“Dammit.” I swipe my blurry vision, then I step into theelevator and gently—though I’d prefer to pick her up and toss her out—nudge her forward. “I want to be alone.”
“Wait.” She spins, even as Ijab-jab-jabthe close-door button. “Minka?—”
“I’m begging for mercy.” I choke on my tears and jam my thumb against the fifteenth-floor button. “Please don’t follow me.”
“I want to come with you.” She takes a step closer. “Please, Minka. I haven’t seen you in?—”
“I’m sorry.” I squeeze my eyes shut and back up against the cold steel wall. Finally, the elevator climbs, but for every floor I ascend, the anxiety in my belly grows larger, hotter, achier, at the prospect that someone else will summon the elevator and I’ll have to stop.
My stupid phone vibrates in my palm, incoming texts that distract me,barely,from my throbbing heart and my first-ever breakup. The doors open on the fifteenth floor, revealing a messy space brimming with busted chairs, old computers, and countless microscopes I’ve been meaning to tell Raquel about. Stumbling from cold steel to colder tile, I drag my feet and trudge through the chaos. Archive boxes stacked against one wall, and filing cabinets lining another. I choke on the tears bubbling in my throat and hastily scrub the moisture from my eyes, and when my phone bleats again, I bring the device up.
Soph:
Just so we’re all on the same page, I basically have access to every conversation you ever have.
I don’t abuse my power often, and I definitely never listen when you’re having relations with your man. Except that one time. And one time other than that. But the conversation you had just now…
I heard all that.
My hands shake. My fingers turn numb. My entire existence is on the ninth floor, stewing over all the hurt we continue to toss at each other.
The problem with being me, and the problem with knowing no man will ever truly stick, means I knew this day was coming.
If my father, a literal half of my DNA, wanted out, then why would any other man, one who doesn’thaveto, stay?
Soph:
I’m around if you wanna hang. If you wanna be basic bitches and talk feelings, then we can do that. If you wanna talk business, we can do that, too. Otherwise, I’m at my desk, waiting for the geo-alert to place Abate inside the restaurant.
The hum of the elevator moving within the thick steel shaft twenty feet to my left brings me around. I lower my phone as the numbers rise. As it passes the tenth floor. The eleventh. Twelfth.
Groaning, I consider hiding. Running. Ducking under a pile of chairs and praying no one finds me. But when the number stops at fifteen and the ding, announcing a new arrival, plays through the otherwise still air, I hold my breath and wait.
Don’t be Archer. Don’t be Archer. Please, don’t be Archer.
The door slides open and reveals my five-foot, five inches tall, blonde with colorful streaks in her hair, best friend. And when she tilts her head to the side, sympathy shining in her eyes, I break.
“Oh God. It’s all ruined, Aubs.” I suffocate under watery, snotty tears and do the thing only one man on the planet has the power to make me do; cry. “Everything is ruined.”
“It’s going to be okay.” She strides across the room and wraps me up in a hug far tighter than her small frame implies, circling her arms around my torso and crushing me close. “Everything will be alright. I promise.”
“Like, the Aubree-knows-things promise? Or the Aubree’s-just-trying-to-make-me-feel-better promise?”
She hesitates, obliterating whatever last shards of heart I have left, and strokes my hair. She can’t promise. Because the things she knows don’t align with the promises we wish she could make. “I want you to stay home tonight.” She twines her fingers in my hair and pulls my head down, forcing me to rest on her shoulder. “Don’t go out looking for that man.”
MINKA
My hands shake as I pull my dress up and slip my arms through the gaps, then as I twist in front of the bathroom mirror and work the zipper along my back. My breath comes in choppy, hitching waves, and my cheeks, no matter how hard I try with a makeup brush, remain splotchy and red.
A basketball game plays on the television in the living room, the commentators hissing and jeering, shouting their approval for a three-point shot;Cato expresses similar feelings.And their disapproval when some other player steals the ball;Cato concurs.
My phone vibrates on the vanity, my eyes dropping to the lit screen and to Soph’s‘we’re ready to roll’text that puts butterflies in my belly.
Bringing my focus back to the mirror, I study the mascara framing my eyes and the cat-like wisp of midnight black liner streaking away from the corners. My hair remains tied back,and my dress… it’s cute, I suppose. Snug around the bust and torso, but loose around my thighs.
Comfort matters when heading out to kill a man.
Brushing my hands over my belly and drawing a long, chest-stretching breath, I let it out again and nod.It’s time to work.
