Page 67

Come up.

The elevator takes forever. The hallway smells like whatever cleaning product the building uses, something sharp and chemical that reminds me of hospital visiting hours. I knock and wait.

Rookie opens the door in sweats and a T-shirt, barefoot, man-bun askew. He fills the gap with his body, blocking the view behind him. This is weird for him.

"Mayhem. Hey." His eyes sweep over my face, and whatever he sees tightens his jaw. "What's going on?"

"Briar and I had a fight. I left. I just need to crash for the night."

"Shit." He rubs the back of his neck. "That's... yeah, I'm sorry, man. The timing is just—” He glances over his shoulder, and his body shifts, closing the gap. "It's really not a great time.”

"I don't need great. I need horizontal."

Something moves in the apartment behind him. A cabinet closing. Soft footsteps on the hardwood, coming from the direction of what used to be Howie's room. Rookie flinches.

"One sec." He holds up a finger and pulls the door until it's barely cracked, leaving me standing in the fluorescent hallway. I hear his low, careful voice, the tone you use with a startled animal or a nervous patient. "It's fine. He's not staying. Just give me a second."

A woman's voice, quiet. I can't make out the words, but the cadence is anxious. Rookie responds with something I can't hear, and the woman says something else. Rookie's voice drops even lower — gentle in a way I've never heard from this kid. "Hey. It's okay. I'll handle it."

He reappears. The door opens just enough for his shoulders, but not much more. He looks guilty, like he knows he's being a bad friend and can't explain why.

"I'm really sorry," he says. "It's a situation. I can't get into it right now."

"You don't have to explain."

"You could go upstairs. Howie and Ella are…”

I don't want to sit in Howie's apartment while Ella makes concerned faces at me over tea. I don't want to explain myself twice. I drove here for one simple thing: a few hours of unconsciousness at a friend’s house. I guess the roots I grew here aren’t so deep after all.

”It's fine," I tell him. "I'll figure something out."

"Mayhem—”

"I said it's fine." I hear my voice go flat, and I hate it. This is the clipped, controlled tone I use when I'm managing a situation rather than feeling it. The Cameron Miller special. "Get some sleep."

Rookie watches me walk to the elevator. I press the button and don't look back. The doors open, I step in, and the last thing I see before they close is Rookie standing there with his mouth open, as if he wants to call after me.

He doesn't.

The drive to my house feels automatic. I know the route by muscle memory, even though I haven't slept here in weeks. Turn left after the taco place, then right at the stop sign with the dented post, then up the hill past the rowhouses where someone always has their TV on too late.

The scaffolding makes the house look skeletal in the dark. I pull into the garage, kill the engine, and sit there.

I could go inside. Assess the progress. There might be a drop cloth I could arrange into something resembling a bed. But the house has no working heat, no running water, and no cat. The garage is dry at least. The seat of my Volvo reclines. The engine ticks as it cools.

I lean back and stare at the ceiling.

This is not how I expected tonight to go. I expected to drive home from Boston, walk into Briar's house, and find her on the couch with Puck. I expected to carry her to bed again and give her a few victory orgasms.

Instead, I'm in a garage with my giant body crammed into a sensible SUV.

I think about Briar’s face when she said the word martyr. I remember how her hands shook before she gripped her knees. She was scared, not cruel. But the words landed on the exact spot Lisa carved open years ago, and my body shut down.

I press my thumb and forefinger against my closed eyes. The problem with Briar Beckett is that she reads the play two passes ahead. On the ice and off. Everything she said about my family was true.

I think about The Tempest and Prospero's epilogue. The magician who controlled everything, who held the island and its people in his grip, asks the audience to release him.

Now my charms are all o'erthrown, and what strength I have's mine own, which is most faint.