Chapter 14

Saturday morning,two days before she has to return to class, Sara hears the tv click on—Seth's voice a distorted murmur passing through the walls. Her ears strain, trying to catch his words as she lies on her back, breath caught in her chest and eyes staring past the bedroom ceiling, but his voice is too soft.

Then Sara notices Ansel's absence. She can't hear what he's saying, but she can at least guess who he's talking to.

Sara rolls onto her side, hugging her pillow to her chest, and closes her eyes. She still doesn't understand how she struck him. She had been so full of anger, the kind of fury that twists pain and fear into something sharp. Something dangerous. It barely feels real, more nightmare than memory, but her knuckles still ache where they connected with his jaw.

She'll have to face him eventually, but for now she lets the sound of the television and Seth's occasional murmur wash over her like white noise.

"I hit you."

It's the first thing she says to him once she convinces herself to leave her bed. Her hair is still greasy—begging to be washed—but suddenly the question burns her. It shouldn't have been possible, but her fists struck him as if he were any other man made of flesh and bone.

"You did," he hums, eyes fixed on the television. Sara vaguely wonders how he was able to turn it on. "Is this the part where you apologize? If so, kindly hold it in until the commercial break, would you? I believe Maria is finally catching on to Juan's dastardly deeds."

Her face flushes. She had given herself a pep talk before she abandoned the safety of her room—had told herself that she wouldn't let him rile her. She hates that he's able to push her buttons without even really trying. "That's not what—how is that even possible?!"

"Well, he certainly would be hard pressed to make it any more obvious. Last episode, he—"

"How did I hit you?!" she snaps, and for a moment the only sound that breaks through the tension is the swelling music from the television.

Seth sighs, finally giving her his full attention. Behind him, Maria is shouting, and it dawns on Sara that the soap opera he's watching is in Spanish. "It's not that complicated, Princess. You wished to hurt me, so you did."

It sounds like a copout, a simple answer meant to appease more than educate. She's already well aware of her motives. What she wants to know is how. "That shouldn't even be possible! You're—you're not real!"

He goes impossibly still. "Not real?" he echoes, tone flirting on the edge of either fury or hysteria. His eyes flash, and Sara realizes it's likely a combination of both. "Is that what you think? That I'm some—figment of your imagination? Something to kick at when the guilt comes round to play?" He stands, towering over her. Sara hates how small he can make her feel by simply existing in her space. "Let me be perfectly clear, Princess. I am much more than you could dream up."

Sara swallows, pulse thrumming in her ears, but she tilts her chin defiantly—refusing to break eye contact. "What, did I strike a nerve?"

"You bloody well struck more than that, didn't you?" he sneers. "Tell me, should I expect a repeat performance? Perhaps you would care to punish me for whatever other traumas you have rattling around in that skull of yours?"

The angry retort, prepared and ready, withers on her tongue. There is a regret souring her stomach. No matter how many times—how many ways—she tries to justify it, she can't shake the guilt lodged in the space between her lungs. The problem is, she believes him. Not in him, but she trusts that he enjoys her misery enough to celebrate when he's the cause.

He still deserved it. If not for herself, then for every other bit of pain he's no doubt orchestrated for others, but not for Oma. Not for what she was accusing him of.

Accepting his innocence (at least in this one instance) cools her fury into bitterness. She is the ember after a wildfire—snuffed of a flame but still hot enough to burn. "I hate you."

He snorts, arms folding over his chest. "And yet, I rather like you. Most of the time, anyway."

Her fists clench, crescent moons imprinting on her palms. She still carries bruises on her knuckles. "You're not funny."

"I am, actually," he says, offering a skeletal smile. "Your sense of humor is simply lacking."

The sound of smashing glassware mingled with the actress's screaming in rapid-fire Spanish emits from the tv, and Seth's entire body pivots toward the screen. "Damn it all! You see? You've gone and made me miss it." He gestures to the television, movements wide and exaggerated. "Rewind it!"

Sara balks. He can't possibly be serious. "What?"

"You bloody well heard me! Rewind it! I did not suffer through an ungodly number of Fanta commercials just for you to ruin the riveting finale of Amor Prohibito's eleventhseason!"

"You want me to rewind your Spanish soap opera."

"For the love of—please. Please, rewind the blasted thing and I will try my damnedest to forgive you? Yes?"

The breath leaves her, a resigned huff, and she grabs the remote left on the sofa. "You are so weird, I can't even," she grumbles, hitting various buttons. "How did you even turn it on?"

"Ansel was of great assistance."

"That... doesn't really answer my question."

He sneers. "Of course it does. Use your imagination."

She rewinds it five minutes before selecting pause. "Do you even know what they're saying?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

Sara raises her eyebrows, gesturing pointedly to the tv. "Because it's in Spanish?"

"My statement stands," he quips, sinking into his chair. "Now either turn on the subtitles or hush."

She has no interest in watching a soap opera in a language she can't understand, and even less interest in voluntarily sitting in the same room as him... but she's tired of being in her room, staring at the same four walls. Sara sits on the couch, pulling the crocheted blanket—one of Oma's she notes with a pang—around her shoulders before turning on the subtitles.

Juan begs for forgiveness, the camera zooming in on Maria's torn expression before going to another pop commercial. From his chair, Seth curses the world's obsession with soft drinks.

Pouting, he looks more human than ever, and Sara remembers the slump in his shoulders, the isolated smudge of shadow against a landscape of color, and feels her stomach churn.

She doesn't know how Oma would feel about any of this, but if there's one lesson she stressed, it was to admit (and apologize) when you're wrong. Somehow, Sara suspects the circumstances would do little to change her opinion on the matter.

Still, it takes her another two commercials before she works up the courage. "I'm sorry." The words are soft—strained—but she knows by the way his attention pivots to her, eyes wide and mouth parted in surprise, that he's heard. She pulls the blanket closer, looking away. "I shouldn't have hit you."

The show returns, the music swelling as Maria's face returns to the screen. Seth is silent for so long, Sara begins to suspect he won't answer at all. She's not entirely sure she deserves one.

"You didn't know you could," he says softly. When she looks, he's watching the tv without really seeing it.

Sara closes her eyes, breathing shaky. "But I wanted to." She wished so desperately for him to hurt, she managed to do what should have been impossible.

"Yes," he murmurs. "But given the situation, I can hardly fault you for it. Let's just consider ourselves lucky you didn't feel the urge to go to any more drastic measures, shall we?"

They both fall into silence. On the television, Maria takes her cheating husband into her arms and forgives him and (despite not having watched any of the previous episodes) Sara finds herself as disappointed as Seth is.