“I don’t smoke,” I tell him. He bobs his head as though he’s proud of me. “Do you take drugs?”
It’s a stupid question to ask someone who doesn’t drink or smoke, but I don’t care. I want to know. Need to know.
“Yeah,” he chuckles like he’s making a joke I’m not in on. “I take lots of drugs, but don’t worry, I have prescriptions for all of ’em.”
I ignore that and pepper him with questions about his dietary preferences and workout routines. When I’ve asked everything I can possibly think of, I look around the room, taking in all the little things he’s arranged on the tall shelf behind the dining table.
“You have a lot of shi…stuff,” I say rather redundantly.
“Yeah. I do.” He looks at me and holds my gaze a lot longer than strictly required. His expression is composed, bordering on serene one second, and then it’s not. A tiny trace of menace or mirth flickers in his eyes. Pale blue-green lights up. “What can I tell you?” he adds without a hint of apology, “I like beautiful things.” My face goes uncomfortably hot. I have no idea how to respond to that, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He keeps talking. “Want to see something cool?”
“Sure,” I reply, though given everything he’s told me about himself, I’m pretty sure he’s playing it fast and loose with the word.
He gets up and walks over to the shelf I was just looking at, the one behind the dining table, and lifts a tall, narrow glass cloche dome. He puts it aside and retrieves the small China teacup it encased. He comes back to the sofa holding it in both hands. He sits next to me, curling a leg under himself, and holds out the cup to show it to me.
“When I was a kid, I used to go antiquing with my dad every weekend. I loved it. I loved spending time with my dad, and I loved the antiques. To me, it was like a treasure hunt—a magical experience, steeped in possibility. My dad taught me what to look out for, what to avoid, and how to negotiate pretty much as soon as I learned to talk. We had this deal that when I turned five, I could use my birthday money, find something I loved, and negotiate to buy it all by myself.” He holds the teacup out to me. I look but don’t touch it in case it’s valuable and I break it. “Ifound this. I negotiated and negotiated, and eventually, got it for fifty-seven dollars.”
The cup is small, dwarfed by his hands. Fine white China with blue chickens and a farm scene painted on it. There’s a big crack running through it that’s been repaired with thick, liberal use of a metallic gold substance. From the way he’s holding it, and the way his eyes are shining, I can tell it’s valuable.
“What’s it worth?” I ask when curiosity gets the better of me.
“Oh, one, maybe two dollars, if the buyer was being generous.” He laughs, shaking his head at himself. “I thought it was a chicken cup from the Ming Dynasty. I thought I’d gotten the deal of a lifetime. Fifty-seven dollars for a cup worth millions.” He laughs again, a soft, gentle sound without malice or regret. “Obviously, it’s fake. Not only that, it’s fakeandbroken. I got totally ripped off.”
I want to express some sort of emotion about the fact that some asshole was happy to rip a kid off like that, but I can’t decide which emotion to land on because he’s still looking at the cup with this shiny, glazed expression.
He loves this crappy teacup.
I don’t get him at all.
“So why do you like it so much?”
“Because I think it’s beautiful. When I look at it, I feel exactly as hopeful as I felt when I was five and I found it. I feel like the world is full of possibilities, and that good things could happen at any time. As I’ve gotten older, I see the crack and the shoddy repair differently than I used to. When I was little, I thought the gold was pretty. A little sparkle that made the cup blingy. Now, when I look at it, I see it as a reminder that being broken isn’t always a bad thing.”
Right.
Well. That’s me done.
I’m barely hanging on here. There’s no way I can handle this kind of shit on top of everything else.
12
Lennon
Isitinmycar and look up at Connor’s building with mixed feelings. The first thing I feel is relief. Relief that I did it. That I met him and spoke to him without saying anything incriminating or getting myself arrested.
I did it.
Now surely, surely to fuck, I can stop this shit.
I start the ignition, but before putting my car into reverse, I grab my phone from its spot in the center console and send Havi a message.
He doesn’t smoke or drink.
Thought you might like to know.
I stare down at my screen and will the two green ticks next to my message to turn blue. I use every ounce of my focus to do it. All my strength. All my hope. So much strength and hope thatthe rest of the world fades away and all that’s left is the slick sheen of the screen in my hand.
Bzzzt
