“Zion OD’d. The police found his body yesterday. Or…maybe the day before. I don’t…I didn’t ask.”
“He wouldn’t.” The kid sinks down into the chair across from me. “Wren—Miss Kane—Z came in here every weekend and washed dishes in exchange for a brisket plate. My pop owns this place, and when he found out Z was an addict, he made him a deal. Stay clean, work the weekends when we’re slammed, and he could eat here any time he wanted.”
“Really?” Pixel yips from outside, and I glance at the sidewalk, seeing her wagging her tail as she stands up and sticks her little black nose through the open door. “Sit,” I say as I hold up a finger.
“Aw, man. Is that the puppy? Z talked about her all the time. And you. Can I…go say hi?” The kid practically bounces out of his chair when I nod, and he drops to his knees next to Pixel and scratches her belly until her back leg starts to thump on the ground with delight.
Z gave me the dog because when I’m in the throes of an anxiety attack, having something else to focus on can help me forget about the tightness in my chest, the shaking hands, the nausea. Grief and anxiety—they’re not altogether different at times.
When he returns, he holds out his hand. “I’m Brennan.”
“Wren. I mean…I guess you know that.” My cheeks heat and the band around my heart warns me grief is hovering, ready to drown me at a moment’s notice. “Did you…know Z well? Were you…friends?”
“Yeah. I mean…we didn’t hang out much, but we talked whenever he worked.” Brennan’s gaze falls to my wrist. “Shit, man. He really is gone, isn’t he?” Gesturing to the beads, he says, “Dude never took that off. Said it reminded him why he couldn’t ever use again.”
My eyes burn, and I fiddle with the bracelet.
“I can’t believe he OD’d. He wouldn’t even have a beer with me at the end of the night. Said even though he’d never had a problem with alcohol, he didn’t want anything that might make him feel…not himself again.” Brennan shakes his head as a bell dings from the kitchen. After he washes his hands, he bags up two brown cardboard containers.
“They found him with all the paraphernalia,” I say quietly as I accept the bag. “In a known drug den. He promised me…”
“Pop always said Z had demons.” With a shake of his head as I try to offer my credit card, Brennan stares back out at Pixel. “But he also said if anyone could beat them…Z could. No charge for the food, Wren. You come in here anytime, and I’ll take care of you.”
“Can I…” I’m not a hugger. Hell, I don’t even like touching people most of the time. But this kid and his dad might have been the closest things Zion had to real friends. “I mean…never mind.”
But Brennan seems to understand. He trudges out from behind the counter again and gives me a quick, tight embrace. “He always said you saved him.”
I barely manage to make it out the door before finally, my tears fall.
* * *
Zion’s apartmentlooks exactly the same as it did the last time I was here—right after he disappeared and I met the police officers to let them in. Pristine. Well, other than the thin layer of dust that covers everything. It smells faintly of him, and as Pixel races around the small space, searching for her favorite uncle, I hover at Z’s bedroom door.
My cheeks are still wet, though by the time I reached the rickety elevator, I’d lost all will to cry. With a loud sniffle, I give in to the pull of his bed and lie down, burying my face in his pillow.
I remember that newborn smell he had when Mom brought him home from the hospital. How he tried aftershave for the first time when he went to prom and used so much, he had to take a second shower as his date waited in our living room. The scent of vomit that clung to him when he showed up at my apartment after traveling for two solid days on six different flights to get home from Russia.
“You promised.” Hugging his pillow, I give serious thought to claiming a fraction of the sleep that eluded me last night, but Pixel yips from the front room—the little happy noise that generally signifies an impending meal, and I remember my barbecue.
We eat on the couch, the dog getting her own plate next to me—sans sauce. Z wasn’t kidding. The food tastes just like the slow cooked brisket Mom used to make, and I let myself sink into memories of happier times. Before Dad died, before Mom abandoned us, before Zion’s first taste of heroin.
Lost, eating on autopilot, I finish the whole container before a knock on the door makes me yelp, and the dish clatters to the floor.
Snatching up my phone, I swear under my breath as I see five missed texts.
“Wren,” a familiar voice calls from outside, “you in there?”
I don’t speak as I unlock the door—I can’t. I’m too shocked. “What are you doing here?”
Ford, Ella, and Trevor—my closest friends from the office—stand in the hall, holding boxes, packing tape, and beer. “You shouldn’t do this alone,” Ford says as he slips by me. “We should be able to get everything done in an hour or so. Maybe two tops.”
“I…” I don’t want them here. But…I don’t want them to go either. Ella wraps her arms around me, and I squeeze her back. “Thank you.”
* * *
Late that night,I crawl into bed with a mug of tea and Zion’s copy ofHarry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. He must have read the damn thing a hundred times—the cover’s worn, the spine broken and floppy. On the title page, he left me a little note, which nearly sent me into tears again. So the book came home with me, rather than end up in a box I might never open again.
Wren, this book is like me. Used up, tattered, and kind of a mess. But that’s why it’s perfect. Because on every page, there’s a story. All for you, Firefly.
