19
LIFE GOES ON
BREE
Stepping back into the cabin felt surreal. In Orson’s hands was a collection of plastic takeout bags. There was a yellow smiley face, with the words "thank you" on the side. The bags were stretched wide, overfilled with boxes of Chinese food. One box punctured the plastic. Any moment now, the food was going to come spilling out onto the floor—noodles and sticky meat exploding in a mess. Then there’d be no meal, just a disgusting dilemma.
As Orson moved across the living room and towards the kitchen table, I wondered whether we even had the tools to clean up such a mess, or if there was nothing we could do. Piles of spoiled food, decorated with dust and dirt, right in the middle of the cabin. The smell would just get worse and worse, and we’d have to pretend it wasn’t.
But the bags didn’t break, and the food didn’t fall. Orson set them on the round dining table and began pulling boxes out of the bag, one at a time, in silence. Nemo settled in the chair he sat in the night before.
Orson set the containers in polite, perfectly even rows—even taking the time to go back and straighten any that got bumpedas he went. It reminded me of when I snuck into his basement all that time ago—the polite rows of buckets against the wall, waiting to collect blood from strung up victims.
I walked over and sat in the same chair I’d sat last night, too. The one on my left stayed empty.
I felt numb. I knew the hurt would slip in slowly. When? I didn’t know. For now, I stared dazed at Orson rearranging the Chinese takeout. He’d decided they should be in a particular order. However, once he finished, he reached out in frustration to fix the boxes again. They weren’t perfectly uniform; some were bowing out with densely packaged food. It ruined his ability to make them line up just right.
“Fuck,” Orson cursed, grinding his teeth. His eyes snapped up to Nemo and me, expecting us to call him out for emerging psychological symptoms. But neither one of us reacted, just watched him like anesthetized patients as he began to fall apart. I wouldn’t have guessed he’d be the first to start breaking. Funny how there was no predicting these things.
Nemo finally reached out, tossing us all a utensil bag. Orson pulled his hands back as Nemo snatched up containers and peeled them open. He set one in front of all of us.
“Sit,” he told Orson.
“But it’s out of line?—”
“Sit,” Nemo commanded. Orson took a deep breath, relaxed marginally, and settled into the chair.
“Eat,” Nemo told us both, starting to dig into his own food.
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
“You’re always hungry.”
“Not for this,” I said, pushing it away. It fell over, and lo mein spilled onto the table. Orson’s hands twitched as he glared at the food.
“You can both eat normal food,” Nemo said.
“I’m not hungry either,” Orson responded.
Nemo looked at both of us. “You need to listen to me?—”
Orson’s head snapped up. “I’m not his replacement. You don’t tellmewhat to do.”
“No one is his replacement,” Nemo growled.
“I’m not your mate, then,” Orson said. “We’renothing.” My eyes swept between the two of them, and I realized this was the beginning of the end. Oh, god. I’d known since the motel, hadn’t I? There was a reason I woke up having an anxiety attack, desperately slapping together fantasies of shoving them all in a locked basement.
“That’s right.” Nemo smiled cruelly. “You aren’tanyone'smate. The only one here who is, is her,” Nemo said, jerking his head towards me. Did the basement here have a lock on the outside? I needed to check.
Orson’s eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to— You think some animalistic instinct allows you to claim Bree over me?” My eyes drifted over his shoulder to the hall. There had definitely been a lock on the outside of the basement. Something digital. I needed the number combination. But, if I managed to get both Nemo and Orson down there, would they kill each other? I chewed my inner cheek as I weighed the possibility.
“You wanted to abandon Baz and me as soon as we left the asylum.”
Orson’s face drained of any color it still had from his last feeding.“I?—”
“Youwhat?” Nemo spat in disgust. Orson looked at me, then down at the mess on the table. Feverishly, he began to pick up each small piece of lo mein, from greasy noodles to slender strips of cabbage, shoving it back in the box.
“After we ran from the asylum, I was in charge, whether it was planned or not. And so I…”
