Page 8 of Dance of Thorns

“Is the view better if you take off your shoes?”

A stab of shame zings through me as I whip my head around to look at my shoes, still on the ledge.

“And that envelope,” he chuckles darkly. “That’s your grocery list for tomorrow, right?”

My face heats as I drop my eyes to the ground. My hands meet in front of me, fingers twisting together, picking at my cuticles. I do that a lot these days, which is why my nails always look like shit.

But hey, it beats using.

“Tell me why I shouldn't,” the man repeats, a smoky note to his voice. “Jump, that is.” He clears his throat, pulling my gaze up to his shadowed face. “If you’re selling any good reasons, I might be buying.”

I don’t know how to respond to that.

He chuckles dryly, without any real mirth. “Yeah. Tough when you don’t know the answer yourself, isn’t it.”

Suddenly, the guyspins—like, actually kicks one foot out and fuckingturnson the ball of the other. My heart lurches, certain he's going to fall over the edge to his death. But instead, his raised foot lands squarely back on the ledge, leaving him facing the roof now instead of the abyss. He steps down, plucking the cigarette from his shadowed mouth and exhaling slowly.

“What if instead of whydon’t,” he murmurs. “We say whydo.”

I frown. “What?”

“Why are you going to jump.”

I notice that he doesn’t say “whywereyou going to jump”.

“I…” I look down, thankful for the shadows masking my face as I take a deep breath. “Because I’m tired,” I say quietly. “I’m just so fucking tired.”

“That's what naps are for.”

My mouth purses, even though he can’t see it in the dark.

“That’s a joke,” he adds.

I peer at him. “Is now the time for jokes?”

“Hey, if not now…”

A soft smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Touché.”

“Why else.”

I curl my toes against the rough, slightly gravelly material of the roof. “I don’t know… I don’t fit in.”

He barks a cold laugh. “Yeah, well, welcome to the world.”

I scowl at him. “Okay, asshole. How about you tell me whyyouwant?—”

“Because I’m clinically depressed, sometimes I hate myself and what I am, and I think permanent silence would be much fucking nicer than the constant screaming in my head.”

I blink, stunned by his brutal sincerity.

“Your turn,” he says, taking a drag of his cigarette.

I blink, trying to collect my thoughts. “I mean…” My mouth opens and shuts a few times and I lift my shoulders. “Same, I guess.”

He shakes his head. “Can’t steal mine. That’s fucking cheating.”

“I’mnot,” I toss back. “It's just…yours was really good. That’s exactly how I feel. I’ve just…” I shrug. “I’ve never been able to put it like that.”