For being awake at 2 AM. For answering a text that wasn't meant for you. For not asking why I do what I do.
I stare at her words. Count them. Twenty-seven.
We all have our reasons.
What's yours?"
Emma. Foam on her lips. "Don't let me die ugly, Z."Died ugly anyway. Dealer who sold her the hot dose. I found him. His bones broke easy. One by one. Methodical. Counted them. Like I count everything now.
Maybe I'll tell you someday.
Someday implies future conversation.
Yes.
That's probably a bad idea.
The worst.
You answered a wrong number about illegal medical procedures.
You sent it.
Point. Goodnight for real this time.
Goodnight, Angel.
Now she’s gone. Really gone. I check three times. Nothing.
Then I pull up the trace and study it. UNM area. Weekend medical worker. Texts someone named Ray about illegal activities. Comfortable enough to steal his tequila.
Whoever Ray is doesn't matter. She texted me instead.
I count to sixty. Check phone. Nothing.
Count again. Still nothing.
Wrong number. Right timing. Or wrong timing.
Doesn't matter.
She's mine to find now. Not to hurt. Not to own. Just to know she's real.
Chapter three
First Heat
Lena
I'm standing in my kitchen at 11 PM on a Friday, making tamales like my grandmother's ghost is judging my masa-to-filling ratio, while my vagina composes a doctoral thesis on why texting a potential murderer is actually a brilliant life choice. The wine—a pretentious Malbec Izzy brought—is my third glass, which explains why my hands are steady but my judgment is filing for divorce.
"You're glowing," Izzy announces from her perch on my counter, legs swinging like we're not both medical professionals who've seen what happens when people fall off surfaces. "And not in a pregnant way. In a 'getting dick or planning murder' way."
"Can't it be both?" I'm focused on spreading masa, but my phone sits next to the bowl like a cardiac monitor I'm afraid to check. No texts from Wrong Number since last night. Not that I'm counting. I'm absolutely counting. Twenty-two hours and seventeen minutes.
"Spill, puta. You've checked your phone twelve times since I got here."
Diagnostic criteria for best friend: too observant, zero boundaries, enables terrible decisions. Treatment plan: more wine.
