He gives me a ride back to his place and we don’t talk in the car. He’s busy staring out the windshield doing his best to ignore me, even though I’m brimming with questions and want to know what’s going to happen to me, but I keep my mouth shut. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do about his offer yet, even though no real alternatives have presented themselves.
“Goodnight, little thief,” he says once we’re inside—the first words he’s spoken to me in hours. He disappears back into his room and closes the door, which I take as a dismissal.
I head into the guest room. Bags of clothing are piled on the floor next to the bed, some designer stuff from Chanel and Prada and Fendi, but also basics from Gap and J. Crew and Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein and Aerie. I change out of my smutty club work outfit and pull on a simple pair of leggings and an oversized black t-shirt and curl up in bed without bothering to shower the smell of body glitter, alcohol, and sweat off my skin.
In the morning, my whole life will change.
No matter what I decide, my path is going to radically diverge from where I thought I’d be right now. Either I’ll take his offer and join him in whatever mad quest he’s on and become his spy or whatever else he wants to use me for, or I’ll decline and find out what the consequences will be. I can’t imagine either option will be any good, and I can’t stop the tears I feel welling up in my eyes.
God, I hate crying. Even back in West Virginia sitting in the hallow of a downed tree hiding from my stepfather as he screamed my name into the black forest, even then I didn’t cry. But now I can’t help it.
Riley never wanted this for me. I remember sitting in the woods with her back home, deep in the pine forest that stretched along the empty land between my mom’s squat little rundown house and Riley’s family trailer, and talking about what we wanted from life. Even when we were young, Riley wanted to be an actress, or anything that’ll get me the fuck outta this rundown piece of shit hellhole, she’d say with a huge smile and laugh, and that was my cousin, so full of life and excitement and energy that it was sometimes hard to take.
What about you, Gracie girl? You gonna stay in the foothills your whole life, marry some drunk dickhead that hits you as much as your stepdaddy does? You gonna have his dickhead babies and waste away like your momma?
I never had a good answer back then, but I did have dreams: good grades, community college, West Virginia University, and finally graduate school somewhere far, far away. I wanted to run as far and as fast as I could from Momma and The Fist aka Momma’s second husband aka my stepfather Todd The Drunk Fucking Prick. I started calling him The Fist to Riley after he punched me so hard it left an outline of his knuckles on my cheek just under my right eye, and Riley raged and raged and raged and threatened to call the cops. I calmed her down by saying nobody would ever believe Todd was actually the world’s worst superhero The Fist in disguise, and she laughed at that but it was never okay, never, ever okay.
She would’ve hated this. She would’ve been so angry that I threw myself into this lair of devils just to chase after a rumor and a hint of her, and she would’ve been so angry if she knew that I was trapped by Calvino and at his mercy. She wanted so much more, dreamed so massively huge, glitter and glam and happiness unending, but that was never me.
I had boring dreams, normal dreams.
I pictured a clean, safe place to live. I pictured fast internet and plenty of food and all my bills paid up on time. I pictured quiet, and no more The Fist to give me shit, and no more Momma to come stumbling home drunk each night.
My dreams were black and white, but Riley dreamed in color.
And no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be her.
I can’t sleep.
I toss and turn thinking about my cousin and yearning for her so damn bad it hurts until I give up around three and walk out into the hall. It’s quiet and I sneak into the living room, but just as I’m heading toward the couch and the big windows and the mindless safety of the TV, I stop moving and stare.
Calvino’s sitting in a chair in front of the fire, looking out at nothing, at the black night. I’m about to turn and head back to my room, but he’s looking at me in the reflection in the glass, his eyes locked on mine.