Page 52 of Festive Fugitive
The tiniest knot twists in my stomach. I’m no mind reader, but something is off.
Chapter 20
Cesar
It’sthebestChristmasDay of my entire life. I shouldn’t be feeling so distraught, yet here I am, chewing on the inside of my cheek as I wait for our food. The restaurant is busy with people who, like me, don’t crave a traditional gathering with glazed ham as the main dish, but I try to focus on something unrelated to the fact that the skin in the middle of my chest is borderline itchy for no good reason. I know for a fact I did not get any rash either, because Eli and I have recently showered at a truck stop, which means it’s all in my head, just because of the tattoo I ought to have before I board the ship.
I know why I’m increasingly obsessive about it, of course, but I’m not crazy and know nothing’s gonna happen if I retire without that final tattoo picked by Sullivan.
The fountain cascading through an artificial landscape somewhere in a fantasy version of ancient China keepswhispering to me, and I try to focus on its melody rather than on the clatter of dishes, the loud conversations—
“Sir, your food,” the waiter says, presenting me with the paper bag smelling of General Tso’s chicken, pepper steak, and fried wontons.
I thank him, leave a tip, and exit the restaurant, stepping out into the cold. It’s just past midday, and as I cross the street, heading for the spot where we parked, I take note of the distant drum of festive music. I’ve gotten us a place on a ship heading for Anchorage first thing in the morning, but we still have to wait almost twenty hours until boarding, and the quiet area around the city park seemed like the safest bet to stay away from cameras that might capture Eli’s face during the brief times he removes the fabric mask.
I told him to stay in the car and keep the doors locked, but I’m still relieved to see our vehicle where I left it, Eli intact, bobbing his head to the radio.
As soon as I open the door though and pass him the bag of food, I’m hit by the joyful Christmas tunes, because of course that’s what he’s listening to, and my stomach shrinks. I’m instantly reminded of what I shouldn’t be thinking of and it’s like a frustrating loop in my head.
I never finished my last job. I never got my last tattoo, the proof that I am free to walk away. But Sullivan’s dead, so it shouldn’t matter.
“Are you okay?” Eli cocks his head at me, pulling me out of the stupor.
Fuck. The last thing I need him worrying about is my fucked-up head.
“Yes, just a bit tired,” I say, sliding into my seat and locking the doors. “Got you one of those bubble teas too. Hope you will enjoymyChristmas tradition.”
“Chinese food? Sounds great. I’m just happy to be here with you.” Eli’s smile is so joyful when he looks my way. “I told you I could do some of the driving. We’re in this together.”
“I’d rather you can duck and hide at any moment. We’re still not out of the woods,” I tell him, stalling when my brain reminds me that without Sullivan’s final gesture I mightneverfeel truly out.
I know those are not logical thoughts, that a dead man can’t have any power over me anymore. Nothing is stopping me from dropping everything and living however the hell I want, but I can’t help feeling that the anchor that bastard had in me is still there, rusting inside my body, and poisoning every thought.
Even thinking about stepping on that ship makes me recoil. As if it’s illegal. Not allowed. As though my brain refuses to accept that I can in fact go. The invisible cattle prod is there to shock me, and I’m losing appetite by the second.
“I don’t know. I have a good feeling about it.” Eli shrugs and starts shoveling food into his mouth, oblivious to my torment. I want it to stay that way. He has enough to deal with.
“A good feeling about—” I let it hang in the air, wondering if I’ve turned to my thoughts for long enough to miss a chunk of our conversation.
Again, I slide my hand under my top and scratch the itchy emptiness in the middle of my torso.
It’s fine.
Sullivan is gone.
I don’t need his permission to retire.
And yet, being this close to the port and planning an escape is making my skull feel too tight, and my chest—constrained.
Eli grins wider when he opens another paper bag. “Oooh! Fried wontons. Have I mentioned I love you?” He winks at me, but I don’t have time to answer. “Look, they’re preparing for a parade in the park. Any one of those Santas could be the Festive Fugitive.” Eli wiggles his eyebrows and points farther in front of us, where a platform decorated to resemble a snow-covered mountaintop is surrounded by people in costumes.
I grab onto the empty skin under my clothes and twist the flesh, trying to distract myself with the discomfort of it. Sullivan no longer matters. Eli eliminated him from the game, and if I’m to be loyal to anyone, it’s he who deserves it. How else am I supposed to ensure his safety than to escort him someplace where he’s less likely to be found?
“They’re not the real thing.”
Eli smirks. “What ifI’mthe imposter and the real Festive Fugitive is now far away?”
It’s becoming hard for me to focus even on Eli’s jokes, which I love so much. The reality of leaving for Alaska in under twenty-four hours is hitting me in ways I never anticipated. Maybe it is weird that I’m not eating, nor responding to him like I normally would, but I’m in dire need of grounding myself, so I press my back to the seat and stare past the windshield, at the crowd preparing to set off with the parade. A pair of arms rises above all the moving heads, holding up a toddler, and all my muscles go rigid, as if the car accelerated to the speed of sound, forcing me to resist the unexpected pressure. A man in a Santa costume takes the child, and suddenly all I can think of is my fucking origin story.
