I pretend to accept the condolences and lies. “Appreciate it.” I move aside, allowing him to pass. “Take care, Gio.”
“You too. And congrats again on the engagement.”
I linger as he marches away, my friendly facade never slipping.
The flash of panic in his eyes when I mentioned Benny remains stamped in my mind.
ALEXEI
Frustration coils like a viper in my gut during my return trip to the loft. Gio lied to my face. He knows more about Benny than he admitted…maybe even about MJ.
I enter my home, and that coil of frustration tightens in my gut.
Silence.
Empty space where there should be movement.
Where’s Aurora?
I check the kitchen first, then the guest bedroom, tension building with each vacant area. My gun is in my hand before I consciously decide to draw it.
Then I hear a faint, rhythmic cracking from somewhere below.
The freight elevator descends with agonizing slowness. My muscles tense, ready for whatever awaits. As the doors slide open, music swallows me like a rainstorm in the desert. Female vocals soar over driving percussion in a song about finding happiness at long last.
With goggles strapped to her face and her hair in a messy ponytail, Aurora grips the mallet in one hand and smashes a stack of ugly floral plates.
Shards spray in every direction, reflecting the light streaming through the windows and transforming destruction into a shower of glittering stars.
She isn’t angry.
She’s dancing.
Pixie supervises from a nearby windowsill, her orange tail curled around her paws. The cat is completely unbothered by the noise, crashes, and flying fragments. She licks her toeswith practiced indifference, then returns to supervising her human with mysterious feline satisfaction. Even the animal understands what I’m just beginning to comprehend.
Aurora’s destruction isn’t like mine.
Hers results in creation. Rebirth.
I holster my gun, drawn to her like gravity. This is whatIdo. Break things, hurt people, destroy. But she smashes to build and create. Crafts the shattered, worthless pieces into art.
She spins, using her hammer as a microphone before catching sight of me. Her face lights up from behind the plastic safety goggles. She hits a button on a speaker, lowering the volume enough to be heard without shouting.
“Come here!” She waves me over with the mallet. “I’ve been making so much progress! I’ve almost finished two pieces, and I’m starting a third using those shells we found.”
I obey her command, lured by her enthusiasm, by the life radiating from her in waves. My earlier frustration recedes. “What are you working on now?”
“Breaking shit! Seeing how it falls apart.” She hands me a pair of goggles. “Here, try it. It’s incredibly therapeutic.”
I slip the goggles on, feeling ridiculous.
She shoves a mallet into my hand and arranges three chipped dinner plates on a thick rubber mat. “Just hit them. Not too hard at first. You want breaks, not dust.”
I swing the mallet, reveling in the pleasing crunch as porcelain gives way beneath the blow. The sensation is nothing like crushing bones, yet the release feels familiar. I strike the plates again, a little harder, and watch them splinter into jagged shards.
“Perfect! Now try these.” She sets up a collection of blue glass bottles.
We work side by side, smashing the glass methodically with hammers as she dances in place. She sorts the shatteredfragments by color, texture, and potential. I don’t fully understand, but I listen anyway as her hands move. I miss most of the words because I’m too caught up in the wonder of her.
