I don’t stay to make sure she complies, don’t even turn around to see if she acknowledges my words. Because I don’t want to do this again for a while, I drop everything on the hidden room’s desk and then detour to the bathroom. Between that and all the food I took, I should last at least eight hours before needing to come out.
I spend it all looking at what she did, searching for cracks in her plan or flaws in her scripts. She used one of my old ideas—the one I never got to bring to life—and adjusted it, making its meaning sharper, more accurate to the situation we found ourselves in. Exposing the involvement of those twenty-five names with crooked officials of the DOJ was a stroke of genius on her part. I’m not even surprised she found that kind of dirt on them, because this is what they do. They think themselves above the law, and nearly every single time, they’re proved right.
It’s nearing midnight when I decide to stop. I’m clearly too tired to find the mistakes Andrea might have made. That’s why I haven’t gotten any so far. Tomorrow, after a night of rest, I’ll start over.
I pass a hand over my face, as if I could wipe the tiredness away. Upon feeling my beard, I realize I need to take care of it. The cheap razors in Sheridan caused burns and irritations, so after the second ingrown hair, I gave up using them entirely. Now that I’m home, though, I can use my electric razor again. Making a mental note to take care of it at some point, I turn the computer off and push the chair back.
When I come out, Andrea is still on the couch, watching a movie or a show on her laptop. She’s changed into a pair of sweatpants and one of my T-shirts, has removed her makeup, and tiedher hair up. She doesn’t see me straight away because of the darkness of the room, focused on her screen.
When I come closer, though, on my way to throw the empty containers in the trash, she notices me.
“Hey,” she greets me with a small smile, pulling out her earphones and closing her laptop to settle it on the couch.
“Did you eat?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah. I had a couple of spring rolls. If you need anything, I put it all in the fridge.”
“You need to eat more.”
“I’m not hungry.”
I meet her gaze for the first time since our argument. “You have to eat, Andrea.”
My insistence seems to irk her, brown eyes squinting with annoyance. “I ate, Alexander.”
It seems we’ll fight again today, because the tight ball in my chest expands. Before we can get there, she says, “I was waiting for you to come out to go to bed. So, good night, and I’ll see you tomorrow,” she explains, standing up from the couch.
With that, she turns around, head high, and walks up the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. I watch until she disappears, and then mumble to myself, “This fucking woman…”
I don’t feel like sleeping yet. I’m still wound up like a clock, so I wouldn’t fall asleep, anyway. So, I head to the home gym, and there, I pull out the bag with my swimming equipment. Deciding I’ll change up there, I leave the apartment with a key and head to the staircase. Five floors later, I’m at the building’s gym—which I never use. The pool, though…
There’s no one at this time of night, so I don’t put my bag in my locker once I’ve changed. After a mandatory shower, I head to the pool with my goggles in hand. The glasshouse is warm all year long, like the water, but gets slightly colder during the winter months—never enough to deter me.
As soon as I dive, I realize how much I’ve missed swimming. I used to do it every single day to decompress, for at least half an hour. Meeting Andrea threw a wrench in my neatly organized schedule, but I found other, more pleasurable ways to decompress with her. For now, swimming is my only option.
I don’t count the laps, doing it until my muscles ache from the effort. I exercised daily in Sheridan, but it was a different kind of ache. It didn’t feel as satiating.
I remove my goggles and stay there for a moment, arms crossed over the edge of the pool as I stare into emptiness, listening to theheavy rain falling on the glass roof. In the corner of my eye, I notice that someone left a pool noodle within arm’s reach. Leaving my goggles behind, I move to grab it. Then, I slip it behind my back and let myself float with my ears in the water.
There. Perfect stillness. Finally.
For the first time in months, I feel at peace. I’m too tired to think, so my mind rests like it hasn’t since the arrest. There’s nothing but warm water on my skin and silence in my ears as I float. Above me, the rain that falls and trickles down on the glass is like a hypnotizing ballet. And when I close my eyes, all that’s left is the deafening stillness of water. It’s so quiet that I can hear my own heartbeat.
Fuck, I needed this. Peace. Utter and absolute peace.
I needed it so much that I stay like this until I’m practically falling asleep. If it weren’t for fear of catching a cold, I might actually sleep here. Anything’s better than going back downstairs, back to issues I refuse to handle for now. But staying here isn’t reasonable, so I force myself to get out of the water.
Back at the apartment, I drop the bag by the door, kick my shoes off, and walk to my room. I’m not sure where I expected Andrea to sleep, but finding her in my bed surprises me. She left the lamp on her side turned on, which allows me to see her, sleeping on her stomach and hugging the pillow under her head. Her bun is messy, wild curls scattered on the pillow, and her lips are squished together in what looks like a pout.
Barefoot, I approach her silently. Who could guess, seeing her sleeping so soundly, that this tenacious little woman is currently sitting on top of every federal agency’s most wanted list? Admittedly, I built Nammota’s reputation, but she got the name back onto those lists. She is Nammota now. We both are.
I never thought I’d share the name with anyone, and I can’t think of someone else who could be worthy of sharing it with.
Her eyebrows twitch, and their relaxed state transforms into a frown. “Baby, don’t,” she mumbles, seemingly displeased.
Looks like we can’t even get along in her dreams…
I crouch down and, as delicately as I can, pass my thumb over the twisted arch of her eyebrow. It softens, returning to normal, and I stay there to look at her. I haven’t gotten to admire her this closely in a long time. I almost forgot how long and lush her lashes are. She has fewer freckles now, which I guess occurs in the winter months—especially given how much time she must have spent locked in the hidden room.
