Dream House by Marzia Bisognin Page A

idea—I didn’t see anybody.”
    â€œSo what happened, then?” he says urgently.
    â€œI was trying to get into the shed, but something stopped me,” I explain. “My body was paralysed until I passed out.”
    â€œAmethyst,” he says, his face suddenly growing dark, “this stuff sounds serious—you shouldn’t be staying in that house.”
    From the intensity in his voice I can tell that he cares about me, and it gives me a nice warm feeling inside, but I can’t take his advice—not this time.
    I shake my head, not taking my eyes from his.
    â€œWhy on earth are you so stubborn?” he continues, with audible frustration. “You’re always the same.”
    He closes his mouth hurriedly, as though that last sentence had just slipped out unintentionally.
    â€œYou don’t know me,” I say, frowning. “How can you say something like that about me?”
    From his expression I can tell that he realises how much he’s upset me.
    â€œI’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he apologizes, his voice soft now, and his affection for me shining through.
    â€œI’m sorry too. But you have to understand—I can’t leave. Not just yet. What kind of person would I be if I just walked away from this, turning my back on the people who have been the nicest to me?”
    At my words, his face lights up as though he actually, finally understands, and that makes me feel better, and gives me the confidence to continue.
    â€œBy the way,” I ask, “do you happen to know the girl who used to live here?”
    Upon hearing my question, Avery’s face darkens again, and his eyes grow shiny as though he were about to cry.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I blurt out in concern, “I shouldn’t have asked . . .”
    â€œOh, don’t worry. It’s fine,” he tells me as he struggles to regain his composure. “Yes, I know her.”
    â€œWhat’s her name?” I ask.
    â€œAkiko,” he replies, as though the question were a ridiculous one. “We grew up together.”
    â€œHow old is she?”
    â€œShe would be nineteen years old,” he answers, looking upset by my questions and clearly fighting back tears. “Why are you asking me this?”
    â€œWhere is she now?” I manage to ask at last.
    â€œShe . . . she died. Recently.”
    And just like that, a tear steaks down his left cheek to quickly hide itself at the corner of his mouth.
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that,” I say, meaning it.
    The sight of such raw emotion holds me back me from asking anything else. I just stand there next to him, hoping that my presence is enough to comfort him in some way. I’d like to hug him, to let him know that it’s not just him who’s there for me—that I’m there for him as well. But I feel too guilty about having made him cry to come out with a sudden show of affection now, so I stay where I am, waiting for him to calm down.
    He dries his eyes with his forearm and flashes me a gentle smile, which immediately cheers me up.
    â€œThank you,” he says, taking me by surprise.
    â€œFor what?” I say, confused.
    â€œI’d been needing to get that out . . . and you helped me to do it. So thank you.”
    I smile too, relieved to hear that I’m not actually as awful a human being as I’d started to think.
    â€œWould you like to join me for dinner?” I venture.
    He looks tempted by my offer, and moves his hand forward as if he is about to take mine, but instead he stops halfway and rests it on the wooden gate.
    â€œI don’t think that’s a good idea,” he replies.
    I go bright red, wishing I could take back my invitation and avoid having created this awkwardness. I’m lost for words, but luckily he knows what to say.
    â€œWe could have a picnic, though?”
    â€œIsn’t it a bit too cold for a