Love You to Death by Melissa March Page A

mean?” I swallowed the last bite
of spoon bread and reached for my soda.
    “You’re eighteen. You didn’t graduate. You
live on the streets. You can’t live like this forever.”
    I raised my brow quizzically.
    “Okay, so maybe you could, but do you want
to?” He said this very matter-of-fact, but the look in his eyes was
soft and sincere.
    The soda burned its way down my throat,
coating the lump rising there. No, I didn’t want to live like this
forever. I just couldn’t figure out how to get out of it. I
couldn’t get a job without a place to live, and I couldn’t get a
place to live without a job. I cast my eyes downward, swirling the
melting ice around in my glass with my straw.
    “I want to help you,” he said the words
slowly, letting them linger between us. “I see kids like you all
the time. The difference between them and you is your spirit.
You’re a survivor, Arden. You’re beaten, but you aren’t
broken.”
    He reached across the table, covering my hand
with one of his. He stroked it with the pad of his thumb. I steeled
myself for the tears that threatened to fall. I refused to cry,
especially in front of him. Once was enough.
    “I don’t need your kind of help,” I said
thickly.
    He snorted quietly, still rubbing his thumb
over the back of my hand. “You think you know everything.”
    My eyes snapped to his; gray storm clouds met
summer sky blue.
    “I know more than you think.” I said, yanking
my hand back.
    “That chip on your shoulder isn’t helping
you. You think I don’t know the dynamics of your situation?” He
kept his eyes on mine, resting his chin on his fist. I stared
mutinously at him.
    “There’s that spunk. I told you, you have
spirit.” He wagged his finger at me, as if I were a naughty child.
“You need a job, but no one gives a job to someone without a
permanent address. Am I right?”
    I couldn’t hide my surprise. He always knew
what I was thinking.
    “See, I know more than you think, too,” he
grinned.
    “Why?”
    “Why what?”
    “Why are you so bent on helping me? What do
you want?”
    He didn’t answer me right away. He looked at
his beer; the glass was covered in condensation. He traced a finger
down the side, leaving a streak through the wet.
    “I like you, Arden. I see so much promise in
you.” He looked up at me from under his thickly lashed eyes. “Can’t
a person simply want to help another person?”
    A spark of hope ignited inside of me. I was
so tired of always looking over my shoulder. My life was a constant
torrent of wondering about all the possible dangers lurking around
every corner. It was wearing me down.
    “How would you help me?” I asked,
concentrating hard on the straw in my soda.
    “I want you to move in with me,” he said
calmly.
    I could feel the weight of his stare but
didn’t dare look at him. The small flicker of hope I had curled up
and died like a leaf in winter. My disappointment charged the anger
that was always simmering just underneath the surface. I took the
napkin from my lap and threw it on the table. I slid out of the
booth, and without looking back, I swiftly made my way to the door.
I heard him curse.
    I pushed the door open, readying myself for
the cold night air. It hit full force, rustling through my hair
like grabby fingers, stealing through the loose gaps between the
buttons of my stolen shirt. Without thinking, I’d left my coat and
mittens behind, a big mistake on my part. Something I never do. I
always think of my coat. But I’d allowed myself to get comfortable.
I opened myself up to trust. And fell through the rabbit hole, once
again.
    I pounded down the sidewalk. I wasn’t going
back to his car, but I had to cut through the parking lot to get to
the road. The tears surprised me. They trickled down my face,
collecting in cold splashes at the bottom of my neck.
    Why did they all have to be the same? Why
did I let myself think he’d be different? Was it too much to ask
for a little platonic