Page 26 of Eternally Yours
“Does it matter?” I say.
“Not really.” He frowns. “If it’s gonna get in the way of—”
“It won’t,” I promise. “At least, I won’t let it.”
There’s this unbendable confidence in my voice. It’s enough for Zion to close the gap between us. Cold fingertips find my cheek.
My lips meet his.
I’m hit with a sugariness from the orange juice and pie. My hands cradle his waist. His thumbs skim under my jaw. I add more pressure, some tongue. He gasps, and Eli shouts, “Finally!”
I laugh against Zion’s mouth, something settling under my skin knowing that Eli’s safe and happy. Knowing I made my choice: to protect and love equally.
I kiss and kiss Zion until Eli whines, “Enough already.” He tugs on Zion’s arm. “I’m gonna puke. And I’m hungry again.”
Zion grins through one last peck. GuardianCheck dings. I’m sure it’s some Class-3 Guardian in Canada getting their winged upgrade for remembering to say “I’m sorry” or whatever. I’m fine with that, for now.
I kissed a boy. Told him how I feel. And I saved my charge. Promised to protect him, no matter what. I’m on the verge of that Netflix moment.
My time will come.
In the Eyes of Angels
byALEXIS HENDERSON
IT BEGAN INthe wee hours of the morning at a gas station off a dead stretch of I-95. A lone clerk sat behind a long sticky countertop, tracking the cars as they passed. She was young and quiet, dressed in a borrowed polo embroidered with the nameTATE. It was several sizes too large for her and long enough to be a dress, which—in a massive breach of store policy—was exactly how she wore it.
A song crackled over the radio through a thick distortion of static—all heavy bass and vocals so garbled she couldn’t tell one word from the next—and while Tate didn’t know or particularly like the song, she bobbed her head and attempted to sing along anyway, if only to make the time pass faster and keep the quiet at bay.
When she grew bored of singing, she mopped the floorsand wiped down the counters and storefront windows, replenished the shelves with bags of chips and candy bars, grisly sticks of jerky. She even took a stab at organizing the contents of the cardboard pill display, arranging the brightly colored packets into groups by the miracles they promised—better sex, more stamina, a good night’s sleep, nirvana, oblivion.
Tate checked the clock on the register, saw that her shift was nearly over, and started counting down the cash drawer, fumbling a bit with the coins and bills, mumbling the numbers under her breath. She’d always been good at math, but on that night her head felt fuzzy. Maybe from all the Windex she’d used to wipe the windows clean. When she finally managed to count it correctly, she realized the drawer was short by fifty-six dollars and eighty-nine cents.
“Fuck.”
She slammed the drawer shut with more force than necessary and kicked back from the countertop, the feet of her stool screeching across the linoleum. She found her brother in the back room, cowering behind the lockers in what she knew to be one of the security camera’s only blind spots, a metal flask raised to his lips.
He didn’t offer Tate a drink, and she was grateful for it because she wasn’t sure she would’ve been able to say no. It didn’t matter that she’d been sober for nearly three months, or that she’d spent two weeks in withdrawal, fighting through shakes and splitting headaches, the kind of nausea that wakes you up from a dead sleep and forces you to fleeto the bathroom only to break to your knees and fall sick halfway there. On long nights like that one, when the quiet made it easy for her mind to wander, she felt ready to throw it all away, and that scared her because she knew it meant she wasn’t really better, and likely never would be.
“Register’s off... again.”
“Course it is,” said Reed, and though he kept his tone low, she could tell he was pissed.
“I’m sorry,” said Tate, and she wondered if he thought she’d pocketed the money. A few months ago that may well have been the case. But she’d reformed herself since then. Changed her ways. “I’ll pay it back.”
Reed didn’t respond to her offer, and it took Tate a few moments to realize he was trying to gather his thoughts. “When is this going to be enough for you?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Yes, you do. And I want an answer. When, Tate? You’ve had steady hours, decent pay. I make sure you don’t go hungry. But every day you hate it here a little more. You resent me, you resent this job, you resent yourself—”
“I promise I’ll do better.”
“You’re fired,” he said, dead, toneless words. “And not because I’m pissed at you. And not because the register’s wrong again. But because you’re miserable here and you’ll stay miserable if I let you.” To this, Tate said nothing.
Of her many lows—the rehab stays, the ER visits, the drunken nights spent on bathroom floors, the hateful things she’d said to her mother in the months before her death—what she said next had to be among the worst. “Mom would be embarrassed by what’s become of you.”
“Get out,” said Reed. “Take your shit and go. You’re not happy here and you never will be.”
