Page 225 of Fury

My pulse raced along with my thoughts that came faster and faster, shuffling in front of my eyes, rearranging, scraping under my skin, scratching at my heart.

I’d gone to jail and Lenore had taken off. Left Chicago. Hidden from me. Mishap couldn’t find her. A thousand electrodes went off in my veins, all of them short-circuiting, flaring. Lenore had set her own fuse.

Was Zoë our kid?

My heart brawled in my chest. I raised my right hand, reaching out for fuck knows what, somehow clasping Lenore’s upper arm. She covered my hand with one of her own, gripping it tight, taking in a breath of air while she continued listening to whatever Zoë was saying.

Emojis, bitmojis, makeup apps, fashion apps, selfie sticks, YouTube videos.

I staggered, and Lenore pulled up next to me, sliding her arm firmly around my middle.

My heart spiraled.

I focused on Zoë’s voice thudding over vowels, catching on consonants, those eyes of hers dancing under the glory of Lenore’s full attention.

“Are you helping Lenore, Zoë honey?” asked the blonde woman we’d seen outside. She stepped up next to Zoë, hands firmly clasped together.

Lenore’s back straightened. “Hey, Gail. I had to come back and get those pretty tiles Zoë had shown me last time I came. I haven’t been able to stop thinking how perfect they’d be on my porch with the lavender and the hydrangeas.”

Gail’s gaze settled on me.

“Gail, this is Finger,” Lenore said. “Finger, this is Zoë’s mom, Gail. She owns the nursery with her husband, Steve.”

Zoë’s mom. Zoë’s dad.

“Hey,” I managed. “I met Steve yesterday.”

“Ah, yes,” Gail replied, her smile softening her face. “You helped him with the wheelbarrows, right?”

“Right, yeah,” I said.

“Is Mr. Finger your boyfriend, Lenore?” asked Zoë, her forehead wrinkling. “You should have a boyfriend. I keep telling you that.”

“Easy there, Zo.” Gail laughed. “Let’s get Lenore her tiles. How many you need, hon?”

“Fifty should be good to start with.”

Gail guided her daughter towards a stack of colored small square tiles at the end of the aisle. Lenore and I stood in silence, our grip on each other deepening. Somehow we made it to the cash register, and Lenore paid for her tiles. I grabbed the box from the wagon Gail and Zoë had put it in, slamming it against my chest.

“Bye bye, Lenore.” Zoë waved at us. “Bye, Mr. Finger.”

I heaved in a breath, forcing my chin to raise a few degrees, forcing a hoarse “Bye” out of my dry mouth. My grip tightened on the box, the rest of me numb. I shoved one foot in front of the other.

I followed Lenore to her car, my vision blurred. She opened the trunk, and I set the box down. She shoved down the door, her eyes darting back to the nursery, to me.

I spit out, “What the fuck have you done?”

63

Somehow we madeit toLenore’s house. I don’t remember how. I just functioned. Keeping clear of obstacles, passing trucks, watching for turns. Exits. Stop signs. Downshifting.

Parked.

We walked into her house and I stood there, an astronaut with no flight suit, a surgeon with no scalpel, a hawk with no wings.

A glass of liquor got shoved in my hand. I stared at the dark caramel liquid, the fumes prickling my numb senses. I drank.

She went to a small red velvet box decorated with aqua beads and tassels which sat under a funky candelabra on a console table, and pulled out a suede pouch. My grandfather’s pouch for the compass. She took the drink from me and put the pouch in my hands. I opened it, and the broken pieces of my compass stared back at me.

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