“What do you want, then?”
He adjusted so that he was sitting, cross-legged on the floor in front of me. Watching his looming, powerful body, move to a position that put us at equal eyelevel endeared me to him. The fear crept back to the back of my mind, and my breaths didn’t feel so shallow anymore.
“Like I said, I’m here because I want to be here.”
“You want me to be your girlfriend.” It sounded so childish, like he had passed me a note with ‘yes’ or ‘no’ above two boxes.
“I don’t want more from you than you can give.”
“I don’t have anything else to give.”
“I disagree.” His hands slid down my wrists to my hands. They were so cool, so steady, that I found myself wanting to rest my flesh against his like this for a while longer. “You’re not quite a friend, you’re more than that. I’m going to keep coming back here, not because of any other reason besides the fact that I want to. I like being around you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re invigorating. Because you’re exhausting.”
When I laughed, he turned my arms over so the undersides of my wrists were exposed. I pulled a little, to bring my arms back to myself. Before remembering how he’d always treated me—treated the scars. Not as if I was a freak.
“I’m not a psychologist, or a psychiatrist, or any other kind of physician or counselor who is more qualified to give you what you need. But I’ve seen demons before.” He didn’t move his fingers, but his eyes were on the angry lines that left shiny marks on my arms. “And demons need energy to thrive.”
I wasn’t following him.
“Can we try something?”
We.
I nodded, arrested by his gentle hold, his gentler words. “Can we try to work on this? The more restless energy you harbor, the more there is for the voices, as you call them, to use.”
“What do you suggest? A coma?”
“No. I suggest we work on harnessing your energy. Some exercise. Maybe some self-defense lessons—since you took to them so well before. Take advantage of what’s inside of you, for you; don’t give it all to the things that give you nothing in return.”
It wasn’t the worst idea. But still, I was skeptical. “You think going for a jog will tire the voices?”
“No, I think going for a jog will tire you—their host.”
“You make me sound like I’m inhabited by an alien.”
He shrugged. “Well.” But he didn’t finish the thought.
I raised an eyebrow, thinking of my last stay in a mental health facility. “I mean, I can’t deny your logic. But I admit to feeling apprehensive about this.”
“I’m not asking you to scale Mount Whitney.” He gave me a pointed look. “Humor me.”
I turned my head toward the window. “What, right now? Wanna go for a run in the dark?”
“Tomorrow morning.” He laced our fingers together. “We’ll go for a jog. I’ll take you out to breakfast.”
“Oh, like a date?” I curled my fingers against his hand.
“Yeah, since we’re boyfriend and girlfriend now.”
“I didn’t say we were.”
“You didn’t have to.” He leaned forward and kissed me, full on the lips. It wasn’t brief, but it wasn’t a prelude to something more either. “Merry Christmas, Mira.”
“You love Christmas, don’t you?” I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him before he could let me go.
“It’s my favorite holiday.”
“Is that why you got me an ass-load of gifts?”
“I got you the gifts because I wanted to.”
“’Because I want to,’” I mimicked him. “Is that your answer to everything?”
“It’s my answer when it’s what I believe.”
I rolled my eyes. He wasn’t evasive, but his answers were strangely simple. “I have to admit, I’m impressed that you nailed it.” I cocked my head toward the garbage bag of gifts. “I didn’t even have to sit on your lap and tell you what I wanted, Santa.”
He pushed my wild mane away from my face. “That option is still available, albeit belatedly.”
I pushed at his chest. “Come on. Was that an actual joke? Stoic Six has jokes?”
“I break them out only in emergencies.” He rubbed his finger down my jaw. “What’s this scar from?”
My body was riddled with them. Some accidental, most on purpose. But the one that stretched my skin just under my chin was my mother’s fault. “My mom drove her car off of a bridge once. I was … six.” I touched the scar in memory. “My head slammed, chin-first, onto the dashboard. Split the skin open.”
“She drove it off the bridge? On purpose?” He looked horrified—whatever that meant for usually stoic Six. But his eyes widened, and he looked off, over my shoulder, his eyes unfocused.
I nodded. “One of her many, ‘Why didn’t I get that abortion?’ moments. And to her, driving off the bridge would right that wrong.” At the look in his eyes, I unlooped my arms from around his neck. “Don’t feel sorry for me, okay? Just … don’t do that.”
“I’m sorry.” Even though I’d let go of him, he hadn’t let go of me. “Is that why you’re afraid of love, Mira?”
“I never said I was afraid of love. I’m afraid of beginnings.”
“Because every beginning has an end,” he said softly, repeating my words from weeks ago.
His eyes drifted down, lost in thought. “What are you thinking about?”
He lifted them, briefly. “A lemniscate.”
“You’ve lost me.”
He reached into the garbage bag at our feet and pulled out a tube of purple paint. With one hand, he pulled off his shirt. Instantly, my hand found his exposed flesh. His body was so beautiful. He had scars—fine, white ones. Against his olive skin, they looked opalescent when the lighting was just right. My thumb nail traced one of the scars before Six pushed the tube of paint into my hand.
“What?”
“Put a dollop of it on your finger.”
I cocked my head to the side, but looked at him, squeezing the paint onto my finger. “Is this some kind of kinky art project?” At his exasperated look, I continued. “Because I can get down with it, but you just don’t strike me as a messy guy.”
“Here.” His much larger hand closed over mine and traveled up until he was holding my finger firmly. He pressed my forefinger to his ribs and then, using the purple paint, guided me through the drawing on his chest.
When he let go, I sat back. “It’s an eight.” I tilted my head. “Sideways eight.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s this obsession with numbers, Six?”
“You’re a real pain in the ass sometimes, Mira.”
“Seven, remember? If you’re Six, I get to be Seven.”
“No, you’re not.” He shook his head. “Okay, well using that train of thought—if I’m Six and you’re deluded into believing you’re Seven—what comes after those is eight, right?”
“Sure.” But I knew my look was still confused.
He touched the purple eight on his ribs. “This is called a lemniscate. An infinity symbol. Look, it doesn’t have a beginning.”
I pressed a finger to the spot I’d started the sideways eight. “I started here.”
“Right, but you ended the loop here, obscuring its beginning point. I know this is a crude representation, but the trademark of the lemniscate—the infinity symbol—is that it doesn’t have a beginning or an end.”
“What are you saying, then?”
“I’m saying that we don’t have to think of this as a beginning, because it’s not the thing itself—the ending—that scares you; it’s what precedes it. So, if we eliminate the beginning, we eliminate the ending.”
“I don’t think I’m drunk enough for this conversation.” It was making me itchy. Unconsciously, I itched at my wrists in reaction.
“I’m making you nervous.”
“Yeah, you are.” I snatched the pack of smokes and
lit one fast. I didn’t look at him all the while. “You’re awfully chatty tonight. The more you talk, the more I think I need to run the hell away from you.”
“Good.” He gently slapped the side of my thigh and stood, capping the paint tube. “You can practice that tomorrow, when we go for our run.”
12
December 31, 2000
I adjusted in my seat, unable to get comfortable.
“Sore?” Six asked.
I was sore. I was tired. But Six hadn’t been wrong. While things weren’t dramatically improved, the consistent running over the last few days cleared the fog that seemed to persistently hang over my head. It wasn’t as if I’d never gone for runs before, but the difference was that I was running with purpose—not just to get some vitamin D or run away from a dealer. “Yeah. My ass feels like it absorbed brand new muscles the last few days.”
“Good.” He smiled a little, proud of himself I was sure. “The running’s good for you.”
I saluted him. “Thanks, Doc.”
Ignoring my comment, he continued. “What you really need is a dog.”
“A fucking what?”
“A dog. To keep you busy when I’m not here. Sometimes, I have to travel for business. If you had a dog, you’d have something to rely on. Something that needed those walks.”
“You’re out of your goddamn mind.” I watched as he poured champagne into two glasses. “Henry is on his last legs, and you want me to get something needier than a goldfish?” I laughed. “Come on, Six. There’s only room for one crazy in this relationship, and I’m afraid I was here first.”
He moved to the table and nestled the bottle in a bucket of ice. “A dog would be a great companion. Certain breeds function well as emotional support animals.”
“And, what, you think a dog is going to make my head less of a mess? Having something relying on me to keep it alive is going to make me”—I snapped my fingers—“cured. Just like that?”
“You’re excellent at taking my words and running a marathon with them, Mira.” He sighed, setting the glasses down in front of our empty plates. “I think company would be good for you. We’ve just begun the running, but some kind of consistency—I think would be good for you.”
“Okay, so I’ll set an alarm. I do not need a dog.”
But he didn’t reply to that, he just looked at his watch. “We have ten minutes until the new year begins.”
I raised my glass to my lips, but Six’s hand stopped me.
“To you,” Six said as he lifted his champagne flute.
“To me?” I lifted an eyebrow. “Why?” I set my glass down, holding it by the stem while it rested on the table.
Six leaned forward, still holding up his champagne. The wooden table creaked under the weight of his elbows and his face came further into the candlelight, illuminating his dark eyebrows, thick lashes, prominent nose, full lips.
“Because it's New Years,” he said simply.
“So, toast to the year, then.”
“No.”
I leaned back in my chair, raising an eyebrow. “No?” I mimicked. “That's it? No speech?”
To his credit, Six still held the flute in the air. “I'm not a man of a thousand words. I don't speak to fill the gaps when silence suffices. I want to toast to you, so I will.”
“You just do what you want, then?”
He inclined his head toward me. “I do.”
“Well, while we're doing what we want, I want to drink that whole bottle,” I said, gesturing toward the ice bucket.
“And you likely will, except”—he held up the glass in his hands—”the small bit I hold in my hands, toasting to you.”
“Is this because you proclaimed me to be your girlfriend?”
In that moment, I saw some of Six's patience lift. “Mira, I want to toast to you. If you want a reason...” He reached across the table and picked up my hand. “Because you're challenging.”
I lifted my glass and clinked it with his. “I sure am.” I drained it and reached over for the bottle. “But it's never been said as a compliment.” I poured the glass full to the brim before setting the bottle back into the bucket.
Six sipped his own and leaned back, pulling his face from the candlelight. “You don't think very highly of yourself, do you?”
Six had no idea what I thought of myself. I lifted my flute and took in a large sip. “Have you ever gone to a thrift store?” He didn't answer, but my question didn't require one. “Look at all the dolls and stuffed animals on the shelves. Some of them are missing eyes, their stitching is coming undone, they've lost their stuffing, or maybe their limbs. They're stained, they're beyond repair. They are unlovable.” I finished the champagne before continuing. “No little boy or little girl is going to ask their mommy for them and even if they did, their mommy will say no – terrified of what lives in those unlovables. They'll sit on those shelves until they rot, or until they're thrown in some wasteland.” I gestured in a circle around my face. “I'm one of those dolls. But the difference between me and those dolls is that I'm not going to sit around and wait until someone wants me. I've accepted who I am, who I'll always be.”
This time, Six poured me another round. “Have you ever thought of what those toys went through? How many people loved them?”
I sipped it again, welcoming the dry bite. “You talk about love like it's a gift, as if it doesn't rot your heart or pollute your brain.”
Six placed a hand on the table, drummed his fingers once. “When I see a stuffed animal that is worn, I see its history. The person who loved it never let it go, touching it with dirty fingers, maybe, because he loved it so deeply that it didn't matter how clean his hands were.”
I finished the champagne, and the alcohol had started to hit me, but it wasn't enough.
I stood abruptly, bumping against the table as I escaped into the kitchen. This was too heavy; I needed more alcohol for this. Now was the perfect time to finish off the vodka in the freezer. “Do you want something to eat?”
“You actually have food?”
I rolled my eyes and opened the refrigerator. “I have salsa and I have chips. Do you want some or not?”
With my head in the fridge, I didn't see Six get up from the table until I felt his presence over the door.
“Salsa sounds good.”
“Great,” I said, snatching the jar and slamming the door with my hip, bottles rattling their discontent inside. I opened the cabinet and pulled down a bowl. After seeing my struggle to open the jar, Six stepped closer and closed his hands over mine.
“Let me help you.” His voice was warm, his hands even warmer. I felt a squeeze and passed it to him. His words seemed to have a deeper meaning than just the salsa.
I opened the cabinet and manhandled the bag of tortilla chips I'd bought at the seedy corner store.
“Tell me who hurt you.”
My back was to him. “No.” I opened the bag, whipped the freezer door open to grab the vodka. After slamming it closed, I walked past him to the table. Sliding into the seat, I munched on a chip, waiting for him to join me.
“I know you're afraid,” he began, before I interrupted him.
“I'm not afraid.” I popped another into my mouth and nervously crunched it, masticating every last bit. “But you should be.”
“So you've said.” He set the bowl on the table and said nothing else as he loaded a chip with salsa before popping it in his mouth. His gaze steadied on me again, as usual. Even when he wasn't speaking, his attention was focused, louder than anything he could have said.
I unscrewed the cap off the vodka and took a pull from it, cringing only a little at the burn as it tore down my throat. Alcohol simmered in my belly as I wiped a hand across my mouth. “My mother had bipolar disorder.” It spilled from my lips before I could stop it.
Six loaded up another chip and chewed thoughtfully. “Had?”
I shook my head. “Has. I guess. I don't speak with her if I can help it.” My fingertips slid
on the bottle's condensation. “She doesn't know how to love me.” I dragged the cap over the scar on my jaw. “The bridge, remember?”
Six walked into the kitchen, coming back a minute later with whiskey and a glass. I nearly giggled then, seeing him drink from a glass while I drank from the bottle. “I don't think a lot of people know how to love,” he said, pouring two fingers of amber liquid.
“A mother should. Yours does.”
Nodding, he agreed, “You're right. Let's toast to her.” He lifted his glass and I lifted my bottle, clinking them together before we both took a sip.
“My mom made a lot of promises every new year. 'This is our year, Mira,' she'd say while we watched the ball drop from New York City. It never was our year, just another manic resolution she'd forget soon enough, often as soon as the following morning when the hangover hit.” I took another swig, feeling the burn less and less.
“Did you leave her, or did she leave you?”
I laughed. “She left me one hundred times before I left her for good.” I thought about waking up from a nightmare, padding down the hallway to her room only to find her bed empty. I'd crawl into it and wait for her to return, which usually wasn't until the following morning. I stared into his eyes. “I don't like needing people, Six. I don't want to rely on anyone.”
“Everyone needs somebody.”
“Not me,” I said, taking a long, hard pull of the vodka. I closed my eyes and let the alcohol flood my throat until Six pulled it from my lips.
“Why are you trying to get wasted?”
My eyes were closed, and my lips were curved into a smile. “Because tonight, I want to forget her.”
“As long as you don't forget me.”
I blinked, even as the alcohol clouded the sides of my vision. Had he really just said that? He was so good at holding a lid on his emotions, but hearing him say that, in that moment, hinted a little bit at his own vulnerability.
I had a moment of clarity where I realized that Six would probably leave me, the way she left me so many times. I couldn't let it hurt me. “I'll try not to,” I said coolly and hating myself for it.
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