“Aye,” I murmur, stepping inside. “I’m proud of you.”
“The sweater looks great on you!” she chirps. “It fits you perfectly. I didn’t have your measurements. I told the man at the store you were six-foot-four and weighed 210 pounds with a 45-inch chest and 17-inch bicep circumference.”
My jaw hits the floor. “Where did you get those measurements?”
“I took them myself.”
“When?”
“When you were asleep.”
I already knew she was breaking into my flat, but I always assumed she did it when I wasn’t home. I sleep in the fucking nude.Christ.
“Oh,” is all I say as I tug at the sweater’s tight collar because she didn’t measure my neck.
The aroma of something delicious finally hits me after the wave of embarrassment of her seeing me naked washes away. A picture-perfect rectangle casserole dish on the counter is filled with different colored sliced apples, smothered in syrup and cinnamon, and dotted with what looks like dried cranberries.
“Fal, that thing looks like something off a magazine cover,” I say before she snaps on a plastic lid.
“Thank you. I…um. This is actually my second attempt.”
“What do you mean?”
“Too much cinnamon.” She sniffs. “I was sneezing for days. This one is perfect, I promise.”
“I believe you.” Christ, I’m ready to melt. I wasn’t expecting her to be competent in the kitchen.
“I’m ready.” She points to the tray like a queen issuing orders. “I cook. You carry.”
And so I do. After I help her on with her coat, I take her apple dish in one hand and use the other to guide her to the door.
We ride down the elevator, and Fallon rests her head against my arm like it’s a pillow. She sighs a dreamy content.
“I’m so happy you could make it this year,” she says softly. “I’ve been telling everyone I have a boyfriend, and no one believed me.”
Guilt wraps around my chest. How she’s been living this fantasy. Alone.
“You’ve got me this year.” I pat the fingers wrapped around my arm like a koala’s claws grip bamboo trees.
“Manifesting really works,” she says serenely.
“I’ll have to try it sometime.” I don’t say that I’ll be manifesting a red sequined thong under that skirt.
It’s a busy Saturday, so we weave through the crowded sidewalk. I keep my eyes peeled for anyone with that skull and serpent tattoo who might come looking for me. There hasn’t been any more threats since I killed that dosser for Ares. But in my business, I can’t afford to let my guard down.
We round the block to a nondescript church that hosts the potluck dinner in the basement. A handmade banner hangs over the entryway: ANNUAL FRIENDSGIVING DINNER in letters shaped like carrots and turkey legs.
The second we walk in, the room goes still.
Fallon’s ‘friends,’ a mix of middle-aged couples, a few silver-haired women, a man with a long black braid and wrinkled skin, and two young women holding hands gawk at her. Then at me.
A whisper cuts across the room: “That’sFallon’s boyfriend?”
“Where did she order him from?” the silver-haired woman says, adjusting her skirt. “I hope he’s available forNew Year’s Eve.”
Another person snickers, “She’s the one who talks to her plants in her garden, you know. Whole conversations. I heard her scolding the roses when I walked by one day.”
“She’s crazy,” someone else mutters.
