Page 54 of Gunslinger Girl
“I… I’m sorry,” she said lamely. “I thought you liked me.”
“I do!” But Max didn’t look at her. He looked at the wall, at his shoes—anywhere but at her. “I can hardly remember the last time I liked someone as much as you. It’s… it’s just… you’re a good friend.”
“Oh.” Idiot, she thought, a cold blade of embarrassment plunging into her gut. She turned to her door and stabbed the code in. This time she got it on the first try.
“Pity, wait—”
“No, I’m sorry.” She retreated inside. “I was wrong… misread things.” She began to close the door and then stopped. “You’re a good friend, too. ’Night, Max.”
The lock clicked, a final, cheerless knell to the evening. She pressed her forehead against the closed door. Why did I do that? All her prior elation was gone; left in its place was a feeling like she had swallowed a pound of clay. Pity ripped off her gun belt and tossed it on the bed, then carefully made her way into the bathroom. The face that stared at her from the mirror was ragged, the last remnant of what might have been a happy glow fading rapidly. Her hair was flat and matted, her eye makeup smudged.
Idiot, she thought again, gritting her teeth as the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes began to fall.
CHAPTER 17
Pity woke the next morning to a pounding head and a rebelling stomach. Each beat of her heart brought a fresh stab of pain between her ears as she stumbled into the bathroom, where she threw up bile and scraps of last night’s dinner. Afterward, curled on the cool tile, the memories came rushing back, sour as the taste in her mouth.
I think you are in for a helluva morning, Serendipity Jones.
She drank some water and crawled back into bed, then woke for a second time tangled beneath the thick comforter, half suffocated by her pillow, heart pounding from a nightmare she couldn’t recall. She downed two more glasses of water and paged the kitchen.
“Hi, it’s Pity,” she said to the intercom, her tongue feeling like it was coated in pine tar. She always ate in the common dining area, but today—
Max might be there.
—she wasn’t sure she could make it.
“Can you send up coffee and”—her stomach gurgled menacingly—“plain toast, please?”
There was a good-natured laugh on the other end. “Popular order this morning.”
That done, she lay back in bed and stared at the ceiling. So what are you going to do when you can’t avoid him anymore? It was an inevitability, but the aching embarrassment was still too fresh. Worse even than the night before—the way an injury hurt more once the initial shock had passed. Sooner or later she’d have to own up to her foolishness. The thought made her queasy in a way that had nothing to do with her hangover.
A sharp knock startled her from her ruminations. Moving slowly to favor her still-aching head, she went to the door, marveling at how quickly her food had arrived.
But when Pity opened it, Adora was on the other side.
She looked Pity over with acerbic amusement. “Looks like the champagne got the best of you last night.” She flicked a folded slip of paper at Pity.
Pity, it read. Please join me for breakfast tomorrow. It was signed with Selene’s neat script.
She didn’t need to be told the difference between an invitation and an order. “What’s this about?”
“Breakfast, I’d imagine.” Adora pushed a strand of pink hair back into place. “Someone will fetch you. Early. Don’t make her wait.”
But when someone arrived to get her the following morning, it wasn’t a porter, or even Adora.
It was a Tin Man.
Pity tensed, acutely aware of the weight of the guns against her hips. She had debated them as she dressed, Beau’s threat still fresh. Walking into Selene’s office armed probably wasn’t the smartest idea. Going in unarmed seemed a worse one. And it wasn’t as if she had been forbidden to carry her guns around Casimir.
Yet.
The Tin Man glanced at the weapons but didn’t say anything, only indicated for her to follow him. She obeyed, a sense of exposure overtaking her as she left her room for the first time since the night of the show. It had been easy enough to hide. Luster had peeked in on her the previous afternoon, but satisfied enough at finding Pity abed, she had promptly returned to her own. Apparently, the whole of Casimir was a little worse for wear following the revelry of Pity’s debut.
The Gallery was nearly deserted as they passed through it, only a few cleaning staff salvaging stray glasses and a patron snoozing in one of the booths.
And Sheridan, waiting near the elevator.
