“Yeah sure,” I said, leaning against the sharp edge of the counter. She wasn’t trying to comfort me, or let me comfort her, we were just two people going through something and commiserating side by side. That was cool.
“So, how long are you going to stay with my sister?” I asked, as she held up a bottle of red and a bottle of white. I pointed to the red and took my Leatherman out of my pants pocket, “Here, let me,” I said, pulling out the corkscrew part of the multi-tool.
“Just until the smell of this place is breathable. Wow, look at you with your fancy Batman survival tool,” she smiled, “What other kinds of interesting tools do you carry with you?”
“An asp. My firearm. Windshield breaker. Paracord. Handcuffs…”
Her eyes widened as she unwrapped two plastic cups from an unopened package. “Seriously? All I ever have in my pockets is loose change and old receipts. I guess I never think of things going so wrong that I would need any of that stuff.”
“You don’t have to, because there are people like me and Brooke who get called to think about that stuff. We do it, so the rest of the people don’t have to.”
“That sounds incredibly shallow of the rest of us,” she said, thoughtfully. “What’s that saying? The sheep pretend the wolf never comes, but the sheepdogs live for the day…”
“Something like that,” I said thickly, swallowing the wine she had offered me.
“Sorry about the plastic cups. You know the Rhys house, white trash all the way.”
“You’re not white trash, Liv.” My voice whispered.
“Yeah, well, it did feel like that growing up here,” she laughed, bitterly.
“You were mostly with Brooke,” I smiled. “The two of you were the most annoying brats in the world.”
“Well then,” she said sipping her wine, “Then, our work here is done. Our childhood goals have been achieved.”
I tried to smile at her joke. I wanted to, but I gulped down the wine, and the warmth of it spread across my chest, reminding me I had a heart, and how heavy it felt. I looked down and rubbed at my chest to help loosen the knot.This feeling…this is something I’d only be able to talk to Thomas about. But he’s gone. And I’d never be able to talk to him again.
“Why is it not okay to talk about what you’re going through? I see that you’re mind is on it. You’re only half here. You should let out some of that mess you have in there,” she said, quietly.
I didn’t want to confront it. I didn’t want closure. I didn’t want to acknowledge anything or feel any of this agony. I wanted to go numb and let my pain hollow me from the inside out. But I looked up into the palest blue eyes I’d ever seen, and it was hard not to let it all go. “Iama mess inside. My head is like Pandora’s box. The only difference is Hope was the first thing that flew from that box when I opened it.”
She poured more wine.
“You must be so angry at him,” she sighed, looking down at her fingers and twisting them together. “And horribly sad at the same time. Probably running all your conversations through your head wondering if you could have done something…”
She was right.
I shifted closer to her. “It just doesn’t make sense. He wasn’t the kind of person to ever think about hurting himself. Something was happening; I just didn’t know about. Our Sergeant thinks he was in trouble at work. But, that wasn’t Thomas either. He was a good detective.”
Her eyes softened, and a small smile slowly spread across her features. It was mesmerizing how it lit up her whole face, making me want to lean in even closer to her. “That’s what you have to keep remembering then.”
“Hey,” I smiled back at her, “Brooke is going to be at work for a while today. She was on an arrest when I left earlier; she had to take a prisoner to the hospital. Have dinner with me?” I asked, surprising myself.
“Dinner?” she asked, going immediately rigid—cheeks exploding with color.
“Yeah, come back to my place,” I said low. I didn’t want to talk anymore. I wanted to drink and drink and see how soft her lips were.
“Your place?” her voice pitched. “For dinner?”
“Icancook. Why is that such a surprise?”
“I…I have so much still to do here, and I’m already on my second glass of wine. I don’t think that’s a good idea—”
“I like talking to you—and drinking your mom’s wine. I’m not interested in good ideas right now.”
“Okay,” she whispered, huskily. That’s when I realized that she was right—this wasn’t a good idea at all. This was my sister’s childhood friend. Someone I would regret spending a night with. Someone who would hate me in the morning. Someone whose pale blue eyes would never look up to me again.
This was a very bad idea, I thought as I tugged her and all the bottles of wine we could both carry back to my place.
