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I should do the same.
* * *
After a quick rinse,I change into fresh clothes, my hair still in a top bun to keep it from getting wet in the shower. I slip into a pair of jeans shorts and one of Lenix’s old t-shirts I stole months ago. It is from a band I do not know. An easy feat when I have only had a year to catch up. I try to not let those things get to me, but sometimes I let the sting burn just to remind myself that I have survived. That I have made it out.
Eventually, I end up standing in the middle of the room, not sure what to do next. I worry my lip while I cycle through my options and finally make a choice. Reaching into the suitcase I brought in with me, I find the small bottle of vodka I packed for the trip. I do not really drink, alcohol was prohibited in Sacro Nuntio, but I figured if there was ever a time for a celebratory drink, it would be now. I find two plastic cups in the bathroom, taking them with me as I tentatively take a peek into Bastian’s room.
His front door is open, and I can smell the faint aroma of tobacco wafting from outside. My heart crawls up my throat, but I swallow it back down. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and try not to chastise myself for the uncontrollable nerves I have when around him.
So what if he is intimidating and barely speaks? He is only human—and I know he would not hurt me. I also do not take it personally, he is like this with everyone, even Connor and his long-time friend Byzantine.
Squaring my shoulders, and giving myself a small nod of encouragement, I take a steady step across the length of his room towards the open front door.
The sun has set, navy blue hues painting the sky a darker shade, and I find him sitting in a plastic chair, arms draped over the sides, a cigarette hanging loosely from long fingers. With his eyes closed and head resting on the cement wall behind him, I think he has not noticed me. But then an eyelid pops open and I startle. Clearing my throat, I hold up the cups and bottle of vodka, flashing him what I hope is an inviting smile.
“Where’d you get that?” he asks, his eyelid falling back closed.
Refusing to take his lack of interaction as anything but Bastian being Bastian, I perch on the chair beside him and answer, “My suitcase.”
Silence lingers in the space between us. I can hear the hoot of an owl echoing faintly in the distance before he bothers to speak again.
“Oh?”
I could almost detect amusement in his tone.
I do not bother waiting for his approval and uncap the bottle, pouring a few inches’ worth into each cup. Bastian is poised in such a way that I can tell he is paying attention to every little sound and movement I make like a dog perking its ears. When I lean over and hand him his drink, he finally opens his eyes and straightens up in his chair, taking a long drag of his cigarette, eyes fixed on me.
I force a smile and tilt my cup toward him as if to saycheers. Holding it up to my lips, I take a large sip. The burn is so sudden and intense down my throat that I choke and start coughing. I wave my hand near my mouth as I gasp through catching my breath while the mortification settles in, my cheeks burning.
“Harsh,” I manage to croak out as an explanation.
Bastian grins. It is sudden and gone nearly as quickly that I almost convince myself that I made it all up.
“First time drinking vodka?”
“No,” I say far too swiftly.
He does not even have to do his usual stare-down for me to concede.
“Yes.” I look down at my drink. “I am not sure I like it.”
He lets out a small hum while draining the cup. “Next time try it with soda. And some ice.”
Nodding in agreement, I watch him. My hands are wrapped tightly around the flimsy plastic cup as his gaze slowly drags down to my chest and then up again.
“Nice shirt,” he drawls.
I look down as a reflex, knowing exactly what piece of clothing I am wearing and mutter, “Thanks, it belonged to Lenix.”
“Connor’s,” he replies.
“What?” I ask, slightly confused.
“It was Connor’s.”
I give him a questioning look.
“I used to be in a punk band in high school. We were called Wannabes.” He takes another drag, smoke spilling out of his mouth and into the dark night before continuing, “That’s my band you’re wearing.”
