“Uh-oh,” says Zeke. “Why does this feel like an intervention?”
Sage pats the couch next to him. “Take a seat, guys. We have some things to discuss.”
25
ELIANA
soft opening /sôft 'op(?)niNG/: noun
1: trial period before a restaurant's official launch.
2: testing whether five broken people can survive under one roof without killing each other.
And thus, we end up in a nondescript brick house in Skokie that we’ll be calling home until this ragtag crew finds a way to topple a mob king.
The place looks like a kindergartener drew it and then a genie brought it to life. Red front door with two matching windows on either side, white picket fence, off-kilter chimney made of brick. Everything is built just sloppily enough that I really start to convince myself that it was in fact designed in crayon.
The five of us are crammed in like sardines, sharing one and a half bathrooms between all of us. But hey—we’re all alive and we’re all together. Surely that counts for something, right?
Bastian did not go quietly into that good night. Not by a long shot. In fact, when he came home and Sage laid out theultimatum, he went fucking apoplectic. His blue eyes went black and his voice went feral and he marched around the room, roaring, bellowing, hissing, making every frightening sound his vocal cords are capable of producing.
In the end, it changed nothing. Sage confirmed that he is indeed related to Bastian, because he refused to back down until Hurricane Bastian finally ran out of gusto.
“You’re serious,”Bastian said when he at last realized that none of us were budging. “You won’t go.”
“We’re very serious,”I’d agreed. “We will not go. If I were you, I’d save your breath.”
“Fucking hell.”He buried his face in his hands, let out a long, weary sigh, and that was that.
So here we are, three and a half weeks later, settling into our cozy little safe house like the world’s most dysfunctional family.
Yasmin claimed the master bedroom immediately and none of us were brave enough to argue. Zeke, predictably, slunk along after her like the lovesick puppy he is, though I’m pretty sure Yas is gonna make him sleep at the foot of the bed, also like a lovesick puppy.
Bastian took the smaller bedroom at the end of the hall, the one with a window overlooking the backyard and, more importantly, a clear sightline to both the front and back doors. Sage got set up in what was once meant to be a home office. It was the only room where his new wheelchair could fit in the space between the wall and the twin mattress.
That leaves me on the lumpy pullout couch in the living room, which is exactly as comfortable as it sounds. The springs pokeinto my spine every time I change positions. My lower back has filed a formal complaint with the management. The baby is no happier with the arrangement than I am, if the constant nausea is anything to go by.
But I’m not complaining. Much.
Okay, I’m complaining a little. But I’m complainingsilently, which is practically the same as not complaining at all. Someone alert the Nobel Peace Prize committee.
The first morning in the safe house, I wake to the smell of coffee. I can tell it’s Bastian’s work, because no one else moves around in such ninja-esque fashion. I lie still on the pullout couch, listening to the coffee maker sputter and his intermittent sighs.
“I know you’re awake.”
Bastian’s baritone comes from somewhere close by. I didn’t hear him approach, which is either a testament to his stealth or further evidence that my other senses haven’t quite compensated for the loss of sight the way all those inspirational pamphlets promised they would.
I struggle upright. The springs protest loudly. “Do you just lurk around watching people sleep? Is that a thing you do now?”
“I made you tea,” he explains. “Ginger. For the nausea.”
“Who said I’m nauseous?”
“The bags under your eyes say you didn’t sleep, so I made an educated guess. Drink it or don’t, I don’t care.”
“Chivalry lives to see another day, I guess,” I mumble as I accept the cup from him.
Our fingers brush as he passes it to me. Unlike in the movies, though, there’s no spark of romantic connection, no sizzle, noa-ha, they do still love each othermoment. There’s just Bastian’s hands on mine, for a moment, a brief moment, before it goes away and we both retreat to our separate corners again.
