Page 4 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

“Yep,” he says, and turns away from me.

Jesus. I’d been warned that people here would be unfriendly, but this guy is on a whole other level. A familiar tendril caresses the depth of my guts. Oh no, please. Don’t lose your temper here. Do not. I take a deep breath and snap the rubber band at my wrist. The rubber band is one of the things that my extensive research had suggested as a method to control my sociopathic rage. A literal way to “snap” myself out of the spiral that would otherwise grab me like a riptide and fling me into dark oblivion, leaving nothing but broken detritus in my wake.

It works, most of the time. My stomach settles and I step aside to open up the welcome e-mail on my phone. I was right; it says right here: Gloucester Green.

I wait until the elderly man boards the bus before approaching the driver again. “Hi, it says here my stop is Glow-chester—”

“Nope,” he says, beckoning at the next passenger to come up.

The slick caress again. My cheeks grow warm. Oh no, I’m going to lose it right here, less than an hour after arriving in a foreign country where I’m supposed to make my fresh start.

“But it says right here—”

“I think she means Gloucester Green,” a female voice says from behind me, pronouncing it Gloss-ter, “and I think you knew all along what she meant.”

I turn around and that’s when I see her. The most beautiful girl I have ever laid eyes on outside of Instagram. My mouth parts, and all of the bubbling anger that had been ready to erupt just moments ago dissipates. She looks like she might have mixed ancestry, too, though unlike the uneasy way that the different lineages have converged on my face, Thalia’s features are a work of art. She looks like a literal angel. Gold hair that looks like threads of pulled sunlight, huge, huge eyes—distracting, so distracting. But it’s not the face that arrests me; it’s the kindness in it. Like she’s the long-lost best friend you didn’t know you had and she knows every gross secret about you and doesn’t judge you for it. She makes me want to make a motherfucking friendship bracelet for her and buy one of those obnoxious heart necklaces that say “best friends” when you put them together.

She quirks one corner of her mouth up at the bus driver in what I can only describe as an empathetic smirk. “Come on, luv, let’s stop messing about, okay?”

She sounds very clearly American, but somehow she carries off “luv” with so much flair that the bus driver is obligated to give a grin in return.

He winks at me and says, “Ah, just messing with ya. Off you go, then. Two for Gloucester Green, is it?”

“Yep,” the girl says, and cocks her head at me. “Let’s go, before this cheeky bugger decides to fuck with us again.” She winks at him as she says this before hopping onto the bus.

The driver roars with laughter, and I clamber up after her. Already my mind is going at breakneck speed, analyzing every microsecond of the encounter. It’s what I do most times I have an awkward encounter with people.

Was that a normal interaction? Did I react in a socially acceptable manner? How would a normal person behave? Howwould a bad-tempered normal person behave? What might I have done differently to pass under the radar next time?

As though reading my mind, the girl turns her head and gives me a rueful smile. “You okay? He was an asshole, wasn’t he? I bet he thought he was being real cute too.”

My mouth drops open but nothing comes out. It’s not that my mind’s empty; on the contrary, there are way too many thoughts zipping around in it. Chief among them:What should I say?I’d nearly blown my cover of normalcy just moments ago, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m rattled. I’ve burnt so many bridges back in Cali. People I thought were my friends ghosted me. I can’t let that happen here, not at my laundry-fresh start.

I’ve stayed silent far too long. I know it. The atmosphere thickens the way it always does when I know I’m not Being Normal. I stare helplessly at the girl, feeling that old heat travel up my chest and into my cheeks. I wish she’d end my suffering and leave me alone already.

Instead, she slides into a seat, scooting over so she takes the window seat, and then cocks her head at me. “Come on, the bus will get full soon and I don’t really wanna sit with some random stranger.”

“I’m a random stranger,” I blurt out.

God damn it.

Sociopathic tendency #57: Lacks filters.

She laughs, and it’s the best laugh in the world. Very different from the manic, need-for-attention-driven shriek-giggles I got used to in California. It’s low and husky, a laugh so soft I know it’s meant for my ears alone.

“True, but I just saved you from that asshole out there, so I think you owe me one,” she says.

I swallow, gripping my bag with sweaty palms, and slide inbefore I can talk myself out of it. This close to her, I can smell her scent. Lavender and the musky, tired smell of travel. It’s a surprisingly pleasant combination, one that relaxes me. If I were a cat, this is where I’d retract my claws.

“I’m Thalia,” she says.

Thalia. What a beautiful name. Different. Unexpected, with a hint of foreign flavor. Again, I find myself wondering about her lineage.

As though reading my mind, she adds, “It’s Greek. Half my ancestors came from there; the other half came from Italy. Of course, this was, like, five generations ago, so don’t ask me anything about either place, aside from the food.” She grins sheepishly and my mind goes blank. Like her, I know nothing about my ancestral heritage. I don’t even speak Chinese. A similarity, a bond fusing us to each other.

No. This is not how normal people think. We’ve just met. There is no bond. I focus instead on her name.

It suits her perfectly, and I realize she must have parents who love her and know her the way I wish my mother knew me. Parents who cared enough to find the perfect name for their little girl. Parents that are very much unlike mine.

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