Page 257 of Ominous: Part 1
Sighing and sniffling, I look back at my phone.
Eden: Okay, Professor Addison.
I bite my lip, the taste of toothpaste minty on my tongue. Eden tastes fresh that way, nothing overly sweet or clean, just… newness. Like her mouth always lingers with her last brush.
Me: That’s “sir” to you.
Eden: I have trouble distinguishing a secret from a regular fact, sir. Help me, please.
I shift on the bed, pulling my knees up, feet flat on the mattress, under the top sheet. I finger my hair, pulling absentmindedly until it hurts, and I’m focused again.
Me: Questions, then, Ms. Rain?
She’s typing immediately, no lag in our conversation, and while I’m not sure her mom is thrilled about it, I’m grateful.
Her: Yes, please, sir.
Jesus Christ.
Me: If you could do anything in the world and get away with it, what would it be? Bank robbing, murder, kidnapping, etc. No career-oriented goals. I know you’re going to publish a book and become a professor, so don’t waste your answer.
Her: So, things I likely wouldn’t otherwise get away with, then?
I smile at her understanding.Me: Yes.
She doesn’t reply immediately, because she’s thinking it through. There’s probably something burning, just under the surface of the restraint hardwired into most of us from birth, but it takes a moment to take off the chains. Remember we’re free. There are consequences, up to and including death. Imprisonment, for example. But wecando anything we want.
Her: I would keep you.
I wait, to see if she’s going to say anything else. But she doesn’t. She isn’t typing anymore. There’re so many thingswrongwith the way she answered the question, I’m irritated enough to sit up, flinging off my covers and using both hands to grip my phone now, poised to tell her every way her statement is ridiculous.
But before I can get anything out, there’s a soft knock on my door.
I glance up, seeing it’s unlocked, and I clear my throat, sniffing again from the fan, annoyance adding fuel to my irritation. I could tell Dad to fuck off, but this will probably be over with faster if I don’t.
“Come in.”
He waits until I’ve said the words to open the door. His eyes rake over my body, ensuring I’m clothed, probably, and I am, basically.
I have on gym shorts.
It’s enough.
He scrubs a hand over his face, and I catch sight of the pale strip of skin on his index finger. Still wearing his dress shirt, rolled up and unbuttoned, I wonder when he ever just fuckingrelaxes.
“What’s up?” I ask, my screen dimming, thumbs still over my keyboard.
Dad’s hazel eyes are tired as he glances at the blue lights around my room, the lamp flicked on beside my bed.
“She wants you to read the letter.”
I don’t say anything. I don’tdoanything except hold my phone.
Dad slides his hands into his pockets like a very exhausted lawyer, then leans against the door frame. He has one ankle crossed over the other, striped socks on, expensive, I know, but almost childish in some ways, with their bright, nonsensical colors. His eyes are on the floor now, and I can see his broad shoulders deflate as he exhales.
“I could read it,” he offers. “I could summarize it for you.”
I laugh at that. He doesn’t look up. Once upon a time, he told Mom my laugh was off. He didn’t think I heard him. He said he wished he could make me really laugh. He said one time, he had, when I was younger. He tickled me.
