“Sure.”
“How are you coping?” He asks in his sponsor tone once we’re alone.
I rub my palms on my thighs and focus on how the fabric feels. “Better, now that Marissa’s coming here.”
Squid’s eyebrows knit, and he rolls his lips before responding. We’ve been doing this long enough that I can tell when he’s about to hit me with something I’m not gonna like.
“I worry that perhaps after everything that’s happened with the kidnapping, you’ve latched onto this idea of helping Marissa to overcompensate. With your tendencies, I… Don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t want to see you suffer or relapse.”
There it is. My biggest fear, plucked straight from my head. I rub my palms against my jeans even harder.
“Don’t you think I’ve considered that?” I ask him calmly. “I had all the time in the world these past two months, and I’ve looked at this every which way. Yes, initially, there were some of my personal issues at play there, and I actually have to thank you all for stopping me from swooping in and playing hero immediately.”
I focus my gaze on my steps, feeling, not for the first time, like I’m confessing to a priest. “It would have been a temporary band-aid, like drinking was. It's different now. We started emailing, then talking on the phone, and texting nonstop every day… I’ve never felt a bond this deep with another person, man or woman. There’s something about her, Prez. She’s as good as they come.”
I look at Squid, and his eyes are knowing and smiling.
“When you know, you know,” he tells me, and I chuckle.
“I always thought people were lying when they said shit like that.”
“Some are,” he confirms. “What about her ex? Is he gonna make trouble?”
“Don’t even get me started on that piece of shit,” I retort through clenched teeth. “Silver lining is, he showed so little regard for her that I’d be surprised if he starts caring now.”
Squid watches me carefully put my cut on the passenger seat of my Ram before driving off.
An hour and forty minutes. That’s how long I spend obsessing over everything that could go wrong today.
Marissa could change her mind about uprooting her life and moving.
She could decide it would be best for her son to stay close to his dad.
I could get into an accident on the way there and never see her again.
The overthinking gives me a heartburn-like feeling.
“God, please, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,” I murmur over and over again until I feel my breathing slow down.
When I arrive at my destination, I’m overcome by a different kind of nerves, one that I vaguely remember from the day when I first wore my police uniform, or when I was learning how to drive. Scared but eager, excited for what’s to come.
For months, I’ve been poring over updates and photos of this very house, noting all the entry points, all the potential dangers to the precious people inside it, imagining Marissa waking up, thinking, having her coffee, emailing me.
Every night for more than a month, I’ve been falling asleep with her voice in my ear. I know how her mind works, I know her daily routines, I know the way she deals with pain and grief.
What I don’t know is how she’s gonna react to seeing me in person again.
“Welcome, boss.”
I turn around as I’m putting my cut back on, and I’m greeted by the terrifying grin of Eddie, the puppetmaster, pulling the strings of the devil on Mushroom’s shirt.
“Hey Shroomie,” I reply affectionately.
We all love and somewhat baby the twins, especially Mushroom, despite the fact that they’re 26 and by no means kids.
Most people think that the female half of the duo got her road name because of her short stature and her head full of curls, but if they mess with her, they quickly learn that she’s pure poison.
That’s what makes her one of my best people, and I often use her for jobs that require a covert bodyguard.
