Page 49 of She’s a Doll

Nicola was curled at the other end of the sofa, breathing hard, staring at me, wearing a sweaty pair of pajamas. “Are you . . . ?” she asked uncertainly.

My head snapped back and forth, taking in the room, the curtains closed against the midday sun, the TV playing old quiz-show reruns on mute. The heater in the corner was on, the dial set to max despite how warm the room already was.

“You’ve been doing nothing for . . . Jesus,” Nicola said. “I don’t know. Weeks. I thought I’d imagined you. I thought you were⁠—”

Ginger married him.

Slowly, Nicola nodded, her breathing slowing. “Yeah. Yeah, that . . . that happened.” She looked exhausted, skin ashy, eyes shadowed, hair stringy with sweat. There was a stubby cigarette resting between her fingers, smoking softly. No. Not a cigarette. The stink of cannabis hung heavy in the air. A joint.

We have to help her.

“What?”

Ginger. We have to help Ginger.

A strange look passed over Nicola’s face. “No,” she said, and tapped the joint on the rim of an ancient McDonald’s ashtray. “We don’t.”

She’s married to a murderer.

“And a few other things besides.”

We have to save her! We have to⁠—

“Kill Kyle,” Nicola said in tandem with me. “Yeah. I heard you the first hundred times.”

What is wrong with you? I cried.

“I’m alive, Lu,” she snapped. “That’s what’s wrong. I’m alive and I don’t want to go to prison until I die. Call me a coward if you want, but that’s it.”

I stared at her.

She cursed and rubbed at her face. “Look. I don’t want to fight. I’m glad you’re back. It’s been a shitty month. A really shitty month. I haven’t watched any more Walking Dead. Do you⁠—”

No. This is fucked up. This is so wrong. I can’t. You have to help me. This isn’t just revenge anymore. Ginger’s in danger!

Nicola put the joint between her lips and sucked, her eyes sliding shut and her cheeks hollowing out. She tipped her head back as she exhaled, smoke billowing up at the ceiling, a shimmering cloud that hit the smoke detector square on the nose. It didn’t make a sound, the battery compartment open and empty.

What are you doing? I said, my thoughts jagged and desperate and sick with rage.

“I’m writing a novel,” Nicola replied.

You don’t look like you’re writing a novel.

“You ever written a novel, Lu?”

I thought about that old Carmilla-Laura fanfic on Archive of Our Own. 139,720 words. 11 comments. 47 kudos.

No, I said.

“Then how’d you know what writing a novel looks like?”

You’re doing drugs.

“Exactly.”

Illegal drugs.

“It’s literally just weed, you square.”