Page 87 of Severance

“Do you want to try some?” I ask, shoving the paper bag at him.

“Not right now.” His head jerks and he reaches out for the gear shifter, ignoring my three hours of labor.

Tears of frustration begin to pool in my eyes and I try to choke down my emotions. The last thing I want to do is cry in front of my father, but every little feeling I’ve been harboring since February, including my conflicting opinions about Mikah, God, and the death penalty, transforms into this loud, stupid wail that comes out of my lungs like a rocket. My hands are still clutching the bag with the macarons and my eyes are a watery mess.

“Alana?” I feel my father’s hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head.

“Alana?” His pained voice echoes through my throbbing head.

“This is the first time I’ve baked macarons,” I whimper between my sobs, sounding whiney and small. “And no one even wants to try them. No one.”

“What are you talking about?” My father’s face is a trembling smear in front of me.

“Do you know how hard it is to make perfect macarons, Dad?” I ask, not bothering to wipe away the tears.

“I know. I know, sweetheart.” He nods, pulling me into an embrace. “I’m sure they’re delicious. I’ll have some at home. I promise.”

We sit like this—with me crying against my father’s chest and hugging the bag of macarons I made for Mikah—for a very long time. Until there are no more tears left.

* * *

When I wake up at around noon, my face is swollen from all the crying, my head’s hurting, and my throat’s sore. The rain beating against the window has hidden the sun and sprinkled the dark sky with messy clusters of raggedy clouds.

I settle at my desk, open my laptop, and read through the latest updates on the Miller case. There’s still no trial date, which doesn’t surprise me at all. It feels more like a reality show now. There’s an article about his girlfriend’s dog. There’s an article about his neighbor’s arrest. There’s also a detailed article about how much evidence has been gathered and analyzed, and I don’t understand any of it. I don’t understand why so many hearings are necessary to determine whether a man who killed twenty-four people is fit to stand trial.

When panic from the sudden flashbacks starts clogging my lungs, I shut my laptop and scramble for my phone.

There’s a text from Mikah waiting for me. It came in a couple of hours ago when I was still asleep.

im sorry i didn’t make it last night

No explanation.

I stare at the message for a good minute, my stupid heart beating madly. The jerk doesn’t deserve my tears or my attention, but something inside me pushes me to send him a response.

Okay

Downstairs in the kitchen, there’s a note on the fridge from my father about the Prius being at the shop, and the macarons I baked yesterday are organized neatly on a plate. My mother must have done it before leaving for work. After counting them, I determine my parents ate at least three, and this fact instantly brightens my mood.

By the time I finish my breakfast and get back to my room, another message from Mikah has popped onto the screen of my phone.

im really sorry i don’t want 2 leave like this don’t be mad

But I am. I’m mad at him for making me wait all night, and I’m mad at him for making me believe the sex between us meant something.

Apparently, to him, it didn’t.

24. Before

I’m not sure why exactly I insisted on going to this boring—to say the least—party. I guess I was partly jealous, partly curious and couldn’t wait until the weekend to see Dakota. The idea of baking at his place was so raw and real that it began to haunt my dreams, and I just wanted to speed up the time to be with him. I spent all day Tuesday looking for new recipes online and picked up some food coloring for the frosting. However, one thought of my boyfriend spending his Wednesday night in a house full of pretty drunk girls with no inhibitions while I’m putting together a new Pinterest board drove me nuts. That’s why I asked him if I could come.

He didn’t mind. On the contrary, he seemed excited.

Now, I’m regretting it. My pink top is like a sore spot in a sea of black, and I’m probably the only person in the entire house who doesn’t have a drink or a cigarette. I swear I can feel people laughing at me behind my back.

Dakota’s on his second beer as we navigate through the maze of rooms in search of the guy who organized this whole thing. Apparently, he’s someone useful to be friends with. At least, that’s what I gathered from what Dakota told me on the way here.

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