1
She was going to scream if Delilah… didn’t. Stop. Talking.
Harper gripped the overhead rail and counted floor tiles instead. Forty-three between the door and the advertisement panel. Each one was scuffed and grimy. Each one a tiny anchor to keep her from completely losing it.
Delilah's voice cut through the rumble of the train. "And then Marcus—you know Marcus from accounting?—he actually had the nerve to ask Jennifer if she wanted to grab drinks after work. Right in front of everyone at the printer. Can you believe that?"
"Mm-hmm." Harper's fingers found the thin white scar on her left forearm, traced the familiar ridge through the worn fabric of her sleeve. The blouse was darned at the elbow—careful, tight stitches she'd done herself three months ago. Delilah had embroidered tiny flowers over the repair, made it almost pretty. One of the few things Delilah ever fixed instead of broke.
"I mean, Jennifer's been dating that guy from the warehouse for like six months. Marcus knows that. Everyone knows that." Delilah shifted her weight as the train swayed, honey-blonde hair catching the harsh fluorescent light. She looked fresh despite the long day, bright-eyed and animated like she'd woken up moments ago instead of spending nine hours staring at data screens.
Harper bit her lower lip and ran the numbers again. Rent due in twelve days. Eight hundred forty-seven credits. They had maybe two hundred between them. Maybe. If Delilah's paycheck hit on time and she didn't spend it on something stupid first.
The math didn't work.
It never worked.
"So then Jennifer told him she was busy, but you could tell she was kind of flattered, you know? Like she did that thing where she tosses her hair and—Harper, are you even listening?"
"Yeah. Marcus. Jennifer. Hair tossing." Harper's jaw clenched. She forced it to relax, counted three more tiles. Forty-six. Forty-seven. The train lurched and someone's elbow jabbed her ribs.
Too many people. Too much noise. Too damn hot.
"You're doing the thing again." Delilah's voice went softer, almost concerned. "The counting thing."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You've been weird all week." Delilah touched Harper's arm, bright blue eyes searching her face. "Is it the layoff thing? Because I'm sure they won't cut both of us. That would be crazy. The team needs at least?—"
"They're cutting costs." Harper kept her voice flat. "Doesn't matter what the team needs."
Delilah's hand dropped away and she shrugged, the concern vanishing as quick as it came. "Well, we'll figure it out. We always do."
We. Like Delilah had ever figured out anything more complicated than which shade of blonde looked better with her skin tone.
Harper's fingers pressed harder against the scar. Twelve years old, trapped in twisted metal, her mother's hand going slack in hers. Twenty years of being the one who fixed it, held it together while everyone else got to be carefree and hopeful and young.
"Oh!" Delilah brightened, shifting topics with the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel. "I meant to ask—can I borrow your navy dress this weekend? The one with the wrap waist? I have that date with the guy I met at the bar last week, and I want to look nice, and you know that dress looks amazing on you so it'll look good on me too, right?"
The navy dress. The one Harper had saved for three months to buy, the one she wore to job interviews that never went anywhere.
"Sure." The word came out automatic. Twenty years of automatic.
"You're the best!" Delilah squeezed her arm, already moving on. "And actually, could I borrow like twenty credits? I want to grab some hair dye on the way home—my roots are showing and I look like a disaster—and I'm totally tapped until payday. I'll pay you back, I promise."
Twenty credits.
Harper stared at the flickering advertisement screens along the subway wall. A protein bar that cost more than she could afford. A vacation package to somewhere with actual sunlight. A new model comm unit that would take six months of her salary.
Twenty credits for hair dye while rent was due in twelve days.
Her gaze drifted past the commercial ads to a poster she'd seen a hundred times before. Tropical beach. Two suns hanging in an alien sky. Pink sand that didn't exist outside of photo manipulation, and a seven-foot alien male with his arm around a human woman who looked like she'd never worried about rent in her life.
"MEET THE ALIEN OF YOUR DREAMS - LATHARIAN MATE PROGRAM."
Harper had glazed over that poster so many times it was visual wallpaper. Background noise. Someone else's fantasy.
"Come on, Harp." Delilah's voice went wheedling. "Just twenty credits. I'll pay you back from my next paycheck, I swear."
