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When I walk into the apartment, Danny’s standing at the window, staring across the way, and something strange happens to me when I take in the long line of him, the mass of his hair.
I feel tears in my eyes, although I’m not altogether sure why, and the feeling inside of me is so warm, so fucking warm, it’s going to burn me up to a cinder, and then I’ll float away like ash—and I won’t even mind.
It’s a fancy that makes no sense, but I don’t care, because he turns to me, and his whole face lights up and he says, “You’re home.”
And it feels right. It feels true.
If I could run to him, I would. I settle for hobbling.
ChapterTwenty-Nine
Danny
The rest of the day is a blur.
I’m happy—and I also feel like I’m about to take a tumble.
It’s a familiar feeling, because when I was a kid, I was taught the other shoe would always drop. My mother would get sober for a few weeks, start taking care of herself and the house. Of Ruthie. Then she’d have a fight with my dad, or he’d come home with a six pack and offer her one, and the cycle would start again.
Or my dad…
He’d realize I knew how to do things that could be helpful to him, and for a while he’d lay off. Because I was the kid who could fix anything—the kid whose small fix-it business was keeping Hot Pockets on the table. But I’d always end up doing something to set him off… Always. I wasn’t the son he’d wanted—the one who’d drink beers with him and tinker around with car parts, and he never let me forget it.
But I’m happy to be flying high while it lasts.
Mira and I play True Colors together. We watch a movie. We make plans for Thanksgiving. We read side by side. We make love in my bed. On the couch. Against the window.
Her gloves come, and she opens them with such appreciation, I instantly want to buy her a truckload of them.
We make a murder board, using the poster board, yarn, index cards, and pins I picked up at Target.
Both of us enjoy this activity more than we probably should, but it doesn’t result in anything conclusive. We still don’t know who the woman across the way is, and she hasn’t made any reappearances. Neither have the table or chair.
Night turns to morning. More sand falls through the hourglass, and I try to tell myself I won’t be buried in it.
Shane texts me mid-morning to say Deacon swung by the law firm and told them he wasn’t going to work for them anymore if they were going to collude with white collar assholes like the Burkes. It turned into a big scene, apparently, so unless he’s very committed to undercover work and the whole thing was masterminded by Shane’s partners, he’s in the clear.
Shane still hasn’t decided what he’s doing, or at least that’s the message I take from his continued silence on the matter.
I’m worried he’ll make the wrong decision.
I’m worried it’s going to tear this family we’ve made for ourselves apart, because I know that Burke probably won’t be able to forgive him for something like that.
On Monday afternoon, Mira leaves for a few hours at Glitterati, and even though I’m busy doing work for Jarrod, I feel her absence like a toothache. It’s a festering worry.
Big Mike texts me that evening, asking if I can get that drink with him, but his earliest availability is on Wednesday, just before my appointment with Daphne. So I ask him to meet me at Glitterati an hour before I’m supposed to meet with her.
“Can you really do back-to-back drinks?” Mira asks me incredulously after I tell her my plan later that evening. We just finished dinner, and we’re sitting on the couch in the living room, our thighs pressed together.
“People do it all the time,” I say, tracing circles onto her leg through her dress.
“I’m asking ifyoucan really do it. It sounds like a lot.”
I don’t like hearing her put it that way. She’s right. Itisa lot. I’m not looking forward to either appointment, for reasons that go above and beyond being in a bar for two hours, but I’m sick of feeling like someone who can’t do normal things. I also suspect that my sister may have told Mira the kind of things I would have preferred for her to keep to herself. Things that make me seem fragile.
As for the meetings themselves—Big Mike’s motives remain suspect, and I have no desire at all to see Daphne, other than that I’m hoping she’ll reassign the game. I would much prefer to go to the anti-hexing meeting with Mira so I can scowl at Byron.
“I don’t think I have a choice,” I say, glancing at the murder board, which we unanimously decided to hang up in the living room. Lots of threads with nowhere to go. “Maybe we’ll finally be able to make some more connections once I talk to Big Mike. Is our drink on the menu now?”
