The Gloaming Girls

EPISODE ONE (Part 3/6)

When I finally make an appearance back at the dorm at ten am after my shift the next morning, Emory is still in the room, exactly where I left her. The only indication that she's moved at all is that now her thick black hair has been plaited into two even french braids. She's wearing the same thing she was wearing yesterday—overalls on top of her trademark dark navy collared shirt printed with a dozen constellations and half moons—which doesn't surprise me, but what does surprise me is the way she looks up, tight worry coiled in the set of her shoulders.

"Olyss?"

"Yeah." I shoulder the door open, carrying a cup of coffee in each hand.

Some of the tension in her expression disintegrates.

"Sorry about last night. I should have texted that I wasn't coming back, or something." I kick my shoes off, feet complaining about the four hour shift in unusual footwear. "I realized I didn't have your number."

"I don't have a phone," she says stiffly, and then, because she must know that this is clearly a lie, since I saw her on the phone with her boss just yesterday, she clarifies, "I don't have a personal phone."

She doesn't offer up any other solutions, though, so I just let out a slow breath and hold up the coffee cup, remembering belatedly that she can't see it. "I brought you coffee. I don't know how you take it, so I went safe with cream and sugar."

Her expression is totally void of any indicators that might let me know what she thinks of this development. "Thanks."

I set the coffee down at the edge of her desk, feeling awkward.

She reaches out, once I've backed away, and touches it lightly, just to ensure it's position, then withdraws her hand. "Are you planning on making a habit of this?"

"Of..." I'm not quite sure what she thinks happened. I've actually been trying not to think about what happened myself, because whenever I do I find myself flushing bright red.

"Not sleeping here."

"Oh." I set my own coffee down on my desk, then set to work yanking myself out of my shirt for the second time in the last twelve hours. I risk a glance backwards to make sure Emory isn't watching me, even though it's stupid. "I don't think so."

Emory is silent for a long time, fingers drumming a steady rhythm on her desk. "I..."

I wait for her to finish.

"If you'd be able to give a heads up, I'd appreciate that," Emory says, facing the wall, sounding stiff and uncomfortable. "It puts me a little on edge, not knowing. Because if someone comes in in the middle of the night, there's no way for me to know if it's you or someone with... less than friendly intent."

I have two diverging instinctual responses. One is to brush her off—as if anyone's going to come in here with 'less than friendly intent'—but I know that stems from my second, more honest response: shame.

I sink down onto the bed, sock still in hand, one foot bare. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry. I didn't even think of that."

She clears her throat. "It's fine. Just, let me know next time."

"Totally," I say, then, feeling like I need to justify it, I reassure her, "I really don't do this often."

Emory must hear the frantic awkwardness in my voice, because she laughs drily. "I don't actually care where you spend the night. It's a free country."

"Still." I slowly set to work peeling the other sock off. "I promise I'll give you a heads up if it ever seems likely to happen again. Though I doubt it will."