Page 40 of Kept in the Dark
He’s not coming down?
As quietly as I can, I sneak off the mattress and poke my head up the stairs. He’s sitting upright on the built-in couch where we played chess, arms crossed and chin tucked against his chest.
I balk. What happened tomy safe house, my bed? Disappointment rises in my chest, swift and hot, but I try to tell myself I’m being ridiculous.
Briefly, I consider waking him and offering to switch places, then decide to be selfish for once so I can starfish. Maybe we can trade off nights.
The next morning, we choreograph a careful dance of avoidance. He studies a map while I eat a breakfast of more protein that turns my stomach even more sour than it was. I wash it down with as much water as I can manage. Between the anti-nausea drugs, the lack of fiber and all the stress, my digestion is all out of whack. I’m trying not to think too much about whatever is still making its way out of my body, because worrying doesn’t accomplish much more than adding to the stomach ache. If it’s drugs, we’ve got it covered. If it’s something else… we’ll see, I guess.
I grab my bleak Russian book while he fiddles with the radio, tuning it to various frequencies and listening intently to what mostly sounds like static to me. I try to read, but I’m so hyperaware of him looming in the tiny cabin next to me, I can’t concentrate.
Just as I’ve had enough and stand to head out onto the deck, the tiny tapping noises start—drizzle against windows.
Guess the weather isn’t going to let me be a coward about this.
With a sigh, I close the book and set it down on the table. He ignores me.
“We should start over. Start a new game,” I add, rushing to clarify when his head comes up. I gesture to the box still sitting out on the table, like it’s waiting for us to finish our confrontation. “Lower stakes. Something friendlier.”
“You do not want to answer my questions?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow at me.
There it is. That’s the reminder. We’re just two people on the run from danger, who hardly know or trust each other.
“No, I will. But maybe we can try to keep it a little more lighthearted?” I suggest with an encouraging smile.
He spins the dial on the radio so the noise cuts out with a little click, regarding me with what I assume is interest, based on his tone. “How do you propose we lower the stakes?”
I shrug. “Maybe we can pass on answers we don’t want to give, and there’s no, like, grand prize for winning. Just bragging rights. I really don’t want to learn how to fish, even though I’m bored. I don’t think it’s possible for me tobebored enough to want to learn how to fish.”
My silly little joke doesn’t land how I hoped it would, but his eyes flash with interest all the same. “Very well. I accept your terms.”
I take the same seat as yesterday, watching as he takes his. “You want to go first this time?” I offer in the spirit of a fresh start.
“You need the advantage,” he counters, almost playfully.
I chuckle. “Hey, if you want to give it up, far be it for me to turn it down.”
I move my first pawn. He repeats his move from yesterday, and I take his first pawn again.
“When’s your birthday?”
He grimaces. “Pass.”
Whoa. I figured that one was an easy one. I thought I was starting us off gently. “What?” I ask. The question slips out, and I can’t control the accompanying smile until he scowls at me. I tuck my lips in and tamp down until the urge passes, then ask, “Okay, then at least tell me why. Is it for safety—because it can be used to identify you or something?”
Without responding, he moves another piece. For a few long seconds I think he isn’t going to respond at all, and disappointment swells—this isn’t starting out well at all—but then he says, “It is not important. You Americans are so eager to celebrate things.”
“You don’t tell people your birthday because you don’t want a birthday party?”
“Is that not a preferable outcome to telling people and expecting a celebration that never comes?”
My smile dries up. I doubt he’ll expand on that, but now I won’t be able to stop wondering if he keeps his birthday a secret because he doesn’t think people want to celebrate him. I suppose, depending on the people in his life, that could be true. If his team is full of big, scary guys like him, they might not be the type to blow up balloons for a friend.
He takes the next piece. “Tell me about the life you will return to—your job and your family. Do you have friends? A lover?”
A lover?Who calls them that?
If I tell him I have a lover, will he back off?
