Page 28 of Running Feral

There’s a decent amount of hallway in between the little kitchen/storage area at the back, and the bar itself. Conveniently, it doesn’t have any windows. It’s right by the door that leads to Gunnar’s apartment and about as far from the main entrance as you can get. Which is where I’m sitting, drinking something fruity that Kasia handed me wordlessly. It’s delicious, but tragically doesn’t seem to have alcohol in it.

Alcohol would really settle my nerves right now. I would drink Everclear. Not a lot. I don’t need to be drunk. But just enough to take the edge off this squirrel-like urge to constantly check and recheck my surroundings would be fantastic.

Booze isn’t good for a lot of things, but it is excellent at making you care less about both yourself and the world around you. It’s pretty much the only thing it brings to the table. My body cares way too much about every single aspect of existence, even if my mind is telling it not to.

Because realistically, this was a good idea. Damn Gunnar and his stupid wisdom. I’m just as secure here as I was upstairs, and it is kind of nice not to be fusing into the couch all alone. Although I’m now much more aware of how much I need a shower, and the thought is making me want to hunker in on myself.

The guys are all busy doing stuff that looks relatively tedious but important. Cleaning things. The kitchen—if you can call it that—is basically just a place where they deep fry shit, throw nachos into plastic trays, and cut up fruit. But it’s nice to see they keep it clean, which is more than I can say for most bars I’ve spent time in.

No one really talks to me. I get the feeling they’re treating me with kid gloves, but I don’t feel like talking, so I’m not mad about it. Sav hardly talks anyway, but he does watch me. Not in a creepy way, though. More like he’s checking I’m still here.

Kasia has never been anything other than tepid toward me. Now, she’s giving me these looks that I think are about as empathetic as she gets, but thank fuck she’s not trying to become friends. She is, however, oozing stress from every pore and seems to be throwing that stress into cleaning ferociously. I don’t love myself a lot, but I’m going to choose to love myself enough to assume her stress has nothing to do with me.

Gunnar is the only one who does speak to me. Mostly making very dorky jokes whenever he walks past, which I also don’t hate. The whole thing is peaceful, and ridiculously normal, and it lulls me into a semi-relaxed state. About as relaxed as I’m going to get, I assume.

Until I hear raised voices coming from the bar. For a second, everything freezes, because I assume the worst. But the doors are locked. I made Gunnar check like a billion times. As the fog of panic recedes a little, I try to pick through the angry sounds and see what it actually is.

Kasia and Gunnar are fighting. Not yelling, exactly. But terse.

My ability to pretend this isn’t about me is waning, but I’m still holding out hope. Not everything is about me, I remind myself.

Curious, I set down the bag of tortilla chips that someone handed me at some point and carefully lower myself off the stool. My ankle throbs whenever it’s not raised, especially when Iput weight on it. It’s also starting to feel more stiff than swollen, like a lump of painful rock sitting on the end of my leg. But I’m used to powering through a little pain, and I need to know what’s going on.

“I can deal with it myself, Gunnar.”

“You shouldn’t have to, though. Why won’t you let me help?”

Their voices are clear, because it’s a relatively small space and there’s only quiet music playing right now. I was planning to stay out of sight, but I think this is confirmation that it really isn’t about me.

It’s a misstep. As soon as Kasia sees me limping around the corner, driven by morbid curiosity, she points at me.

“That. That’s why.” Ok, rude. “You have your own problems to deal with. I’m a big girl. I will take care of it.”

“Uh, I’m fine, thanks. I don’t need a babysitter.”

I don’t totally believe the words even as I say them, because I can’t even seem to sleep unless Gunnar is eight inches away from me, but still. The battered remnants of my pride want me to say something.

Kasia’s expression tells me she’s not buying it, anyway.

“It’s not a bad thing, kid. It’s fine. I’ve needed help too, but my days of handholding and weeping into my pillowcase are behind me.”

Gunnar sighs more dramatically than I knew he was capable of. “Jesus Christ, Kasia, no one outgrows vulnerability. You don’t hit a certain birthday and become totally self-sufficient. I don’t know what you’re trying to prove here.”

Apparently, that’s when Sav notices the very loud snark-fest and decides to get involved.

“What’s the problem?”

“Kasia—” Gunnar starts before she cuts him off.

“Don’t!”

“No. If you didn’t want me to be involved, you wouldn’t have told me. You know me better than that. For better or worse, we are all a very weird, fucked-up team and we are going to help.” He pauses, waiting for her to interject again, but she’s silent this time.

His mouth opens like he’s about to speak, but then he looks at me again and gets distracted. Moving across the room with long strides, he passes me, grabs my stool from the hallway and then brings it over to where I’m currently leaning against the wall. Then, without hesitation, he wraps those giant hands around my waist and hoists me up onto it like a child.

It absolutely, 100%, in no way turns me on.

I swear.

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