“You forgave them.”
“Yes, and myself. They forgave each other, and me. We were stronger for it,” Mira added. “And I think I was drawn to Dennis because of his bottomless well of kindness, and decency. I’d learned the value of those things because I’d seen their opposite.”
“How do you find the way back? How do you find the way when a marriage crumbles under you, and you turn away from each other? When it’s bad, so bad you can’t talk about it, or think about it?”
Mira reached out, laid her hands over Eve’s. “You can’t tell me what’s hurting you, and Roarke?”
“I can’t.”
“Then I’ll tell you the simple and most complex answer is love. It’s where you start, and where, if you work hard enough, want hard enough, you end.”
20 SHE DIDN’T WANT to go home. It was, Eve knew, evasion at its worst, but she didn’t want to go home to a houseful of people. She didn’t want to go home to Roarke.
The answer couldn’t be love—simple or complex—she didn’t see how that could be it. She couldn’t find her way through this thing that was strangling her marriage. And if she loved the man any more than she did, she’d burn up from it.
She didn’t see how the answer could be evasion either, though it helped at the moment. Walking in the city on a balmy evening, the familiar ground, the familiar sounds of irritable traffic, the smell of overdone soy dogs, the occasional whoosh through the vents of a train zooming by underground.
Clutches of people, ignoring each other—ignoring her—as they went about their own business and thought their own thoughts.
So she walked, and it occurred to her she never did this anymore. Never simply walked around the city when she didn’t have a specific destination, a specific purpose. She’d never been the meandering sort. And she sure as hell wasn’t interested in browsing from window to window to study whatever was being sold.
She could’ve rousted a couple of the sidewalk grifters hawking knockoff wrist units, PPCs, fake python handbags—all the rage this season—but she didn’t feel quite mean enough to bother.
She watched two women shell out seventy dollars each for snake bags complete with fangs for fasteners and wondered what the hell was wrong with people.
More because it was there than because of hunger, she dropped some credits on a glide-cart for a soy dog. The stink of the cart’s smoke followed her, and the first bite reminded her how disgusting, and oddly addicting, the fake meat on a stingy bun could be.
She watched a couple of teenagers weave through pedestrian traffic on an airboard. The girl riding pinion had her arms around the boy’s waist in what looked like a death grip, and she was squealing in his ear. From the expression on his face, he didn’t seem to mind. Probably made him feel like a man, Eve decided, to have some girl holding onto him and pretending she was afraid.
Not bothering to pretend anything was why she’d been so lousy at the mating rituals, she supposed. Then, with Roarke, she hadn’t had to pretend.
A messenger droid whizzed by on his zip-bike, risking smashed circuits and vehicular madness as he threaded through the breath of space between two Rapid cabs, then buzzed the bumper on another. The cab driver responded with a vicious blast of horn, which set off several other horns like dogs howling together at the moon.
“I’m driving here!” The driver shouted with his head and upper body popping out his side window. “I’m driving here, you asshole!”
But the red cap and boots of the messenger droid were only a blur as he cut through the light on the yellow, and kept jetting.
She heard snatches of conversations as she walked—bits and pieces of sexual, shopping, or business escapades—all delivered with the same passion.
A licensed beggar squatted on a rag of blanket and played a mournful tune on a rusty flute. A woman with a python bag and matching boots glided out of a shop trailed by a uniformed droid carting several glossy bags. She slid into a shiny black limo.
Eve doubted she’d heard the flute—she’d bet the beggar wasn’t even on her plane of existence. People didn’t pay enough attention, she decided, and tossed a couple of credits into the beggar’s box as she passed by.
The city was awash with color and sound and energy, with petty meanness and careless kindnesses. She didn’t pay enough attention. She loved it, but she rarely looked at it.
And if that was some sort of subconscious metaphor for her marriage, it was time to ditch the rest of the soy dog and get back to work.
She saw the bump and snatch. The man in the suit, carrying a briefcase who crossed toward the curb to hail a cab. The boy of about twelve who bumped against him, the quick exchange of words.
Watch it, kid.
Sorry, mister.
And the fast hands, very fast, very light, that nipped into the pocket of the suit and palmed the wallet.
Still munching her soy dog, she strode toward them just as the boy turned to melt into the crowd. She caught him by the collar.
“Hold on,” she said to the suit.