Sixteen
Mira
I didn’t see Blaine the day after the dinner party. From my room, I heard the front door shut just before midnight and assumed he’d gone out to do whatever it was he did when he was out.
But on Tuesday, just before noon, while I was resting on the bathroom floor after the morning’s final round of dry heaving, thanks to the persistent stomach bug I’d seemingly picked up, a heavy knock on my door announced his return.
I jolted, managing to knock my head against the sink as I scrambled to get up from the floor. He hadn’t knocked on my door since he’d brought me the truce-pizza our first night here, and a spurt of curiosity made its way through my general self-pity. Hopefully, he didn’t want me to put on another dinner party—one day of playing the perfect hostess and housewife
