Page 2 of Captured Immune

Money?Done.

My house?Take it.

My car?Here ya go.

Just be with me.

With a sigh, I scold myself. I shouldn’t have let her go. I especially shouldn’t have grabbed her the forceful way I had. Add those to my long list of mistakes.

Jess continues with a sparkling grin. “Sooo, she’s pregnant?”

“Yep.” Admitting it out loud to another person makes it more real.

“Who’s the father?”

Isn’t that the million-dollar question?I wish I knew. At the same time, I don’t think I want to know. I’ll obsess over it, and I’ll want to know everything about him so I can figure out why she chose him over me. “I dunno, but she tried to tell me it’s mine.”

Low laughter bellows from Jess’s gut. “Wow! I’m so glad I was here to witness this. An Ordi trying to convince a Zordi she’s carrying his child? Holy shit! This is better than TV.”

Seriously?I glare at her. “Get out.”

“What?”

With the fingers not holding my precious photo, I point at the front door. It swings wide open, coming to a firm stop just before hitting the wall. “Get the fuck out.”

“Hell no! I need to know all the deets! Like, what’s her motive? Is she trying to get your money?”

“Out! Now!” I give her two seconds. When she still doesn’t move, I lose it. With a flick of my wrist, the couch shoots toward the door with her still on it.

“Whoa! All right, all right. I’m leaving. No need to be such an ass.”

She’s right. I am an ass, and she’s a bitch, so I don’t give a flying fuck what she thinks of me. I just lost the most important person in my life, and she’s laughing about it like I’m on some stupid reality TV show. I’m done being her entertainment, and I’m done being her last-minute rebound.Just get out!

Once she stands, I point at the couch and fly it back to where it belongs. The second Jess has crossed the threshold, I wave a hand at the door. It slams shut behind her, and the bolt lock clicks. I hope I never have to see her face again. Ever.

I push the sopping strands of dark hair away from my face as I storm into my music room.

Minutes later, my pen flies messily across notebook paper as lyrics tumble from my mind. It’s not long before I’ve got two new verses and a chorus written. I grab my guitar to play some chords along to the melody.

When I was eight, I learned that playing and writing music helped settle the tornado of misery swirling in my head all the time. That, and lighting stuff on fire. And throat-punching people.

As a teenager, I found out that getting drunk helps too.

As an adult, I discovered that z-drugs work the best. The higher I get, the less agony I feel. I wish I had some right now, because writing this song isn’t helping.

“Fuck!” I smash my guitar against the floor. The wood breaks with a loudcrack!as the instrument snaps in half.

For the first time since I got the call about Elliott passing away, I burst into tears. Thinking about losing my Deaf mentee kid only makes me sob harder. He meant so much to me, and I only had him for a short amount of time. Sadly, I had Arella for less.

My shoulders are shaking, and I’m wheezing. I don’t even understand why I’m crying. Maybe it’s because of the way things ended with her. Maybe it’s because it happened on the anniversary of the worst day of my life. Either way, my relationship with her was doomed from the start. Whether it was now, like this, or later when the Superiors hauled me off to z-prison for having close relations with an Ordinary, eventually, our relationship would have ended, and I knew that.

So why the hell do I feel this broken? Why, for weeks, did I try to convince myself that we could make it work? Zordinaries and Ordinaries aren’t meant to be together. Wecan’tbe together. Knowing that didn’t stop me from falling in love with her, especially when everything with her feels more natural than blinking.

* * *

My body lurchesupright as I wake. The sky outside my window is black. I don’t remember falling asleep, especially not on the floor. My eyes are sore, and my neck aches from the way I was lying. Next to me is my shattered guitar in a helpless heap of broken pieces. At least my shorts are dry now... mostly.

I flop onto my back and stare at the motionless ceiling fan. I’m not sure how long I stay like that. Maybe it’s five minutes. Maybe it’s five hours. It doesn’t matter.

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