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“Can I wait for your ride with you now? Maybe we can speak about your hobbies while we do?”

“You want to know about my hobbies?”

He nods. “Yes.”

I give in. And for the next thirteen minutes, I divulge more about myself to a stranger than I think I ever have.

9

DAISY

I’m not a snoopy person.

Well, actually, that’s a lie. I totally am. But in my defense, I’d love to meet one person who wouldn’t take the first opportunity to do some snooping around the home of someone as elusive as Bryce. It’s like dangling a deep-fried pickle in front of my face and expecting me not to snap my teeth at it like a rabid animal.

I’ve held myself back for the past two days, but after watching Bryce slide into the passenger side of a sports car that I’m sure costs more than this house, I sat in the living room for two hours until finally, I gave in and sprinted to her closed bedroom door.

The door handle is cool in my palm, and as I turn it just slightly, I don’t feel a lock engage. It’s surprising, considering how adamant she was about keeping her space from me. I tongue my cheek and stay still, waiting for my conscience to catch up with me.

It doesn’t, and I take that as a great sign before I’m pushing into Bryce’s room.

The past two days I’ve been staying here have been awkward. After our single conversation in the kitchen the first night, we haven’t spoken much at all. Bryce comes home fromwork and goes straight to her room. I’ve even started leaving my bedroom door wide open every night in hopes that she’ll pop in and say so much as a hi.

I knew it would be a bit weird living here, but I’m more desperate for person-to-person communication than I’ve been in a long time. When I was in Calgary, there were always people to see and speak with, places to go and hang out after class or on the weekends. I know I have my family here in Cherry Peak, but I don’t want my only friends to be my moms.

Maybe taking a look into Bryce’s room will give me an idea of what to talk to her about. A hobby I could try and offer to join her for or a favourite show we could watch together. I’m not picky. Rather, I’m damn desperate.

How am I supposed to show her how thankful I am for her letting me stay here if I can’t even speak to her?

With a puffed exhale, I slip into her room and blink at the darkness. Blackout curtains drawn over the windows, there’s not even a sliver of sunlight slipping through. I slap a hand to the wall and flick on the light.

“Wow. Okay.”

It’s . . . very Bryce.

A massive bed is set in the centre of the room with a black felt headboard and matching bedding. The dressers are, surprise,black, along with the nightstands and the thin table against the wall and beneath the hung flat-screen. Two thick, deep purple rugs cover the cool wood floors on either side of her bed, matching the lampshades on the nightstands.

I make note of the pops of purple and step further inside. The floors creak beneath my feet, and I make note of that too. Just in case . . .

The accordion closet doors are shut, and I keep them that way. I’m a snoop but not a creep.

Swallowing, I slide my palm across the top of her dresser and notice the lack of dust. Even the black-limbed, spider-looking light fixture above her bed seems clean, like she dusts every inchof her room on the daily. I can’t relate, but I won’t lie and say that I’m not impressed.

The laundry basket beside the closet doors is full of folded clothes, so at least we have one thing in common. I’ll have three baskets of clean, folded laundry before even thinking about putting it all away.

A half dozen pictures hang on the walls, each one focused on a body part decorated with black ink. The two thighs above her bed are hers. I’d recognize the tattoos anywhere, even after only seeing them in person once. Twin snakes curling around flesh, teeth sharp and buried in the flesh of two dripping peaches. The juice pooling around their mouths is almost indecent, and I think that was the point.

I flick my eyes between the different portraits, trying to shove each one into my memory, categorizing them. Black letters in the webbing of each of her fingers, an ankle piece with a date and time, a . . . set of boobs? Blinking hard, I take a step toward the photo and let my lips part in surprise.

It’s the ink wrapped around them that draws my focus and keeps it there until I’m unable to look away.

A full chest piece covers the swells of each breast, with a bull skull centred between them. Grass and tall flowers with small petals wrap around the horns and trail down and around her boobs. The wordhomehas been spread throughout the design, almost as if it’s meant to be hidden. I gulp to dry my suddenly overly wet mouth and bite down on my lip.

The dual hoops through each nipple complete the image somehow. A part of me expected to find ink on the breasts themselves, but they’re bare.

Bare and perky with blush-pink nipples decorated in black jewelry that I’ve never thought to find attractive before. Until now.

Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised to find such open and proud art in Bryce’s room. She doesn’t seem like the type of person to share these parts of herself with just anyone, and now I’m hitwith a wave of sharp guilt. There’s a reason the door was closed, and I’ve just peered into more of her soul than I was intending to.