishing her thought. "You don't want anything from me, I get it."
"Actually, I was going to say I didn't need anything."
"Well, good, because I think you'll want this."
Opening my top desk drawer, I pull out the receipt from NYU and hold it out to her. She takes it, slowly unfolding it as I close the drawer again. Her gaze goes to the receipt as she clutches onto it tightly. Her eyes flit across the paper as she reads. "You paid my tuition?"