Page 80 of Underground Prince

Fresh fists hit my bedroom door.

I wanted it to be me. I’ll take your place. Take mine now. Please.

“Why’d you lock this thing!” Pound-pound. “Scarlet!”

POUND.

I inhaled fear, filling my lungs and rocketing up in bed.

“Dude!” Verily shouted, her screams becoming less muffled the more effort she put into them.

“I—I’m up. I’m awake!” I said, louder so Verily could hear me, my hand on my heart. It was going crazy, fluttering and launching around in the wake of my dream.

Dream. That’s all this was.

“Dang, you’re sleeping heavy lately.” Pause. “Why am I locked out?” Gasp. “Do you have someone in there? Don’t tell me it’s fucking Matt.”

“No.” It was more of a croak than a reliable denial. “No!”

“I choose to believe you. This time.” She muttered something else through the door, words that sounded suspiciously like “Sax” and “our apartment” and “never.”

She said, “You better get up. You took a Sunday shift at the Aug, remember? And Lila and I planned to crash it and stalk you over our Irish breakfasts.”

I rubbed at my eyes, surprised my skin wasn’t crumbling from the pressure. “How about I meet you there. I still have to…” Remember reality “…shower and stuff.”

“‘No problem. Coffee’s brewing in the kitchen.” Her footsteps retreated, and I was left in blissful silence, until the quiet settled down on me, offering up its void to be filled however I wanted.

“No more,” I said to myself, throwing my covers off. My skin was sticky from dried sweat and tears.

“Oh! One more thing!”

I jolted from Verily’s voice. “That’s two heart attacks you’ve given me, Vare, and it’s not even ten yet!” I called.

“Then open the damn door!”

I rose, clicking the lock open, and was greeted with sparkly-faced, Sunday-morning Verily.

She said, “Shoot. You okay?”

I was probably not doing myself any favors by standing in the direct sunlight of the hall window. “Bad dream.”

“You want to talk about it?”

I shook my head, a low side-to-side.

“I wanted to mention tonight to you,” Verily said, accepting my answer without probing further, a wonderful trait she possessed. “You’ve been scheduled. This afternoon, right after your morning at the restaurant. And your trust has finally been earned, so you should start getting your own text messages on the subject. Yippee.”

“Oh,” I said, my brows drawing in.

“Oh?” Verily echoed. “That’s all you got? Usually you throw elbows at the chance.”

I opened my mouth to say something, rethought my words, and eventually said, “Not this time.”

A smack of her palm on my forehead was her response.

“Ow,” I said, pushing at her hand as her fingers became caught in my nighttime hair snarls.

“Are you sick? Fever?”

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