“I didn’t. I sent you a message last week asking you to put in a formal visitation request. You’re given two of those a year, you know? And in all these years you’ve never even used one.”
“Oh yes,” she says. “Rude of you to ask, but you’ve always been that way—rude and out of control.”
“So you’ve told me.” I take a sip of lemonade, sucking my teeth at the sweetness.
She looks toward the kitchen door and calls—”Rachel, ice!” And then turning back to me says, “Why did you want to come anyway? Not like you’ve ever made the effort before…”
“Must be all that childhood trauma that kept me away. Who would have thought that locking your child in closets as punishment would have a long-lasting effect?”
Her eyes are clear and then it’s as if a curtain goes over them and she’s a child in a wildflower field, dancing with the fairies. “Are you here for the tea party?” she asks, smoothing out her dress. “I like the itsy-bitsy square sandwiches best…”
I stare at her, unsure of whether to shake her, yell until my mother comes back, or run and never return. I’d have to talk to her doctor to actually believe this is a real thing. For now, it just seems like another one of her tricks to punish me.
I stand up as Rachel is coming in with the large tray. I pick up two itsy-bitsy sandwiches and pop them into my mouth.
“Delicious, thank you.” I lean over and kiss my mother on the cheek and she puts her hand where my lips touched and sighs.
My heart flutters to an unknown rhythm as I pause over her. I clear my throat, swallowing away the flicker of emotion, and decide to take this moment as her gesture to me, a sign that she does care, and leave before she can change my mind.
I ask to be taken to the End Men compound. I intend on paying a visit to Aries. A few minutes before we arrive, I try to connect with my mother’s doctor. Rachel gave me her information, but the doctor doesn’t respond. I leave a message asking her to call me. That whole visit isn’t sitting right with me, but I never expected to leave a visit with my mother feeling peaceful. I could definitely prefer the delusional version if I knew it was the truth.
When we pull in the gate, I can’t help but think of Folsom, with the Red being the last place he was seen. This is the longest we’ve gone without talking; I’m counting on it being because he’s safe and doesn’t want to jeopardize his location, but the unknown is killing me.
I wait in the common area before Aries arrives, his staff bending over backwards to accommodate me.
“How long have you been with Aries?” I ask his handler.
She’s young, younger than most handlers by at least a decade, maybe more. There’s the briefest pause in which she gives me an almost startled look. Realization dawns on me and I try to keep the surprise off of my face.
“Two years as his handler,” she says.
And how long as his lover?I want to ask. “He’s lucky, the common traits among handlers are sour-faced and cold.”
“My aunt got me the job,” she says shyly. “But you should tell Aries that. He’s constantly trying to pick a fight with me.”
“Probably because of your hair—did you know he has a thing for redheads?”Also because he has issues submitting to authority,I almost add.
“No. He absolutely does not have a thing for my red hair,” she mutters, eyes flashing.
I grin, wondering if he’s in love with her. Love seems to be trending among the End Men.
Aries stalks in twenty minutes later, glowering at me, his large shoulders filling the doorway. He pulls his hair away from his face, knotting it at the back of his head. I’ve always given him grief about his long hair, but now I have new material with the girl.
“Hey, hot handler.” I lift my eyebrows. “Mind if I give her a go?”
His eyes go from calm to war in seconds and I shake him by the shoulder, laughing.
“It’s just too easy with you,” I say. “And just as I thought. The Society know you have a thing for her?”
“I don’t—I just don’t want your filthy dick touching her.”
“Noted,” I say, still smiling. “She’s young to be a handler. Is she—”
“Infertile,” he answers quickly. “Due to an...incident when she was a child.”
I want to ask more, but I can see by the look on his face that the subject is closed.
He sets about cutting limes at the bar, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.