“It’s some storm thing again,” she tells me in a rush, looking only half awake with her hair in a messy bun and wearing an old, oversized hoodie I haven’t seen in a while. Normally, she looks more put-together than this. “I know, I look sort of uh, likecrap,” she admits, but there’s no hint of being self-conscious in her voice. “It’s notatthe station. We’re going to some part of the bay, maybe on a ferry, and?—”
She continues to explain, but her words blur together like white noise in my head. I’m good at nodding along, and once in a while I prompt her with a question or two while she finishes putting together a serviceable dinner to take with her.
“Why not just get food while you’re out? Surely that won’t let you starve,” I assume, still in my chair. I’m also dressed, though just in a hoodie and leggings like usual, since I came home from my shift at the bookstore and collapsed boneless on the recliner.
It’s not that I’m tired. Not exactly, and definitely not physically. My body vibrates with some kind of energy, and I can’t seem to relax.
It’s really lucky for me that Esme hasn’t noticed, and I’m more than a little thrilled by how distracted she is by this new situation at work. Otherwise, she’d notice the way I’m nearly twitching with restlessness and how I’ve deviated from my normal schedule of wearing sweatpants or shorts around the apartment.
“Ah, well, hmm…” She pauses, her hands hovering over the lunchbox as my words sink in. “You think so? I was just kind of assuming we’ll be too busy for all that. I’m assisting tonight, too. They’ve been having me do more with production lately. You know, trying to get my foot in the door in other areas, and…” she trails off, sounding a little nervous, like I might judge her.
But I don’t say a word about it, because I know where it comes from. Iknowher mom doesn’t think being a makeup artist is a good enough job, and she constantly lectures Esme about making herself essential so that if something happens, she won’t be let go. While I don’t agree with the sentiment, I respect Esme for her commitment to making sure that doesn’t happen.
“They’re so going to feed you,” I assure her. “But being prepared isn’t a bad thing.” I tilt my head forward to go back to scrolling through my phone, looking at the texts from Cass I’ve been mostly ignoring. He’s busy with Winnie, anyway, and thankfully I’m not the center of his worry.
Ineedhis help.
But I don’twanthis help. I don’t mind how I feel, and the thoughts that make my fingers itch. I’ve stopped pushing away the urges and the fantasies that crawl through my head with whispered promises and bloody delight. He taught me to stay away from that side of myself if I never wanted to end up like him and his friends.
We aren’t out there to help you,he warned me more than once, whenever I confided in him before that I had some unsettling urges.If you get in trouble, you’re fucked.Besides…you told me you weren’t that girl anymore, remember? That she’s gone and it was just a one-night thing.
God, how far I’ve fallen, that I don’t even shrink away from the idea itwasn’ta one time thing and that I want this side of me to come out and play.
“Hmm?” I blink, realizing I’ve missed whatever Esme said. “Sorry, repeat that for me?”
“Did Cass text you?” Esme nods at my phone. “You seem pretty fixated today.”
She has no idea.
“Nah.” Shaking my head, I give her a rueful smile. “Sorry, I’m just a little tired after work. I’ll get over it pretty quick.” I watch her as she takes in the information, and I’m relieved when there’s no doubt in her expression, only a nod of understanding.
“Ah, yeah. With a boss like Alicia, I could see that.” She zips up the lunchbox and crams it into the cloth bag she takes to work, along with her power bank and thermos full of tea. Another one of ice water is already in its pocket on the outside,and when she pulls the shoulder strap over herself, she looks so much like a suburban mom ready to wrangle a toddler or seven, that I snort. “What?”
“Nothing. You. You’re adorable,” I tell my roommate. “Seriously, Es, you’re perfect. You’re going to do amazing tonight. You’ll tell me all about it when you get home? Whendoyou think you’re getting home?” I add, purely for selfish reasons.
“Yeah, I have no idea.” Esme rolls her shoulders in a nervous shrug. “Literally, no idea. They said to expect at least a twelve-hour shift. Isn’t that crazy?” But it’s not crazy so much as exciting, judging by the way her voice trembles on every word and how she can’t stop shifting her weight from foot to foot. She glances at the door, then back at me, a look of concentration on her face as she goes through her mental checklist of things she may have forgotten.
I let her cycle for a few moments before taking pity on her. “You’re all good,” I assure Esme, a smile curling my lips up very slightly. When she glances my way, I give her a lame little thumbs up, which makes her scoff.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m all good. Nothing is on, and I don’t need to lock the doors with you here. Hey, if I’m out until morning, I’ll bring you coffee?” She wiggles her eyebrows like it’s a naughty suggestion, making me snort.
“Sounds great, Es. Text me if you want. Tell me all about your big-time gig.” I’m only slightly teasing, and she brightens at my words, assuring me she will, before she walks out the door and leaves the apartment without a look back.
Her excitement is palpable, and I almost share in her enthusiasm.
Though it isn’t for anygoodreason that I’m happy she’s gone. Getting to my feet, I stretch with a sigh, giving her a few minutes to actually leave before I make any kind of move.With Esme not around to even notice my absence, my night’s possibilities have opened wide.
Blowing off steam is probably what I need, I decide, going to the kitchen and pawing through drawers until I find the brand-new box cutter in its packaging. I carefully peel it open and slide the weapon into my pocket before depositing the plastic and cardboard into the garbage beside the island.
His breath smellslike a vile mixture of alcohol, cigarettes, and poor oral hygiene. The forty-something year old man leans into my space across the table, his hand going to mine where it’s rested on the high-top, and his smile widens to show off the teeth in question that probably haven’t been brushed in a decade. He’s obviously never met floss, but that’s a conversation for a person who gives a damn.
Or at least, gives a damn for reasons purer and kinder than mine.
“We could, uh…” He jerks his head to the side in a move that looks like he’s having a stroke. I figure he’s trying to signal that we could leave, though the door is in a completely different direction from where he’s gesturing.
Poor Roger. But I didn’t really pick him for his brains.
Or is his name Robert?
