Page 26 of Severance

“Then why are you calling me a church girl?”

“What do you want me to call you?”

His question is unexpected. Not that I anticipated an apology or anything. He’s not that kind of a guy. “What did Dakota call me?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t talk about you.”

Somehow, I don’t believe him.

Mikah takes another drag and looks away, his gaze wandering off into the twilight distance. “Why do you want to know what he called you? Didn’t you two spend like twenty-four hours a day together?”

This sounds a lot like a reprimand. “Because the time we had wasn’t enough,” I say, my voice cold. “Because I miss him.”

Mikah stares down at me through the cloud of smoke. “Do you fucking think I don’t miss him?”

“Then why don’t you want to talk about him?”

“What for? He’s dead.”

The words float in the air, ugly and sad, soiling the last of the calm between us. It feels almost like if we don’t say them out loud, Dakota might somehow come back.

“I’m sorry.” I toss the cigarette on the ground and grind it into a patch of dirty snow with the heel of my boot.

“Look.” Mikah tilts his head, his expression still serious but not as unkind. “I’m not a fucking therapist. If you want to talk about this shit that happened or my brother, talk to your counselor. If you want to talk about other stuff—not related to those two things—it’s fine. I just can’t take any more drama on right now.”

“Okay. Do you not want me to call you then?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I understand.”

He finishes off his cigarette and locks the truck. “I have some beer. Do you want to hang out for a bit?”

“Sure.”

* * *

We sit in the living room on opposite sides of the coffee table. Mikah’s on the couch, surrounded by boxes. I’m in a chair, still wearing Dakota’s leather jacket and slowly getting used to its weight on my shoulders. The table creates the illusion of a barrier between us.

The music in the background sounds a lot like something Dakota would listen to. Soft and a bit sad. The cold bottle of beer feels foreign between my palms, and it tastes like crap. Not as bad as Jack Daniels, because it doesn’t burn as much, but not as great as pineapple juice.

I contemplate whether I should tell Mikah about my Bram Stoker classic quest but decide against it. I don’t want to look stupid by bringing up a book I’m not done with yet and have him criticize me for it. Instead, I choose an easy topic.

“I’m thinking of trying to bake a cheesecake for my blog.”

“Have you baked one before?” Mikah asks, taking a swig of his beer.

He probably doesn’t care about my blog or what my hobbies are, but since Dakota and the attack are off limits, I’m not sure what else to talk to him about.

“No. But I can bake cupcakes and carrot cake and red velvet cake and…” My tongue sticks to my palate.

Truth is, I have little interest in blogging right now. I haven’t posted anything on my Instagram in weeks either, not since before The Crystal Room. My parents insisted I needed to stay away from the internet and social media after I had a panic attack. Finding out about a mass murderer getting a trial delay will do that to you, but what do they know, right? They weren’t there.

“I see.” Mikah’s eyes slide over to me.

I take a small sip of my beer and pick at the thin plastic label coating the bottle. My gaze locks on Mikah’s and I stare at him for a while, wondering why he invited me in.

We drink in silence, although I know it’s probably best to leave since this hangout doesn’t seem to be going as planned.

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