Page 79

I stamp my foot and lose a heel to the soft grass. Shit. I kick them both off and carry them, hobbling faster to keep pace. When I match Walker’s strides, he wordlessly takes my forsaken heels from me and carries them by the strap, hanging from one of his long, lean digits. I think of the piano he won’t play for me in the attic at home. And in a world first, I find myself jealous of a rotting instrument.

‘I was surprised you hadn’t lured one of your victims to the show tonight.’

I clack my teeth. ‘Didn’t show.’

‘You had a date,’ he answers.

‘Yes.’ I clear my throat.

‘You know this person.’

‘Somewhat… not really. I would’ve liked to, though. I would’ve liked him to maybe know me.’ I toe the dirt. And because it feels like my words might be swallowed by this forest if I speak them, it doesn’t feel like they count. ‘I just wanted to be someone’s,’ I mumble.

‘Be someone’s what?’

‘Just someone’s…someone.’

‘Did you go to school for communications, or is this all you?’

I huff at the sarcasm and decide to be a little braver. ‘What you said the other night was true. I want someone to know me. All of me. The good and the bad.’

‘Lots of people know you, Miller. You’re not as much of an enigma as you think yourself. You’re annoyingly knowable.’

‘Sycophant.’

He mock-concedes with a bow. I doubt he’d understand.

You see, the problem is, I’ve never shown much talent for metrics. I’ve lived my whole life being too much and not enough. And there’s no median to find your measure. An abacus will do me no good.

Walker is such a force unto himself. I think he’d think me quite strange if I voiced just how desperately I need to not be alone. How much of a contradiction I am that I both crave and despise the idea of sharing every part of me with another, because I’m too scared I can’t make myself into what they want.

So, I say instead, ‘People only know the easy parts of me. And that’s only because I’m fool enough to cling. A lifelong affliction, remember?’

Walker looks at the forest ahead.

‘You don’t want to be seen, Miller.’

‘Oh, please, tell me what I want.’ Because every woman loves that.

‘You’re not looking for love. You’re looking to fill dead space. Attention. That’s all.’

I scoff. ‘Excuse me?’

‘In fact, I’d say you’re desperate for it.’

‘I am not desperate,’ I lie.

‘Please,’ he deadpans. ‘You’re so fucking desperate I bet you hear a catcall and think its validation.’

I narrow my eyes. ‘How dare you.’

He smirks; he knows something I don’t.

A few steps on, he begins to speak again. I wish he wouldn’t.

‘Do you know what your problem is, Miller?’ he asks unprompted.

‘Don’t keep me in suspense,’ I deadpan, but inside I am very much alivepanning. I can never quite pull off monotone.