by Emilia Finn
“But there haven’t been any explosions since last month.”
Glaring, she does this thing with her nose that makes me think of a bulldog. She’s angry, and she’s not one to hide her emotions. “Not funny, Tucker. They should shut that thing down. It’s unsafe.”
“The danger is half the fun.” I push the box of pizza a little closer. There are only two slices left, stone cold, but still, I push them her way and smile when her eyes flicker to the movement. “Some people in the world want to stay in and read books,” I muse. “And that’s okay!” I add when her eyes snap to mine. “That’s totally their thing, and that’s cool. But there are also people who hate sitting still.”
“Evie.”
I choke out a laugh. “Exactly. And those people purposely go out looking for the explosions. And that’s okay, too. Doesn’t make one right or wrong, it just makes people different.”
“People that go out purposely looking for danger are just…” She draws in a long breath that fills her chest to bursting, then lets it out again with a shake of her head. “It’s irresponsible. People die every single day. It just takes one seemingly small decision, one off-the-cuff ‘we should hit up this party,’ or ‘hell yeah, I’ll race that dude,’ and even if you’ve done it a million times before, sometimes that one small decision changes everything.” She turns away and buries her face in Galileo’s fur for a moment. “It’s not worth it.”
“You went out to dinner tonight with that dude in tweed,” I counter. “You could have been killed on your way home. No rhyme, no reason. Just someone jumping the curb, or maybe an asteroid figured today was a good day to fuck us up.”
“Exactly.” She turns her face over and studies me with grieving eyes. “I said yes to a date – under duress, I might add – but still, I said it. And because I agreed to it, I put my life in danger. That small, seemingly unimportant yes could have been disastrous.”
I frown, and study this woman that clearly hasn’t healed from whatever happened to her in that club.
“You’re so afraid of dying that you refuse to live your life… is that what you’re saying?”
She shakes her head with fast, jerking movements. “I live my life. Inside my apartment, in the quiet, where nothing can go wrong.”
“But that’s another choice, isn’t it? If you remain inside while everyone else goes out, you could be the sole fatality in a building fire.”
“Tucker! Why would you… you’re not helping!”
“I’m not trying to hurt you!” I laugh. “I’m saying that even a seemingly safe decision could be the one that goes bad. And you won’t know until it happens. You literally have no control over when it’s your time, and maybe you think you’re mitigating the risks by staying in, but you just don’t know what the chick in 1A is doing. Maybe she irons her clothes before work, or makes a grilled cheese. She leaves the toaster on, and you’re up here working with your music on. You won’t know you’re screwed until it’s too late.”
“I hate that you’ve put all this in my head,” she rasps out. “I hate you for doing that.”
“I didn’t mean to…” I draw a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel unsafe. Mostly I was edging toward ‘don’t put your life on hold, because when it’s our time, it’s our time’.”
“Very wise of you.” She folds in on herself, balls up, and lays her head on her knees. “I think I’m gonna go to b—”
“Wait.”
I push the pizza box closer again, and when I can’t push anymore, I move to my hands and knees and quickly shuffle the box close enough that she can reach. I hurry back to my side of the hall and sit back where I started.
“You know those choices?” I ask quietly. “How maybe you put yourself at risk by saying yes to dinner tonight?”
Shyly, slowly, she reaches out for a slice, and picks it up. “Uh huh?”
“Well, that choice led to you sitting here right now.” I smile when her eyes flip to mine. When the light brown orbs study my face. “You said yes to the Mighty Duck, then, when you realized he was an idiot, you came home early, and now you’re watching a movie and eating pizza with me.” The thought hits me like lightning. “You started the night on a date with him, but now you’re on a date with me.”
“I am not on a date with you,” she growls. “I’m sitting in my doorway because you knocked and wouldn’t go away. And I’m eating cold pizza because you had leftovers, and I didn’t get to eat anything after the bruschetta.”
Called it! He didn’t make it past appetizers!
“This is the closest I’ve had to a date in years, so I’m counting it as one. I’m squirrelling this away, and tomorrow, when my friends ask, I’m telling them I bagged Nora from 4A.”
“Pig,” she scowls. “And you had a date last weekend. I saw her leave.”
I snigger. “You saw a woman leave. Not a date. There’s a difference.”
“You’re disgusting.”
And yet, she eats my pizza like she doesn’t wonder if I have an STD.
“What’s it like?” she asks shyly.
I fold my arms over my stomach, and groan when I settle back and get comfortable. “What’s what like?”
“Racing your motorbike?”
“Hmm…” I lay my head back and close my eyes. “It’s like flying. I can’t say I’ve ever gone skydiving, but I wonder if it might feel the same. The wind, the way you’re in control, but you can kinda pretend you’re not. The way your heart pounds as the ground hurtles beneath you. Then the adrenaline when you’re winning – or more, when you’re losing, and you have to go faster again to catch up.”
“Do you get scared?”
I open my eyes and study her. “No. If I fall, I fall. If I get hurt, I get hurt. Broken bones heal. You don’t get the adrenaline rush without the risk.”
“Then I don’t want the rush,” she murmurs. “It’s not worth the risk.”
I shrug. “I think maybe you’re wrong. I think life without risk is boring, and reward without working isn’t as satisfying. Winning a foot race against a two-legged dog… I mean, you’ll win, but would it feel as good as if you raced Galileo and legitimately beat him?”
“I can’t run that fast.” She breaks off a tiny corner of pizza and offers it to him. “I bet when he runs full speed, it probably feels like how you feel when racing.”
“Maybe. I bet he smiles when he can run full speed.”
She pats his ears, and takes another bite of pizza. “He does. He’s always so serious, always on guard for me. I’ve basically trained him to absorb my anxiety, take it from me, and keep it for himself.” She sighs. “Makes me a shitty person.”
“Makes him a good dog,” I counter. “His job is to help you, and hugs are proven stress relievers.”
“Mm.” She takes another bite. “Every afternoon before I come home from work, we head into the woods outside town, we touch the earth, lift our faces to the rain on the rainy days…”
“And?”
“Then he runs, full speed. He digs his feet into the mossy ground, and takes off like a rocket. He’s like one of those wind-up toys. You know the kind? All day long, I’m winding him up, winding, winding, winding. He accepts it without complaint, then we go to the woods, he touches the dirt, and bam! He’s off.” She sighs. “He always finishes with his tongue hanging out, smiling like a goofball, because he’s able to offload the anxiety and feel grounded again.”
“He loves you.”
Her eyes come to me. Then back to him. “And I love him. I love him so much that I refuse to put myself at risk and leave him here all alone. Anyway…” Tossing the last of her pizza into her mouth, she pushes to her feet with a groan, and sends my heart galloping. “This was a better date than the one with the other guy, so…” She shrugs. “Thanks.”
“The movie isn’t over.” I shove to my feet, like I somehow have permission to race across the hall and stop her from leaving. I don’t dare move. I don’t leave my threshold. “
We still have an hour to go.”
“We haven’t watched a single second since the opening credits. I wanted something mindless, and you’re getting all philosophical on me, so I’m gonna have to excuse myself.”
“I’m sorry!” I almost shout the words when she steps back into her apartment.
She uses the door to shield herself, but her eyes come to mine.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I didn’t mean to get heavy or anything. I was only chatting.”
“It’s okay.” She gives a shaky grin, but it stops long before it reaches her eyes. “I’m not mad. But I am tired, so I’m gonna go. Thanks for this.” She looks down at the single remaining slice of pizza. At the television. Then to me. “It was nice to hang out for a minute and not walk away shouting at you.”
I exhale a soft laugh. “Ditto, I guess. Want the last slice of pizza?”
She shakes her head. “Nah, I’m good. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“I’ll be eating cereal in the hall around six-thirty. Ya know, if you’re free around that time.”
Smiling, she shakes her head and closes the door with a soft snick.
All alone in the hall, I look up the stairs. Down. I look at her door, and then back to mine. The movie continues to play, and cords cross my apartment like some kind of obstacle course.
Sighing, I bend down and pick up my almost empty Coke. I tip it back and finish it, screw the cap on, and toss the bottle toward my kitchen. But just before I prepare to scrape my TV cabinet back across my apartment to put it back in place, Nora’s door whips open.
Like a ninja in pink plaid, she snatches up the last slice of pizza, then escapes on a squeak and slams her door closed again.
Nora
Dreams Hurt
“I’ll take them.” Kane’s midnight-black eyes flick away from me and Lisa, dismissive and mean. He’s so tall, so big, so tattooed and scary. He looks to the man in a suit, the man that wears an ugly sneer and looks at me and my sister like we’ve offended him. “In the room on the end.”
“Alright!” The man claps his hands, and makes me jump. “I shoulda known you’d pick two of them. You like ‘em young.” He looks to Lisa, the way he studies her makes my skin crawl. “What’s your name, girl?”
My sister is older than me, taller, braver as she presses her lips closed and refuses to answer.
“Name!” he roars. “Now!”
Crying, she only pulls me under her arm and squeezes tight in protection.
Men surround us, lots of men holding lots of guns. Kane. Jay. Abel. Flynn. So many guns. They come up with a fast snap, point at us, and when Lisa refuses to speak, one of the men steps forward.
Answer him! I beg her in my mind. Speak!
The sound of a cocking gun makes my stomach flip.
“Lisa!” I scream. “Her name is Lisa!”
“Too slow.” He squeezes the trigger, and sends my hearing tinny, my vision gray, as the gun explodes and Lisa falls.
Blood sprays against the side of my face, over the cute outfit she helped me pick out only a few hours ago, against the wall and the thick rug on the floor.
Heavy, too heavy, my sister drops to the floor, and pulls me down under her weight.
“No!” I wail. “No! Oh my god, no!”
I will never forget the way I can see inside my sister’s head. The way her eyes stare into mine… but they don’t see me at all. I will never forget the nausea that rolls in my stomach, the black edging against my vision.
“Lis,” I sob. “Wake up.”
I don’t even wake with a start anymore. I don’t gasp for breath like I once used to, when my dreams visited me at my weakest, and tried to hurt me. I only open my eyes in the early morning light, squint to fight the glare coming through my window, and sniffle back the tears that try to escape through my nose.
I hug Galileo close, my little spoon, and try to breathe to the same rhythm he does. He’s awake too, he knows I was having a nightmare, because he wasn’t my spoon when I went to sleep late last night.
Too late. Too hyped up.
I wipe my wet cheeks against my pillowcase, breathe through my mouth, swallow down the lump in my throat, and I simply… exist.
I live, because my sister cannot.
I breathe, because she never will again.
I keep myself safe, because the last time I was impulsive, my sister was murdered, and I was given away like some prized virginal mare, waiting to be mounted and mated.
Swallowing again, I try to switch out the nightmarish memory of Kane – my friend, my boss – and replace it with the man I know today. In my mind, I place a hacky sack in his hands, his beautiful wife by his side, his twin daughters as they run around us and play.
I think of Jay, not the stoned partier from that night in the club, but the man married to a ballerina, the father to two more ballerinas. I think of him, place a Nerf gun in his hands, a Snickers bar hanging from his mouth, and I force myself to remember the good in him. Not the bad.
Never the bad. Because sometimes, good people are forced to do bad things.
My mind tries to trick me into thinking about Kane unbuckling his belt. His rough hands grabbing my hair. His crass words rasping past a raw throat, and then later, when he…
No.
I reach out for my phone, unlock it with a fast swipe of my thumb, then send a text. I make an appointment, save my own life. When I’ve caught my breath, and I’m certain I won’t slide to the floor the second I become vertical, I push upright, and concentrate on not letting the spots in my vision take me under.
Fuck Abel Hayes for ruining my life. Fuck Infernos, the club that, thankfully, ironically, burned down not so long after my sister’s murder. Fuck my subconscious for trying to hurt me. And though I’m not mad at him in particular, fuck Tucker Morris for trying to make me impulsive last night.
Pushing my blankets aside, I drop my feet out from under my covers, and press them to the floor.
Most people wear something cute to bed – panties, a teddy, maybe – but not me. I wear full pants, even in the summer. Socks. A tank, and in the winter, a sweater too. Because if the universe is coming to fuck me over again, I’m ready to get up and fight. If, according to my unhelpful neighbor, my building catches alight, I won’t be the idiot who dies while searching for something to wear, and I won’t be standing in the street in my underwear for the world to see.
I’ve become the most equipped, organized person on this planet, and I vow to never be caught off guard again.
Pushing to my feet and straightening my back with a groan, I stumble my way to the bathroom as my phone beeps with a return message. I pee, and give a gentle sigh as the anxiety coiled in my stomach rolls and slithers. I flush the toilet, wash my hands, and when I can bear to look at my reflection, I study the mirror and run a comb through my frizzy hair.
I really should stop going to bed with wet hair. But I probably won’t.
I reach out to take my toothbrush, only to stop when my hand shakes so violently that I have to clench both into fists.
I hate sleeping. I hate being unconscious. Because for those few hours a night, I’m unguarded, my psyche is careless and brutal. Memories that I’m able to suppress while I’m awake, batter at my brain and my heart, and send me hurtling back to the very worst moment of my life.
It’s like a scratched disk, a scene played on repeat. I’m not sure I’ve slept a single night in the last decade without dreaming of my sister’s murder.
The silver lining, I suppose, is that with enough exposure to that scene, I’ve become somewhat desensitized. My heart has become a callus, and my brain, a crusted piece of skin that, while it sees and experiences that moment over and over again, doesn’t hurt as much as it once did.
Leaving my toothbrush in the holder, I turn away from the mirror, ignoring the purplish shadows under my eyes, then I head to the kitchen and start the coffee machine.
Water gurgles through the tubes, and coffee beans grind as I walk a
way. I make my way to the front door, peek through the peephole, and sigh at the sight of my newspaper just six or so inches from my feet, on the other side of my steel door.
It should be easy to open the door; it should be a non-event, as simple as a swing in, and then a swing out.
But the man that sits in the doorway opposite mine with a bowl of Cheerios in his lap, and his own newspaper laid out on the floor while he reads the sports pages, makes it impossible.
I can’t open my door yet, because he’ll ask me to sit with him. And I can’t sit with him, because he’s the embodiment of recklessness. He admits to impulsiveness, to a hunger for adrenaline, to an affinity for being crazy.
He and I are not compatible in any way, because I already have a crazy, impulsive, reckless friend, and she gets the lion’s share of my panic attacks. I don’t need more of that.
So with a sigh, I turn away from my door, from my paper, from my cute neighbor, and I finish making my coffee.
Instead of reading the physical paper today like I do every day, I grab my tablet and download the electronic version. Instead of flipping pages like I so enjoy doing, I swipe to the next, and make do with the rich flavor of coffee on my tongue.
I wait a full hour before I leave my table, despite the itch in my fingers that tempts me to go back to the door and take a peek. I ignore the knock I hear, and when I don’t answer, I wait for the sound of a loud motorbike starting in the street. Only then do I make my way to the hall to collect my newspaper.
Turning to go back inside, I frown at the Post-It stuck to my door.
Either you left really early today, or you slept in late. I hope it’s the second. It’s the weekend, and you probably deserve to relax. Sorry I missed you at breakfast, but maybe I’ll catch you at dinner.
Have an awesome day, 4A.
Tuck
I let my chest empty, my shoulders droop, my breath come out on a “bleh.”
He’s kind of sweet, and he shared his pizza. He selected a movie I know he had no interest in watching, and sat really far away because he knew it would make me feel better. He ate his breakfast on the floor in a dirty hallway, he waited for me to come out and visit, and when I didn’t, he said sorry.
