But he’s not.
As Jackie curls around Lili, holding her close—and Lili grasps her forearm, grasping for her tighter—he’s still there, outside.
Her breath, ragged: in the room. In the street, his presence.
Against her comforter, her phone rings again.
Aleksandr Petrov.
Lili stares at his name, until it blurs with tears, and the screen goes black.
A second time, after that.
Then, a third.
Finally, she hears a car—his car—start up.
Don’t, she thinks.Don’t leave, don’t leave—
The slow crunch of pavement under tires, as the Maybach pulls away from the curb. Her shoulders start to shake. She’s crying so hard it’s silent.
“It’s okay,” Jackie murmurs, holding her. No questions, just attempted consolation. “It’s okay, it’s okay—it’ll be okay, I promise, I promise...”
When her phone starts lighting up again—texts, now: still his name, his name,his name—Lili clutches it tighter to her chest. Shutting her eyes, clinging to Jackie’s arms around her.
9
Distressed Assets
It’s cold when she wakes.
Sun slants through her bedroom window. Distant, she hears early runners outside, the downstairs coffee shop opening. Beside her, Jackie sleeps. Curled around Lili, a protective posture. Her familiar perfume—sandalwood, iris, dried rose—is worn from a night’s sleep.
Lili glances at her phone.
New messages, fresh missed calls.
Sitting up, she lets her feet hang off her bed, swinging listlessly a few inches above the ground. Her shoulders ache, curdled around a sickening bruise of impact in her chest. She feels dirty, and she feels nauseous. If she starts to think, starts to push through the disassociated haze, dazed in the aftermath of a blow—memories of last night, unfamiliar skin—
Her feet find the ground. She stands.
In the bathroom, she washes her face, brushes her teeth. She doesn’t glance in the mirror. Quietly, so Jackie can keep sleeping, she changes into Carhartts and a thin shirt. She turns on the kettle in the kitchen. Opens the fridge, closes it a second later; in her stomach, there’s the sense of rotted, dead things.
As she waits for coffee to brew, she packs her wallet and key ring—lighter than before, she shoves the acknowledgment away—into her tote. Kicking her feet into her Blundstones, she fills her water bottle. As thecoffee drips through the Chemex, Lili watches the hot water spread over the thick filter paper. Heat prickles her eyes. She forces it back.
She will not cry.
What right does she have to cry?
“Hey.”
She looks up. Jackie leans in her bedroom doorframe, watching her. Her curls are a mess.
“Hey,” Lili replies, looking back at the brewing coffee. She needs to get out of here.
“Are you—how are you?”
“Fine.”
