Page 48 of Gorgeous Misery

So I left a message. I said, “Are you really fucking mad at me over this Zero girl shit? Because that’s fucking stupid.” And I hung up.

Probably not the best way to defuse the situation we were in at the time, but I was starting to lose my patience with her. Plus, this was before I came up with the plan.

I checked the service every hour, on the hour, for like a week. And at the same time, I was also posting on the board every eight to twelve hours, trying to get her attention.

She did not check my message and she did not reply to my posts on the board.

Right. She was mad.

That was fine. We’ve got yet another way to make contact. The third, and least desirable, way is located in Mount Pleasant, Iowa. This little podunk town likes a good museum. They have like four of them. There is a country club, there is a Walmart, and there is even a tiny airport. It’s so fucking American, you want to recite the Pledge of Allegiance and eat apple pie the moment you arrive.

It’s a nice place, actually.

But we don’t stop there because of the pie, or the history, or the whatever. It’s pretty much just halfway between Wendy’s little Kentucky cabin and my stupid Nebraska farm. And it’s got a little roadside motel that consistently gets five-star ratings from travelers. So, ya know, if you and your long-distance soulmate are looking for a little hookup time, you can’t go wrong with the Americana Inn in Mount Pleasant.

The guy who owns this place is called Wendell. His family has been running the Americana since nineteen fifty-three. And he likes us. He remembers faces. This is kind of a bad thing in our line of work, but what are ya gonna do? Kill the guy?

Nah. We embraced Wendell and his fam at the Americana. Made it our little hangout. And we set it up so that we can leave each other letters there at the front desk.

That’s the third way Wendy and I stay in touch.

So once I realized she wasn’t gonna post on the board and she wasn’t gonna check my messages I got in my truck and drove to Mount Pleasant. And sure enough, Wendell told me that Wendy came by about a month back and she left me an envelope.

I know it’s taking me forever to get to the fucking point, but all of this rambling has a fucking point and here it is:

Christmas #22. The card she left me in Mount Pleasant was a goodbye of sorts.

She didn’t say she never wanted to see me again. She didn’t say she hated me. She didn’t really end things, but… I could tell this was an ending.

She was moving on.

It wasn’t the good kind of moving on, either.

It was the self-destructive kind.

And it was a cry for help because she left me a phone number. A real fucking phone number.

I got a room and called her up and she and I talked for an entire night. I’m talking nine hours on the phone. She was obsessed with the idea that there was a cure for her out there.

And OK, this is not as far-fetched as it sounds. She’s not really crazy because that’s what the whole Purge was about when Chek was killed. But Megan Machette was working on a cure for what the Company had done to the kids, not a cure for Zero girls. And for whatever reason Wendy had gotten these two things mixed up. She was absolutely, one hundred percent positive that there was a cure out there that would fix her.

And if she could just find this cure, she would stop being Creepy Wendy and start being the person she was meant to be.

It killed me. That entire conversation broke my fucking heart. “Wendy,” I said. “Just tell me where you are and I’ll come get you, and we can do this together.”

Because yeah, this idea that she needs to be cured is nuts. But it doesn’t matter. If she believes it to be true, it’s true. So I was on board. I came up with a plan. We were gonna hook up with Megan via Johnny Boston. I was gonna put everyone who owed me on this mission to find Wendy’s cure.

But that wasn’t what she wanted.

Oh, she made promises. She said we’d meet up but after we hung up that night, she disappeared for eighteen months.

Not exactly disappeared. She’s not like Indie. She doesn’t flip out, go insane, and then go rogue. No. Wendy Gale is far, far, far too professional for shit like that.

She just ignored me. Completely.

It wasn’t until last Christmas, #24, that I finally convinced her to see me again.

This was when I made the real promise. The one she believed.