That night, for the first time in many months, I dream of snow.
TWO
Gwenna
I’m sipping Absinthe in a scalding bubble bath, reading from the book of Job via the Bible app on my iPhone, when the thing rings.
“Ooh!” I almost drop it in the mounds of bubbles all around me. Such is my coordination at the moment. I get a split-second glimpse of the screen-saver clock—3:48 p.m.—before a name flashes across the screen: THE HAYWOODS.
“Well, well…”
Do I answer it?
Hell no.
I’m not speaking to that asshole Haywood. He can go sit on a rusty nail. I look down on my iPhone as it stops ringing.
“I dare you to leave a voice mail, monkey fucker.”
The phone beeps, just to spite me.
I dry my hand, take a small sip of my drink, and hit the “voicemail” symbol. I have to bring the towel to my ear before I put the iPhone to it.
Despite my heavy Absinthe cloak, I feel my heart throb in the second before Haywood’s voice fills my ear.
“This morning,” he rumbles, “I accepted an offer on the house. A residential offer. It was for twenty-thousand dollars less than asking price.” He pauses briefly, as if to let that sink in. Then his crisp, New Yorker voice continues: “I always cared about your situation, Gwenna. I’m pleased it worked out this way, and I wish you all the best.”
I sit there blinking for a minute, dripping bubbles off my bent elbow, my mouth open, my head feeling a little light.
When I get my bearings, I start shrieking. I don’t even mean to. It’s what my body does instinctively. Make noise. Make music.
I pull myself out of the tub and dry my hand and then the phone. Still naked, bubble-soaked and laughing, I flop down on my bed and dial Jamie.
She answers, “Hey, you.”
With no prior notice, my mouth opens and a squeal peals out.
* * *
Barrett
“Well…let’s see. Where is it? Hmm.”
The woman’s cheeks flush slightly as she rifles through her massive, purple purse. She makes a clucking sound to fill the silence, even though it isn’t—silent. A cool breeze drifts through the forest, tousling the pine needles, clicking fallen leaves together in a gentle autumn song that she can’t hear because her heart is likely pounding in her ears.
I fold my arms. “No rush.” My tone is easy but my stance says otherwise. Intentional. It’s automatic. And dickish, I realize as I watch her struggle with her monster purse. Controlling people begins with putting them off balance, that first step on the road to making them beholden to you. I don’t need to do that, though, do I? Not now that I’ve gotten what I wanted.
I unfold my arms and pull my phone out of my pants pocket. I tilt my head down and look at the screen, holding my right eye open for a long second while the phone’s OS reads and registers my retina. The screen flares from black to blue a millisecond later.
I’m hoping to pass for just a normal guy and take the pressure off my jittery realtor, but as I hold the phone in front of me, I realize I’m not sure what it is that normal guys are doing when I see them fucking with their phones. I need to get a normal phone. Onto which I can download something normal. Angry Birds? Breck played that sometimes.
The memory bumps the shard of pain embedded in my chest up somewhere between my sternum and my throat.
I use my imposter iPhone to take some pictures of Ms. Pryce’s gray, high-heeled boots. The phone is still and silent. Unlike an actual iPhone, it can hold millions of images. It gives no indication that it’s taking them. If left alone for enough hours, the phone will activate its own camera and begin sending images to headquarters. Of course, there’s no emergency right now. But taking pictures of my realtor while she assumes I’m playing games alleviates my strange anxiety.
Anxiety is what it is, I’ve realized: the weird feeling in my stomach and the elevated pulse. For the last couple of months, I thought it must be normal. Something I’d just failed to notice while I risked my life in war zones. Now I’m not so sure.
“Ugh.” She exhales, puffing out her cheeks. “I need to organize this crazy thing.”