Silence stretched between them.
“Is this a metaphor, or are we talking about actual property damage?” she asked finally.
He huffed a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “A mug. Just a stupid blue mug. Old, ugly. But I...” He trailed off, unable to find the words.
“But it mattered,” she finished for him.
The simplicity of it hit him like a punch.
“Yeah.” He stared at the silent monitors and mentally replayed the moment it shattered. “It’s stupid to give a damn about something so fragile, something that can’t last.”
“Not stupid at all,” she murmured. “My first year of middle school, my cousin, Mary Rose, gave me this hideous pink stuffed bunny for my birthday. At the ripe old age of eleven, I was too grown-up for toys. I was so embarrassed, I kept it under my bed. But every time I had a bad day, I’d pull it out and see its dumb face and—somehow—it helped. Then Mary Rose disappeared, and I went looking for my bunny, but one of the dogs had found it under the bed and ripped it apart while I was at school. I wasdevastated. Inconsolable.” Her voice thickened. “All these years later, it still hurts to think about.”
He didn’t reply, but the phantom ache in his ribs eased.
“Sometimes the small, stupid stuff is important,” she added. “Doesn’t have to make sense. Loss is loss. It leaves a hole.”
He didn’t reply because he honestly didn’t know what to say.
“What was special about this mug?” she asked.
He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. The question was simple enough, but the answer was tangled up in things he didn’t talk about. He rarely spoke of his time inside, of the months after his release when he’d felt like he was still living in a cell, just one with invisible bars.
“It was the first thing that was mine,” he said at last. “When I came to the Ridge, I had nothing. My clothes, my shoes, the book I was reading, and even the duffel bag I was using were all borrowed. Then Boone gave me that mug and told me it was mine, and for the first time in eight years, I had…” He trailed off, unable to articulate it.
“An anchor?” she suggested.
“Yeah.”
“And now it’s gone.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re sitting in the dark, aren’t you? Beating yourself up over feeling something about a broken mug?”
He almost smiled. “You some kind of psychic, Fury?” He realized too late he’d said his private nickname for her out loud. He waited, breath snagged in his throat, for her to react, but she didn’t.
“Nope. Just good at reading people.” The sound of her shifting came through the phone. “If you want, I can swing by with a new mug tomorrow. Bet I have at least six blue ones.”
“No, keep them.” He didn’t want another one. He wanted?—
This, realized.
The comfort of her voice in the dark.
Even though they had lapsed into silence, just having this connection open between them soothed every ragged edge inside him, and he wasn’t ready for the call to end. He scrambled for something more to say.
“Why does your family call you Rabbit?”
She laughed softly. “Oh, well, that’s?—”
“Sorry,” he interrupted, already regretting the question. “I heard Julius call you that at the casino and assumed that’s why Mary Rose got you the stuffed rabbit. Too personal. Forget I asked.”
“No, it’s okay,” she said quickly. “You assumed right. And it’s not like a big secret or anything. Just one of those family things, like how some people have silly names for grandparents, you know?”
He didn’t know. That kind of family life was so alien to him, he couldn’t even picture it. He’d never had childhood nicknames that weren’t cruel. Never had inside jokes or family traditions.
“It’s silly,” Naomi continued when he didn’t respond. “When I was little, I was quiet. Shy. I’d hide behind my grandma whenever someone new came over, and if they tried to talk to me, I’d bolt. And I was fast. Like, really fast. Nobody could catch me. One of grandma’s friends called me a little rabbit, and it just stuck.”
