3
“Doyou want some fries with your ketchup?” Harry grinned and motioned at her plate with one of his own fries. “Jesus, girl.”
She swirled her fry around the giant puddle of the tasty red condiment she had poured onto her plate. “I know what I like. So sue me.”
He chuckled and sipped his beer. The man could put them back like a champ and never showed the effects. She was jealous. She was a lightweight, a product of her being small. Not petite—she somehow managed to be busty and short. It was really only a pain in the ass when she was trying to reach things on shelves, and when she was reminded of how cheap of a date she was. One drink, and she was wobbly. Which usually meant she had two or three. She understood why people could get hooked on getting drunk, especially when reality wasn’t exactly pleasant.
When they wanted to escape.
She really, really understood the urge to drink.
But she was going to have to walk home alone. She couldn’t afford a cab and bills after buying them both dinners, so she took her time with her single beer. At least Harry was covering his own alcohol.
She spun her drink idly between her fingers and watched how the bubbles on the side of the glass caught the light. “I’m sorry again about blacking out.”
“Not your fault. You can’t control it.”
“It’s still stupid…I wish it didn’t happen. I just wish I weren’t like this.”
“I know, I know. But it’s still not your fault.” A heavy hand landed on her back. Harry rubbed a palm over her shoulders. She was small and he wasn’t, so he didn’t even need to lean over to reach her from where he was sitting at the table.
They probably looked like they were on a date. She always wondered if Harry was interested in her. She didn’t know why else a guy just randomly helped a woman hide an unconscious drugged-up pervert like he had the night they met. But he never made a move. Sure, he teased her occasionally, but it wasn’t the same thing.
It wasn’t that she was interested in him. He was attractive, he was sweet, he was built like an athlete, but what the hell was she going to do in a relationship? She didn’t know who she was. She didn’t know why she was in Boston. She didn’t know why she kept blacking out, or what the hell she was trying so desperately to run away from.
For all she knew, she was a serial killer. That she was the monster in her visions.
It isn’t a monster. Monsters aren’t real. I took whatever trauma I’ve been through and turned it into a creepy shadow demon with claws. It’s easier to be afraid of something fake than it is to face what happened to me. Gideon never came right out and said it, but she suspected that was what was going on.
“I wish I were strong enough to face whatever happened to me. Like, what’s the worst possible thing? Did I witness a murder? I wasn’t tortured, there’d be proof of that. Scars or something. Rape? Okay, plenty of people get raped and go on to write…like…best-selling novels. Or give TED Talks or some shit. Not suffer major blackouts and hallucinations.” She plopped her elbow on the table and rested her head in her hand, swirling another French fry around the veritable ocean of ketchup she had put on the white porcelain plate. “What’s wrong with me? Why am I so damn weak?”
“Different people just process things differently. Me? They think I suffered some major head trauma. I’m just me. Harry the Whacko, who can’t function in normal society, working as a guard dog to some rich asshole who wants me to protect his shit at night.” He sighed. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Mags.”
She snorted and shot him a look.
With a faint smile, he tucked a strand of her dark and neon orange hair behind her ear. “Nothing wrong with you that you had anything to do with. People cope differently. This is how you cope with whatever it is that happened to you.”
“I just wish I knew how to fix it. I wish I knew how to get better.”
“Do you want to get better?”
“Of course I do.” She looked over at her friend. “Don’t you?”
He shrugged. “This isn’t too bad. I have a job. I have a few friends. I’m okay. A lot of people have it worse. At least I’m not like the guy in 4C.” Harry cringed. “Licking the wallpaper all the time.”
“That’s fair.”
“Have you told the Doc?”
“About what?”
“That you want to get better. That you don’t want to have blackouts anymore.”
“I figured that’d be pretty obvious.” She munched on her French fry. “Why else would I go to all the appointments?”
“Collecting on the disability checks.”
“I guess.” She picked up a piece of the lettuce that had come with her burger and idly began to roll it into a tube. She needed to fidget with something. “Well, I—”