Like no matter what I do, her mind will stay cordoned off. Unreachable. That’s rare.
And, if I’m being honest…impressive.
Last night, she sat on the floor, rocking herself, her voice gone raw with some mantra. The fear infected her then. Punched straight through. But by morning, she’d patched herself up. Perhaps it’s the light of day that has her feeling better?
Regardless, this will never last. Eventually, they all snap.
I thought the snap might come when I asked about a boyfriend. Her cheeks flushed pink, her eyes widened, and her mouth parted just a bit…
But she justsnarkedat me. And she was right.
I’m not worried about any average hippie boyfriend coming and trying to steal her back.
Her apartment had no traces of a man, or anyone else aside from the pictures of her and Ashley. And based on her reaction, I’m guessing she hasn’t gone out in a long time.
My mind falls back to last night, when I had her pressed up against the wall.
Her soft skin centimeters away. The scent of her, sweet like florals and sharp like fear…
I wonder if, under “decisive energy,” she put “sex” on that vision board of hers.
Too bad I can’tmanifestthat for her.
I sift through the rest of her belongings, which I’ve spread out like refuse from a sad little yard sale. A battered receipt for a three-dollar crystal. Spearmint gum, half gone and already losing freshness. A business card for her “wellness podcast.” Not that I have a clue what that really means.
Her wallet contains a state ID, a credit card that probably wouldn’t work, and a coffee shop loyalty card carefully creased with seven stamps. Not even a dollar in cash.
This is her entire existence. Nothing here roots her to anything, and she has no significant ties. She’s just…a drifter.
I glance up to see if she’s faltering. If the sight of her life, stripped bare, affects her. But she just meets my eyes, her own steady and clear. She shouldn’t be able to do that. Not with what happened in that alleyway. Not with blood still on my hands. But she does.
“Find anything interesting?” Her voice is soft but not weak.
Rather than answer, I pick up a small, worn notebook from the pile. Flip through pages filled with loopy handwriting. Lists of “affirmations.” Whatever the fuck that means. Goals she hasn’t achieved. Dreams that will stay dreams. I toss it back onto the table.
“Nothing that matters.”
Her lips curve, just slightly. “It all matters to me.” She delivers the statement like the rules are different in her world.
The simplicity sets my teeth on edge. I grab the last object. A small, glassy vial with a faded label.Lavender, it says. Not what I expected. I stare at the little bottle, which could contain anything. Crack. Fentanyl. Ether.
“It’s just lavender. For anxiety.” She nods at the bottle. “And sleep.”
I place it carefully on the table. “You need a lot of help with that?”
She doesn’t answer directly. Simply watches me with those green eyes that notice too much. “Don’t you?”
My face hardens. I don’t sleep. Just periods of unconsciousness broken by alertness, by the next threat, the next job. I can’t afford the vulnerability of sleep.
Before I respond, she moves. Not away from me, which would make sense, but toward the center of the room.
“My turn!” She reaches for one of the black marble coasters stacked neatly on the coffee table. She holds the circle up between us, examining it with exaggerated care. “What’s this?”
I blink, momentarily disoriented by the role reversal. “A coaster.”
She turns the stone over in her hands, running her fingertips along the edges as if reading braille. “Yes, but what does this coaster mean to you? Why this one? What memories does it hold?”
“It’s just a fucking coaster.”
