Page 15 of Your Soul Is Ours

“Water, please.” She pulls two bottles out and hands one to Marla and the other to me.

“Glasses?” I shake my head to say no before we dish up dinner and bring it to the table.

“How is Ashley doing with her new job?” Marla asks. Her mother shakes her head, with a slight eye roll.

“Call her and ask if you are so concerned. So where did you guys meet? Because you don’t go anywhere, Marla. Was it one of those internet dating sites? I’ve told you they aren’t meant for you.”

I roll my tongue over my lip ring, darting my eyes to Marla. Her eyes are on her plate, a slight pink hue over her cheeks. “No, we met at a coffee shop near her place. I mistakenly took her order and when I saw her, I couldn’t resist asking her for her number.”

I shovel a forkful of cauliflower into my mouth. The vegetables taste bland and devoid of any flavour. In an instant, it all comes together in my mind and I recall the familiar face of her mother. She used to be a customer back when I first started dealing. She really loved Valium and Xanax. I had a lot less tattoos back then, so I wonder if she recognizes me.

“That’s nice. Have you been keeping your apartment clean, Marla?” She diverts her eyes to me before speaking again. “She has trouble with basic tasks. Sometimes I feel like I’m babysitting her more than I should.”

I don’t want to leave Marla alone, but if I sit at this table for another minute, I’m going to shred her mother’s throat with my knife.

“Bathroom?” I ask.

“Down the hall, third door on the right.” Her mother’s smile is as fake as she is. It’s no wonder Marla is always on edge. Growing up on eggshells moulds a person. It replaces forming a functioning adult with a surviving human.

As I tuck my chair under the table, I run my fingers over the back of Marla's neck, tracing the delicate curve. When I’m out of her mother's sight, I quickly form a heart shape with my hands.

Once in the bathroom, I stand in front of the mirror and do my best to reign in my anger. Turning on the faucet, I splash water on my face and count backward from fifty. Easing open the door, I stroll back to the kitchen, hearing the tail end of the conversation.

“You have to end this. You can’t be with someone like that. What the fuck is wrong with you besides the obvious?” Her voice drips with malice. I hate her more than I’ve hated most people.

“Sebastian is a good man. He keeps me safe and treats me like the adult I am.”

“Oh, this bullshit again. Yes, Marla, you are an adult. There I said it, are you happy now? You can fucking end this piss poor excuse of a relationship.”

“No. I’m falling for him. Sebastian makes me feel like I matter, like I’m worth something.”

Her mother scoffs, but doesn’t let up. “He’ll tire of you, quickly. You are not worth the effort.”

“I don’t believe you. He won’t tire of me. We have something special.” My little dove is a fighter. I’ll do everything in my power to make her feel seen, heard, and appreciated.

“Fine, if you don’t end it with him, I’ll end myself. Remember the last time you pulled this sort of shit? It’ll be the real deal this time. Is that what you want? I’ll tell everyone that you could have prevented this.”

I walk a little heavier into the kitchen and the conversation ceases. “Are you guys going to stick around for dessert? It’s been such a pleasure meeting you, Sebastian.”

“No, thank you. We have to be going. I have to get to work.” Marla looks up at me, her eyes lined with tears for a person who doesn’t deserve them. “Let’s go, Marla.” I hold out my hand and she grips my fingers tightly.

“Nice to meet you, Violet,” I wave as we walk out the door, taking a deep inhale of the night air.

“I’m sorry,” Marla whispers.

“Nope. You don’t get to be sorry.” We get into the car, and I drive us back to town.

“Tacos?” she smiles and I know the next stop we’ll make. “Does she make the threat often that she’ll kill herself? That’s a crazy manipulation trick.”

“You heard the conversation?” she asks. I can only nod.

We reach the taco shop and I place our order to go. After about ten minutes, I walk it back to the car. Holding up the bag, I ask her, “Tacos and British comedies?”

She laughs, and it’s music to my ears. Anger and disappointment for her shitty mother run through me and I need to turn the night around. “I’d rather just have tacos and talk.”

“What do you want to talk about?” I ask her, focusing on the road as I drive back to her apartment.

“Is the offer still on the table?” she asks. I think about it for a minute, wondering what she means. “The offer to kill her?” she clarifies, and I give her a wicked grin.

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