Page 36 of The Heart We Guard
My cut hangs on a hook in the hallway, and from here, I see there’s blood on it and a hole in the shoulder.
Fuck.
I wonder if it’s a metaphor for what I’m headed back to.
I open the door, and there’s a single rose left on the bush outside. It’s clinging on for dear life, the other petals long gone. I snap it off, before walking back inside and putting it in a cup of water.
It’s not much, but it’s enough to tell Greer I left deliberately.
When I’m done, I slowly walk away from Greer’s home.
I don’t look over my shoulder at it, for fear I might just turn around and head straight back to it. I walk out of her immediate neighborhood and make my way toward the pick-up point we agreed on.
My phone vibrates. The message is a jumble of letters, but when I play it, it tells me that Babyface is on his way to pick me up.
The kid looks like a teenager still, but he’s tough as nails. He’s also a street racer who’ll have a promising career as a getaway driver if we ever need one.
I could have arranged a pickup at Greer’s home, but I didn’t want to risk her waking up, and it’s best that as few people as possible know where Greer lives. I’m certain Vex, the national tech guy, could probably find her in a heartbeat, but I hope no one ever has to.
Her life needs to get back to some kind of normal.
But I fully intend on paying that fuck who fired her a visit. Never gonna tell ‘em why. Not gonna kill ‘em either. I’m just gonna make it look like they’ve had a run of expensive bad luck. Nails in two car tires, broken guttering, a garage break-in.
I’ll sleep better knowing there’s balance back in the universe.
Karma be my name.
My phone feels like a lead weight in my hand. It’s full of requests and questions and problems for me to solve. But as I walk, I listen to the messages I’ve been avoiding.
I still carry a lot of shame about my dyslexia. I get embarrassed that it takes me so long to look through the company accounts or read through texts.
And worse, I hate the way written messages have become the go-to medium. Like, call me—it would be easier.
I’m especially fucked when someone shoves a phone in my face and puts me on the spot by saying,Hey, read this.
Sometimes I just try to read the room and see whether they found it funny, or their tone is serious, to figure out how to respond without even reading the damn thing.
Ember:Proof of life or I’m calling the cops, Dad.
Shit, I should have called her. Or been honest with her. Or something more than the voice messages I sent her when I knew she wouldn’t be awake to listen to them.
Grudge:Need an answer about the garage thing.
Smoke:You gonna make me hunt down Greer Hansen? I’m the one who let her take you.
Instead of replying to them all individually, I send a group one in the church channel.
Me:Church at noon. I’ll be there.
I send a second one to Ember.
Me:Sorry I had you worried. I’m fine. On my way back now.
Other than a thumbs-up from Grudge, there are no replies, and I don’t expect any. It’s a little early.
“Prez. You look wrecked,” Babyface says when we finally meet up.
“Yeah, walking like this after getting shot was not my smartest move.”
