The truth. I can play pretty well!

“Yes,” you say. “My, uh, dad taught me when I was younger.”

A prominent grin grows on Scarlet’s lips. “My dad taught me too!” She moves, exposing the front of her hoodie. The word “Frankfort” is spelled out in bold red letters.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, and my mom…” she played a few strings and hummed, her eyes somewhat glossy when she looked into the fire. “My…Mom sang a lot. She wanted me to sing and play locally. Both my parents did.”

“Didn’t work out?”

“I…” she continued to strum, but the words stopped. “I don’t want to talk about it. Never helps when I do, so why bother now?”

You let her finish the short song she’s started before saying anything else. She looks at you. An animated face of a dozen emotions shows itself to you. “What were you saying earlier?”

Scarlet looked at you. Her blue eyes are nearly black-colored in the light of the flames. She played like a professional but made little attention to the music she produced effortlessly. Her dad must’ve been a good teacher for her to be so casual about it. Your words scrambled when you shared this stare at each other. It was romance at its most awkward— it didn’t fit anything and didn’t have a place here.

The wounds you inflicted to each other’s faces were to enforce lies– to prevent death. There was pity in this living room that didn’t belong. Yet, Scarlet regarded you with a stare you couldn’t translate as anything besides respect. Too wholesome for lust, too daughter-like for an intimate lover…

…Why was she looking at me like this?

She seemed so young now, but the smell of beer in her hair betrayed this thought. The dark sparkle behind her youthful eyes flashed with unseen horrors only an adult could have witnessed.

“You look different.” You muster.

She changes the tune of the strings into something cheery as her eyes bounce to the fire set before you. “You look beat up.”

“Yeah, whatever. You have a nice black eye.”

“Is it weird how badly I want to fuck you right now?” Scarlet mindlessly plays one string and then switches to something careless. As she does this, you realize you can't read her expression either. All that staring wasn't wholesome, and it definitely wasn't daughter-like! “Consider the last couple of days we’ve had. I should hate your guts, but I… I have this feeling for you I am fighting so hard to ignore. Whenever I look at you, it’s like you’re my second wind.”

“You’ve drunk too much.”

Scarlet puts down the guitar. “No.”

“You have.” You can feel your face getting warm.

“You haven’t drunk enough,” she spits and stands up. Her swollen eye is angled with her eyebrow. She’s pissed. “Just stand up and hug me for a second.”

The room is empty aside from you and your partner, but the thought of Amara walking in scares you. Flora too. Kenji even. You stand up, though, and spread your arms wide. Scarlet comes over and carefully folds herself in. “It can be longer than a second.”

She laughs slightly, but it sounds broken. “You remind me of my brother.”

A pause.

“Besides the sex.” She follows with.

“That’s good…”

She squeezes slightly and exhales. “I want to talk to you about everything. I really want you to be my real brother. It would have been easy for you to take that role if we didn’t have sex, but we did.”

Somewhat awkwardly, you stand with Scarlet in your arms. Her warm body folds into yours without a wrinkle. “You look nothing like my brother, but sometimes you sound and act like him. I really… I want to talk so bad right now, but if I talk about it, all that burying was for nothing, right? I could have killed someone I wasn't supposed to with him and neither one of us would have said anything, you know?"

A lump forms in your throat, you squeeze a little harder as you struggle to find the words. “You don't have to talk about it if you’re conflicted. If dealing with it while it’s bottled up makes it easier to cope with, then do it that way. Talking about trauma can make you revisit memories that are better left in the dark. But… sometimes it’s best to open one of the bottles and let it fizzle out. Drain it and get rid of one bottle at a time.” A sense of peace builds in the room now, and your words feel contained. “Share that bottle with someone else and get some comfort in that someone.”

“There you go again,” she swallows. Her voice is low but calm. “How do you do it?”

“I’m a people-person. Contracting isn’t about dusting. It’s about understanding sometimes.”

“I don’t want to sleep with you now.”

“That’s good,” you smirk slightly. “We don’t have to sleep with each other to talk to each other.”

“If I could have grown up with a friend like you, I don’t think…” Scarlet trails off, and then thank you. “I’m going back to bed.”

“Have a good night, Scarlet. Or, whatever your name is.”

“I’ll never be drunk enough to tell you that one, Visser.” Scarlet picks up her guitar and steps into the shadows of the living rooms, disappearing and leaving you alone to put out the fire she made.

…

…

The following day you resume the routine you left behind. It’s strange without Alexandra, but no one brings that up. Not until it’s time to wash the dishes, at least and Flora chirps up to lighten the mood.

“Dishes won’t be as clean without Alexandra washing them.” She says as she scrubs egg residue over the surface.

No one says anything. Neither do you. You can’t seem chipper about her being gone. You don’t want to cause suspicion, so you stay as quiet as Scarlet. This frequently happens throughout the week, but you build a better relationship with Flora, who knows better than to pester you with questions about how you will break her free from this open prison.