Page 15 of Misery
Emil:
Don't do anything stupid.
Me:
Too late for that.
I pocket the phone before he can respond.
Through the window, I watch Elfe curl into the corner of the couch.
She looks small. Fragile. Nothing like the woman who stabbed a cartel soldier with a pink pocket knife.
Nothing like the survivor who fought her way through hell.
But I know better.
I've seen her real strength.
Watched her pretend to be okay for months when she was dying inside.
Watched her paint her demons at three in the morning.
Watched her fake smiles and forced laughs, and slowly rebuild herself from shattered pieces.
She's the strongest person I know. She just doesn't know it yet.
When I get back inside, she’s no longer on the couch.
Instead, she's found the wine rack and holds up a bottle of red. "Mind?"
"Go ahead."
"Join me?"
I shouldn't.
I need to stay sharp, stay alert, but the hope in her eyes undoes me. "Yeah. Okay."
She pours two glasses while I light the fireplace.
It's not cold, but the flames give us something to look at besides each other.
The wine is good—some expensive shit I lifted from a target's house before I burned it down.
Seems appropriate we're drinking it now.
"This is weird," she says after her second glass.
"Which part?"
"All of it. You showing up right when I needed you. Having this place, nobody knows about. Being..." She gestures vaguely. "Nice."
"I'mnotnice."
"You're being nice to me."
"That's different."
