Page 136 of Mess With Me

Yet here I fucking am.

I extract myself as quietly as I can from the bed, stepping into a pair of sweats as I go.

In my workshop, I check my email. I’ve sent five emails to Lionel over the past four days. I’ve also called him twice and texted him another half-dozen times. Worry ties a knot in my stomach.

I pull out my phone to text Ford, in case he’s heard anything. But I pause, staring at the image of Sasha and Imogen on the screen. Sometimes people are so sweet and pure the thought of them existing in this world feels like a mistake. Like there’s no way to protect them from the cruelness that exists.

I jam my finger onto the phone to clear the picture and shoot a text off to Ford.

Just as thewhooshof the send sounds, there’s a creak behind me.

I turn around on my chair. A sleepy-haired Sasha’s in the doorway to my shop. She’s pulled on one of my button-downs from the closet, and it’s misbuttoned, which only makes her look more perfect somehow.

“Hey,” I say, the terror of the dream flashing back for a moment. I shake it off. “What are you doing up?”

“I was worried about you,” she says, padding over in her bare feet.

Of course she was.

“It’s not clean in here,” I say.

“It’s okay. We could probably both use a shower.”

I smile, and the worry in my chest loosens just a little. She looks around. There’s a stool she could sit on by the bike, but it’s too far away. “Come here,” I say, beckoning her over with a cupped hand.

Sasha sits on me, curling up into my lap. For a moment I let myself live in the comfort I feel having her right here. There’s nothing that can happen to her when I’m physically holding her in my arms.

But she’s only up because of me.

“It’s late,” I say.

“I’ll go back to bed in a minute.”

As I inhale the scent of her, feeling the tickle of her hair against my cheek, I face the truth that I’m going to have to leave again. Soon. Worry for Lionel enters the knot in my stomach. I try to memorize the feel of her against my body. Then I remember what happened earlier. What I said.

I’m in love with you.

I want to tell her to forget it. I was caught up in the moment and the words just came out. But when I open my eyes, I see a flash of yellow in her hand.

She’s holding the little bird.

My throat feels tight, and I can’t quite explain why. I think it’s because this little object feels like it’s…the essence of her vulnerability. Or something.

“Can I see?”

She hands it to me.

I lean sideways so I can feel with both hands. The thing is small, no bigger than a tennis ball from beak to tail.

“It used to sing,” she says.

I run my thumb along its belly. There’s a seam there, and a little dip where a screw should be. “Want me to take a look?”

She nods.

I press my forehead against her arm. “I might need some tools.”

“Oh!” she gets up, laughing softly.

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