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I don’t know what to do.
I am not equipped for this.
Negotiating billion-dollar deals, yes.
Running a multinational conglomerate, yes.
Going days without saying a word to anyone unless it is absolutely necessary, triple yes.
Comforting a strange woman? All the goddamn nos in the world.
“Um, are you okay?” I ask, my voice more unsure than I’ve ever heard it. “Can I get you something?”
She doesn’t answer, not even with a head shake, just her sobs echoing in the cold night air around us.
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” I ask.
“No,” she finally forces out.
The sobs don’t subside. If anything, they grow even louder, and her arms squeeze around my neck so tightly I can barely breathe.
I debate saying “It’s going to be okay,” even though I have no idea if that’s true or not, but saying it sounds and feels facetious and fake, and I can’t force myself to do it.
After a few minutes, thankfully, the wails slowly subside until she’s just hiccupping every few seconds.
My chest feels soaked through.
Finally, when her arms slacken around my neck, I gently lower her to the ground. Once I know her feet have touched a solid surface, I relax my hold, and her fingers brush against my back as she lets go.
She stands up, her face red and pale in different places, and looks up at me, her eyes a pool of watery pain.
In so many ways, she defies characterization—she’s just a composite of all the times I’ve met her. A collage of fire and fury and softness and strawberries, of sass and sweetness.
I want to help her, and I don’t know how.
I want to wipe her tears away, and I don’t know why.
Then, drying her eyes with a wipe of her candy-striped sleeve, she says, “I’m starving. Wanna get out of here?”
Seven
Luna
I don’t know how we ended up here.
I don’t even really know wherehereis.
But thankfully, it’s open at almost three a.m., has soft ambient lighting, comfortable, worn red leather booths, and makes a mean Irish coffee and the best chicken club sandwich I’ve ever eaten. The chicken is moist, the lettuce crispy; the house-made mayo is creamy, and the crusty bread tastes like it’s been baked with some old recipe that is guarded by a three-headed virgin dragon and a centuries-old curse cast by blind leprechauns, bought with magic beans.
Or some such mixture of legends.
He doesn’t eat.
He’s on his third cup of tea, but as far as I can tell he hasn’t touched his own sandwich.
What he does do is watch me.
Directly, unblinkingly, unashamedly.
