The Quiet Between Us

Chapter One

I've never trusted people who don't sing when they're home alone.

Not because I think they're serial killers or anything.

I just don't understand how you can hear the opening notes of a Broadway soundtrack and not immediately pretend you're accepting a Tony Award in your living room.

Maybe that's dramatic.

Okay, it's definitely dramatic.

But I was a theater kid. Once a theater kid, always a theater kid.

"🎵 Take me or leave me—"

"Mela."

I ignored her.

"🎵 Take me baaaby or leave meee—"

"Mela."

I turned my wooden spoon into a microphone and hit the high note anyway.

It was terrible.

Absolutely offensive to anyone who'd ever seen Rent.

Still, I committed.

When I finally looked up, my roommate, Dani, was standing in the hallway wearing an oversized Temple sweatshirt, a bonnet, and the kind of expression that suggested she was debating whether friendship was worth this much suffering.

"It's eight-thirty."

"I know."

"It's Saturday."

"I also know."

She crossed her arms.

"I don't know how to explain this to you, but normal people don't perform entire musicals before breakfast."

I shrugged.

"Normal people are boring."

She stared at me for another second before disappearing into the bathroom.

"I heard that."

"You were supposed to."

I grinned to myself and turned the music down just enough to avoid becoming a terrible roommate.

Just enough.

Our apartment wasn't much, but I loved it anyway.

The bathroom fan sounded like an airplane trying to take off.

One kitchen cabinet had refused to close since the day we moved in.

The radiator made weird clanking noises every winter like it had opinions.

And somehow, between the two of us, we only owned three forks.

Nobody knows where the fourth one went.

We stopped asking questions months ago.

I cracked two eggs into a pan while coffee brewed behind me.

Outside, a SEPTA bus groaned to a stop.

Someone yelled, "Yo!"

Someone else yelled back.

Philadelphia was awake.

People always ask if I'd ever leave.

Maybe.

But I'd miss this place.

I'd miss the rowhomes lined up like dominoes, the murals tucked between brick buildings, the corner stores where the guy behind the register somehow remembered your order better than you did.

I'd even miss the potholes.

Okay... maybe not the potholes.

Dani wandered back into the kitchen, still rubbing sleep out of her eyes.