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Her eyes narrow. “You’re one to talk. You’ve got a life raft of your own.”
“It’s not a life raft,” I tell her. “It’s a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“Of a promise I made.”
“Are you going to tell me who you made the promise to?” she asks.
“Are you going to tell me why you wear that pendant?”
She looks uncertain for a moment. She’s stingy to give away her secrets on the offhand chance that I use them against her. She’s not wrong to be worried; the chance is not actually so offhand.
Unfortunately, the waitress chooses this moment to interrupt. She introduces herself and struts her best customer service stuff to earn a good tip, but I just want her to leave.
I order the first thing I see on the menu. “Cauliflower tacos.” Even saying it aloud makes my stomach churn uncomfortably. The word itself tastes like low-fat sawdust.
“I’ll have the miso tofu wrap, please,” Paige says with a polite smile.
She never smiles at me like that.
“And what can I get you to drink?” the woman prompts. “We have—”
“Whiskey,” I cut in.
Her face falls. “We don’t have alcohol here, sir,” she says apologetically. “We do have a full-service kombucha—”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, anything but that,” I snarl, remembering Konstantin blathering on about the stuff back at Orion. “Just water.”
“I’ll take a watermelon juice, please,” Paige says. “It sounds delicious. Thank you so much.”
When the waitress finally clears out, she leaves a vacuum that bristles with untold secrets.
Paige meets my gaze over the candle flame in the center of the table. Her eyes are glassy, the way they were when I found her in the closet with Rada. Glassy with unshed tears. Glassy with memory.
“Paige—”
“Excuse me,” she says abruptly. “I need to use the restroom.” She doesn’t wait for me to respond; she just leaps up and sprints for the back hallway.
Just before she disappears into the ladies room, I notice her reach up and clasp her pendant.
28
PAIGE
“Breathe,” I tell myself. “Just breathe.”
I grip the edge of the sink until I’m steady, then splash some cool water on my face. I have high hopes that it’ll help, but in the end, I’m damp and sad instead of just sad. I pace up and down the long, narrow bathroom, nervous energy skittering through every extremity.
Clara.
Saying her name to Rada felt freeing in the moment, but in the aftermath, it’s been more like opening Pandora’s box. Memories I haven’t thought about in ages are flying at me constantly like a horde of black-winged bats. Memories flush with vibrancy and detail. Memories that remind me of everything I’ve lost.
Yes, the trailer park where we met marked some of my darkest days. But it was also the backdrop to some of my brightest.
“Clara,” I whisper to the empty bathroom. “Clara. Clara. Clara.”
Maybe exposure therapy is what I need. If I keep saying her name, the rush of remembrance will be easier to survive.
