Missing him clogs my throat and scratches at my heart when I lie awake at night.
Two mornings missing Blake teasing and chatting with me, and I’m still devastated. I should be nothing, but I think the mafia boss is my best friend.
Was.
Probably he isn’t thinking of me like I am him.
The notification was probably junk email, but without looking I grasp for my phone on the bedside table and bring it to my bleary eyes.
The Paddington Station app says, “A new parcel for BunnytheKiller is awaiting collection”.
I jolt. I’m awake. Instantly.
The app shows a picture of the package, which is sleek black cardboard, giving nothing away about its contents. There are only the ticks showing that it has passed the various Paddington Station tests.
It’s from Blake.
I shouldn’t go to get it. The risk is too high. I stopped messaging him so he’d forget about me, and Aaron’s mistake will remain unnoticed.
I tell myself that all day at work, as I turn my eyes square and hot from looking at my computer screen.
But afterwards, I find myself going in the opposite direction to the commuters, heading into central London and then north of the river to Paddington Station. The pick-up is smooth this time, since I know what I’m doing.
I clutch the box—it’s big enough that I have to hold it with both hands—all the way home. I can’t explain how it feels expensive, but it does. It’s sleek and heavy.
Blake will be notified I’ve collected it.
I should have ignored it, and I’m taking a crazy gamble already. But the thought of opening this without messaging Blake about it is impossible. My longing isn’t for whatever is in this parcel, just as I didn’t talk to him on the phone because of the money.
It’s an excuse, because I crave talking to him. I need that sensation of being understood and appreciated as an equal, and my brother and my job and even my friends who think I’m odd don’t give me that feeling. The only person who makes my tummy flip and has truly valued me, is Blake.
One more conversation can’t do any harm, can it?
Opening my phone, I unblock Blake from TelUBox.
And I message him.
BunnytheKiller
Is it a head?
The dots bounce immediately, and my heart lifts. I’m smiling.
This could still go wrong, but he’s talking to me, at least.
Blake
So little faith in me, Bunny.
BunnytheKiller
Aren’t body parts the traditional intimidation technique for a mafia boss?
Blake
That would be a horse’s head in your bed. A head in a box is a serial killer.
I admit there are similarities between the two, but mafia bosses have more money and charm.
