Page 47 of Severed Heart
“1911.Fuck.The first air strikes happened in 1911, the Italo-Turk war.”
“And you know this why?” she presses.
Her books, my curriculum. “Point taken.”
“Not yet. We might have moved on from BC wars, but I gave you all you needed in the name. You did not prepare,” she taunts as I glance down to see her advantage. It takes me seconds to assess how it will play out.
“Shit, I’ve already lost this war,” I state, sinking where I stand. “Haven’t I?”
“Maybe next time,” she laughs as I narrow my eyes.
“I demand a rematch.” My battered pride speaks.
“You will have it, but before you get one, you need to know all available weaponry during that time. It’s time to”—she frowns, searching for the right expression, and I don’t dare hand it to her—“up toyour game.”
Good enough, I decide, as she batters another metaphor. A translation trait I find fucking adorable.
“Oh, I’ll bring my game up,” I say, wanting to dissolve into the floor.
Go home, Jennings, and jerk this out of your system!
“I will start a new war soon. I don’t want to ruin your Christmas.”
“Oh, I think you do, which is not very Christian. So, what’s the name of this one?”
She gifts me a rare, full smile. “You have to wait and see.”
“Looking forward to it.”
On a few occasions, I’ve peeked through the sliding glass back door after lights-out to see her latest setup and have spent entire days at school coming up with the right tactics to counter her. Then spending the rest of that time mangling pen caps while recalling new details that have nothing to do with our game.
Never going to happen, Jennings. Stop fixating.
“And”—she sips her coffee—“add two miles to your current run.”
“Shit,” I grumble. “Do you haveanygood news? Am I at least promoted to private first class?”
“After only weeks? No chance,” she replies, not budging an inch. “How is your breathing?”
“Good, I’m getting there. It’s been hard to concentrate lately.”
When we’re not playing, she spends our time teaching me the ins and outs of what I now know is flat space—temporary emotional suppression. A state I’ve since coinedpocketing.
The state is temporary because I have no intention of shelving my emotions entirely or trying to forget any part of my experiences. I know better, and doing so could make me a prime candidate for PTSD. Because of that, I’ve declared my own mind a testing lab. It might be an unrealistic ambition, but then again, the education I’m drawing from Mom’s psychology books has convinced me that the mind is a fucking magical thing.
“One sip,” she says, offering the coffee she thinks I’m eyeing, thankful she has no idea I’m fixed on the divot at her throat.
She doesn’t bother to hide her smirk when I sip the black tar I accepted, stifling a gag as I swallow it down. “This is fucking terrible.”
“Dom likes it strong.”
“Strong is one thing. This tastes like ... God, aren’t the French known for having the best coffee?”
“Thatis a luxury,” she quips, lifting her free hand to indicate the state of the house. “Does it look like I can afford such luxuries?”
I deposit her cup on the counter. “So, then change your circumstances.”
“So easy,” she scoffs, silver-glazed eyes flaring with warning. “You’re arrogant.”
