Prue ungracefully stands, then stomps over to the door, unlocks it, then nearly rips it off the hinges as she continues to glare in my direction. “What?”
“Good evening, Killer. That looked nice…. Having a meltdown, are we?”
She doesn’t even humor me with a response before walking back into the studio. She leaves the door open, at least, which I take as an invitation. “What doyouwant?” she asks as I kick my shoes off by the door.
“I’m here for the drill,” I explain. “Your dad’s sign is going to decapitate someone, and I refuse to have that on my conscience.”
“It’s over there.” She points toward the bathroom door, lowering herself back onto the floor, face up this time. “And since when are you my dad’s errand boy?”
I ignore her question, walk over to grab the drill and its box of attachments, and then look back over at her. “Seriously, what are you doing?”
“Grounding myself.”
“Is that supposed to…help?”
“I don’t know.” She taps the phone next to her hand three times before Neil Young starts playing,loudly,from the loft above.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard ‘Harvest Moon’ at max volume before.” I project my voice over the folksy tune.
“Do you need somethingelse?” It’s then I notice the red-rimmed eyes. The swollen, puffy circles underneath them. I subconsciously check her over for more scrapes and bruises, somehow wishing I could see the ones inside too.
“Are you, uh, good?” I ask,sort of.
“No, obviously.” She lifts her head, turning to face me with a squiggly line between her brows and her lips pouting. “Is that all?”
“It can’t be all that bad, Killer.” I move to the rug and lower myself next to her. “There, there.” I lay a flat palm on her shoulder, patting twice.
She looks up at me with quizzical amusement. “Did you just actually say the wordsthere, there?”
“I’m not good at whateverthisis!” I say defensively, holding up my hands. “No one in my family did feelings like…this.” I gesture toward her.
“You?” She scoffs. “Youdidn’t do feelings?” She says it as if it’s absurd. As if she’s got my number and that number is one that spells outd-r-a-m-a-t-i-cwhen typed out into a phone.
“Well, I was born with them, sure, but that was soon cured.”
“How?” she asks, lifting onto her elbows.
“Music.” I admit a partial truth. “Not music like this, though,” I tell her.
“Hey! I like Neil Young!”
“Yeah, Killer, you and everyone else. He’s a goddamn treasure. Still, music like this—the slow, sentimental stuff—will only take you deeper into that mind of yours. The trick is just that, you’ve got totrickyour mind into thinking nothing is wrong.”
“Sounds healthy.” She almost laughs.
“You can’t spellrepressed emotionswithoutdo, re, mi.”
That earns it. A small, half-hearted chuckle.
“Want to give it a go?” I ask.
“Why not…” She slides her phone over. “The passcode is 2332.”
“It iswaytoo early in our relationship for that information,” I tease, unlocking it just the same. “What if I snuck in here and sent myself all of your nudes?”
“Good luck finding them.”
“Never taken any?” I text myself so I have her number, moving quickly so she doesn’t notice.
