His voice trailed away, and I took the opportunity to flee, wondering at the pain in his eyes. Was he talking about Mom . . . or himself?

As I slid away, the record reached Act Three, the lento, the lark singing. Juliet and Romeo waking up together after their wedding night.

I paused on the steps outside my bedroom, listening. The music stopped mid-phrase, Dad pulling the needle up cleanly and turning off the deck. The light turned off in the study, in the hall below. He tromped to his bedroom and shut the door.

I sat perched on my windowsill, staring at the wash of light from Oscar’s apartment. Then I stepped into my quietest flats and slid downstairs, soundless, a ghost.

Oscar met me at the door before I even knocked. He pulled me inside by the tips of my fingers, spun me to kiss me and we both backed up to shut the door. I pressed him against the frame and let my hands go where they wanted—up his chest, around his neck—my body stretching along the length of him. Then I felt the ground give out.

“Ack!”

Oscar caught me by the arm, keeping me from falling.

I laughed, finally looking at what I’d slipped on—the entire floor was carpeted with composition paper.

“I’m so sorry.” Oscar reached for the offending page. “This place is a minefield.”

I turned and took in more of the mess—loose pages now drifting all the way to the galley kitchen and, more crucially, covering parts of Oscar’s bed. “I was going to say the perp’s house in a serial killer movie, but . . .”

“Ouch.”

At that smile of his, half-devilish, half-innocent, a fresh wave of nerves swept over me. We had tonight, but tomorrow I’d be leaving, and he’d be alone, and this would get worse.

“Let me help you organize,” I said.

“Ruby,” he groaned. “Now?”

“It won’t take long.” I waved for him to sit on the bed. “You direct me.”

“Okay.”

I picked a sheet at random off the bed and showed it to him. “Keep?”

He recoiled at the sight of it, like it was an embarrassing memory. “Anything on the floor, I’m not using.”

“Great.” I started to crumple it.

He touched my wrist to stop me. “But I don’t . . . I can’t throw it away.”

“We’ll make a pile, then.” I narrowed my eyes playfully. “An organized pile.”

He laughed. I turned away, gathering paper off the floor, hoping this focused work would slow my racing heart, quell the dread I felt at the prospect of leaving him.

A bead of sweat trickled from my forehead down my cheek, my neck, over my chest, down my shirt. I stooped and picked up another composition sheet, this one nearly torn in two.

I added it to the pile—and as I stood, I felt him walk quietly up behind me.