Page 190 of Murder

“You’re welcome.” I lean slightly against the wall. The glittering snow all around us makes me feel as if we’re standing in a snow globe—that someone’s shaking.

I feel something on my arm and blink down to find her bare hand. My gaze shifts to her lovely face. “You okay?” Her voice is quiet and soft, beautiful and delicate as snowfall.

She asked if I’m okay. Fuck, that feels kind of good.

I smile for her. “I’m fine.”

She smiles, too. A melancholy, thoughtful smile that pierces through the numbness, prickling my heart. “You look sad,” she says quietly.

I try to laugh, and nudge her with my arm. “Why do you care?”

It’s a teasing tone I use and normally it works. Gets people off my back and makes it hard for them to see…the things I wouldn’t want them to. Of everyone I know, Breck and maybe Dove: they are the only ones that see through it. This girl isn’t fooled, either. Her face is still drawn up in what looks like pain. When her eyes lift to mine, I find them rounded with sincerity.

“I’m not having a very good night either,” she tells me. “And,” she blows some smoke out, arching her eyebrows self-consciously as she smiles slightly. “I care about everyone. It’s just the way I am. For better and worse.” She takes another drag. I watch her blow it out.

“There was this article one time. About Saddam Hussein. In some magazine. And these American soldiers who had taken care of him when he was in prison somewhere. It said he had a thing for Cheetos. Saddam.” She laughs wryly, shaking her head. “I found myself feeling bad for him. Like, sympathetic. It’s a curse.”

I open my mouth, because I want to tell her she shouldn’t feel bad for that POS, she should feel bad for all the innocent civilians he murdered.

But I look at her face, I see the sadness that’s still there, and all I think to ask is, “Why are you sad?”

My voice is rough and raw, and even through the scotch, I feel…exposed. I’m not up front like this. I don’t talk to anyone, about anything. It’s how I am. I guess I’m this girl’s opposite.

I definitely am, I decide as I watch her face twist up in pain. “I don’t even know,” she says, blinking at the snow-caked firs in front of us. “I just feel a bad vibe I guess. Also, boyfriend trouble.” She blows a trail of smoke out. Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

“Is it just me, or is smoking lonely? Inherently lonely. And bumming one off someone, what is that? Here, have some cancer.” She grins. My chest throbs a little as her brown eyes thaw me.

“No, you’re right,” I offer her. “It’s kind of lonely.”

I exhale a cloud of smoke, and the girl blows her own stream toward mine. The gray smoke mixes. “There.” She smiles.

My drunk brain makes a note: learn more about her. Anything, I scribble desperately on the dry board of my mind. My throat is tight. My lungs ache. Want.

I turn toward her, noticing her beautiful, bare throat. She draws her shoulders up toward her ears. I want to put my arm around her. I don’t want to scare her, though. Invade her space.

She smiles at me, a little smile that’s just for smiling’s sake. For me. A fucking gift.

“I bet your boyfriend is an asshole,” I hear myself say.

She laughs. “Why?”

“Assholes always get the good ones.” I give her a sloppy smile as my head buzzes. “All the nice guys know.”

“Are you a nice guy?”

“No, snowflake.” I throw my cig down and cover it with my boot. Then I take my scarf off. I drape it around her neck, our eyes holding like magnets as I lean away. “Stay warm.”

I press my lips together so I don’t say more, and go inside.

GWENNA

December 11, 2015

I used to like December. Years ago, it was my favorite month. I loved Christmas. Reindeer. Crackling fires. Snow. I adored the evergreens, the way your breath in cold air makes that little cloudy puff. I thought the winter sky, a sheet of black with burning white pinholes, was simply magical.

I used to have almost an entire drawer of holiday socks. I’d start wearing them before Thanksgiving. I still try. I try to like the holidays. I put out Christmas early most years. Decorate a tree.

But in my dreams, I see that black sky, with its fever-black white stars, and I am haunted by the moaning coming from a place I can’t see. I can sometimes feel the weight of the ambulance crunching snow beneath its tires, the way a large vehicle shifts and slips on fresh powder.

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