Page 46 of Facing Off
We stay like that for a while before I speak again.
“He slept in a chair,” I confess clumsily into the dark.
Somehow I think Diana knows I’m talking about her owner. She purrs again.
“I know, but why? I’m not used to letting anyone do something like that for me. Not that I let him…”
Diana nuzzles my fingers.
Tentatively, I scratch her chin, wondering if she’ll like that. She does.
“Let me know if I do anything wrong, okay? I’m really new at this,” I whisper. “Not that you should trust my judgment right now, because look at me. Clearly, I’m not myself. I mean, there was that dream…” I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling heat spread across my neck and cheeks. “No, I said I wasn’t going to talk about it, and Iwon’t. It doesn’t mean a thing… I’m not letting it…
“A lot has been happening, okay? Shit I shouldn’t be dealing with, that I don’t understand. But also I shouldn’t be getting this comfortable arguing with him, either.” The rhythm of my petting falters. “Like I should be un-fucking-fazed. But no. It feels like I’m going…I don’t know.Backwards?I don’t need that. It took way too long for me to get this strong. It’s not like I’m?—”
Lonely.
I blink. And squeeze my lips together.
Why didthatword pop up in my head? It makes no sense. I don’t know, and I try not to judge myself for it, but it’s hard not to. Because I’mnotlonely.
At least Diana doesn’t say anything, but stays in my arms. I can’t stop stroking her soft fur. Who knows how much time passes when my eyes drift closed again.
19
SONYA
In the morning,I wake up alone. Diana is gone. I make quick work of tidying the bed as if I was never there and then grab my jacket and bag.
It’s my phone that gives me trouble.
It’s connected to the longest, most annoying cord tangled up in his side table. When I try disconnecting the charger, it knocks a drawer open.
I’ve got no intention to snoop, because why would I? Why do I want to look through what I assume will be a fair amount of toys, lube, batteries, and most likely a towel. You know, standard sex stuff.
But that’s not what I find. In the process of shutting his drawer, I glance down.
This frayed picture snags my attention.
Without meaning to, I lift it up. Something inside me swoops and dips.
Two teenagers in hockey jerseys grinning at the camera.
Adrian Hughes looks like a boy band version ofhimself. Floppy blonde hair, that same smirk, chunky silver braces.
Beside him is a boy with a more quiet confidence. Their features seem different enough for them not to be related. This kid has a broader nose, thinner mouth, and nearly buzzed dark brown hair.
Friends maybe? Or a childhood hockey pal?
Either way,not your business, Sonya.
Putting the picture away, I accidentally place it down the other way, which is how I see the message on the back.
All caps, roughly scrawled.
But that’s not what startles me.
The message does.
