Page 76 of Cold Comeback
A pause. "Okay. Tell me what that means."
The relief of her taking the statement seriously instead of dismissing it nearly broke me. "The documentary people keep asking me what drives me, what I want, and who I am. I don't know. I don't know if there's anything real underneath all the performance."
"Where are you right now?"
"My room. Alone. I was trying to figure out what I want to do when no one's watching, and I got nothing. I'm starting to panic."
"Thatch, listen to me." Her voice was gentle but firm. "You've been a mirror for so long, you forgot mirrors don't have their own image. But you're more than a mirror. You're a person who learned to disappear. There's a difference."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because mirrors don't call their sisters when they're scared. Mirrors don't choose to help teammates with their panic attacks at two in the morning. Mirrors don't fight documentary crews to protect their friends."
I hadn't thought about those moments as choices. Perhaps she had a point.
"Remember when you were seven?" Gina continued. "You built that blanket fort in the living room. It wasn't for anyone but you—Mom and Dad weren't even home. You wanted a small space that was entirely yours. You sat in there for hours, humming to yourself."
The memory surfaced slowly—the satisfaction of the perfect architecture and sensation of complete privacy.
"That kid is still in there," she said. "He only learned to hide really, really well."
After we hung up, I sat in the quiet of my room and tried to feel my way back to that seven-year-old. What had he hummed in the blanket fort?
Without thinking, I started humming something low and rough. The melody stuck in my head for days, the one Bricks started on the bus. "Shenandoah."
I stopped, startled. How long had I been humming that song without realizing it?
It was small. Barely anything. But it was mine.
I stared at my phone for twenty minutes, typing and deleting messages to Gideon.
Finally:
Thatcher:I think I've been so busy being what people want that I forgot to be anything at all. I don't know if what I feel for you is real, but I want to find out. Want to help me figure out what being looks like?
I hit send. No response. The read receipt showed he'd seen it, but the typing dots never appeared.
I set the phone aside and hummed a few more bars of "Shenandoah," trying not to check for replies every thirty seconds. Maybe that was how authenticity started—not in grand gestures or perfect answers, but in small, unwitnessed moments when you chose to exist instead of perform.
It wasn't much, but it was mine.
The phone buzzed once.
Gideon:I don't know either. But yeah. We can figure it out.
It was a cautious agreement to try.
It wasn't much, but it was real.
Chapter eighteen
Gideon
The community center looked like a crime scene—holiday spirit murdered by industrial lighting. The Reapers agreed to help out at the center's annual Christmas party for families.
Blake stood in the center of the main hall, arms spread wide like a conductor preparing to direct his orchestra. Camera operators scurried around him, positioning equipment. Tinsel blanketed every surface—like a craft store exploded.
"The wise men need to face camera two," Blake announced, gesturing toward the nativity scene. "And that tree needs more sparkle. Way more sparkle."
