Page 30 of Tangled Up In You

He watched her work through a small tangle. It was mesmerizing. And then he realized he was staring. Blinking away, he looked down at his feet instead. “Brushing it looks like a lot of work.”

“It is.”

“You ever cut it short?”

“No, but I trim it a couple times a year to keep it healthy.”

“Did you ever want to chop it off?”

She hummed, considering this, and then smiled over at him. “I never really thought about it like that. Isn’t that weird? Gloria—my mom—always had strong opinions about not cutting it, so I just went along with whatever.” Ren sighed. “I knew there would be ways that I’m different from other girls, but there are so many things I didn’t realize were weird about me until I got to school.”

The words were out before he could consider where the impulse came from: “Your hair isn’t weird. It’s just different, but not in a bad way.”

Fitz didn’t miss the way her cheeks went pink.

“I guess when I was little it was so blond it was almost white,” she said. “As I got older and read more about symbolism and the types of tokens humans in various cultures and backgrounds carry with them through life, I began to understand that my parents equate my hair with how unspoiled our lives are on the homestead.” When he looked up, he found her staring in contemplation at the wall. “They can’t go back and perfect their pasts, but they can make my upbringing perfect, you know? They took a lot of pride in raising me in the way they think everyone should be raised: without the influence of pop culture or the internet and with the ability to be completely self-sufficient.”

“Seems like your parents still have a lot of say in what you do.”

Ren sighed, breaking her trance to look over at him. In that moment, she looked so much older than she had even three hours ago. “Not as much as they’d like.” She began the complicated process of braiding her hair, and he fell silent, watching her fingers capably wind strands around and around until she had a thick, tidy braid draped across one shoulder. He noticed the heaviness in her eyes, and she yawned suddenly, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Wow, sorry. The sleepies hit me hard all of a sudden.”

“I’m wiped, too.” Standing, he moved to turn out the lights. The room was washed in darkness, and he bumped into the side of the bed and tripped over a shoe as he made his way back across the room.

Ren laughed. “You okay?”

“I’m good.” He settled on his little bed, pulling the blanket up to his waist. They both fell into silence, and in the blackness the room seemed to shrink. He thought about what Mary had said earlier and wanted to reassure Ren in some way that although they barely knew each other and the circumstances of this trip were weird, she was safe. She could sleep.

“This is like a sleepover,” she whispered, her voice giddy even with exhaustion shading it. Fitz realized she really wasn’t nervous around him at all. “I’ve only ever seen a sleepover in Grease.”

“Wanna pierce our ears?”

She burst out laughing. “You’ve seen Grease?”

“Everyone has seen Grease, kid. It’s a classic.”

He could hear her shifting in bed, could hear her legs kicking away the covers. God, he was just so aware of her.

“Have you had a sleepover?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“What do boys do at them?”

“Mostly we eat junk food and play video games.” He looked toward the bed in the darkness, wondering for the first time what her life had really been like for the past twenty-two years. “You really never had a sleepover?”

“No.”

A car passed outside the room, the tires crunching on the asphalt outside.

“Were there just no kids your age nearby?” he asked.

“Oh, there were a few,” she said. “But Gloria always said kids should sleep in their own beds at night. She didn’t like me going over to other people’s houses very much.”

He closed his eyes, marveling at how different their lives had been from each other. Ren’s overprotective mother ensured she never spent a night away from her own bed. For many years, Fitz had no mother and was grateful when he had a bed to sleep in. They were both sort of broken, just in totally different ways.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I think being away from home is how kids learn to be polite in front of other people, how to be a guest.”

A long stretch of silence followed. He was beginning to wonder if she was asleep when her voice rose out of the darkness, tinged with sadness. “I’m starting to think Gloria was wrong about some things.”