Page 105 of Haven't Killed in Years
“Good, you can’t leave me again.” He gave me a quick, forceful side hug and my heart grew three sizes, Grinch style.
“You seem to be doing all right,” I said.
“All the followers in the world can’t replace you.”
“Okay, calm down,” I said. It reminded me so much of before, when we used to sit together for hours in Painting Pots, talking about nonsense, his raging enthusiasm, my…whatever the opposite of that was. “Are you doing okay?” I asked. “Like, about the other stuff?”
“I haven’t killed any cats, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I laughed. “Sort of.”
“I have a therapist. My parents agreed to pay for it. Cheaper than college. I haven’t said anything about Reanne, so don’t worry. There’s enough I can talk about without that. I talk about you a little.” He bounced his eyebrows up and down. “Only the good stuff.”
“Of course,” I said.
“Do you think he told anyone?” Porter asked. “About what we did to Reanne’s body?”
I shrugged. “If he told the cops, they don’t seem to care. How would they prove it anyway? The rantings of a dead madman? They don’t even know where the body is.”
“Where is the body?”
I squinted at him. “Are you wearing a wire?”
Porter’s eyes bulged, the color draining from his cheeks.
“I’m kidding,” I said, and he exhaled, playfully backhanding me across the arm.
We sat in silence for a moment in such a way that it seemed we could almost forget everything bad that had happened. It was short-lived. Somber reflection was never his strong suit.
“I met two of the Teen Moms at a podcast convention in Austin.” He beamed.
“I don’t know what any of that means,” I said.
“Oh, Gwen,” he said, shaking his head with his patented disappointment. “Wait, can I call you Gwen?”
“Yes.”
“Not Marin?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I didn’t know why he said good; it was probably just easier for him, but I took it as acceptance.
“Well, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes,” a female voice came from behind us.
We both turned and there she was.
“Elyyyyyse!” Porter screeched, jumping up and hugging her, leaving her on the ground. Apparently the airborne hug was only for me and I felt special again.
She was in her typical dark clothing—less unique in this setting—eyeliner, haunted face, all the good stuff.
“Hey,” I said.
She close-mouth smiled at me and it was a tense moment.
Porter slid his eyes back and forth and read the mood. “I’m going to go in,” he said. “We’ll catch up later?”
