Chapter 6 #2
He chuckles, and it is an entirely too-deep, too-pleasant sound, and she finds herself wishing he’ll do it again. “Yes. We can skip it. Here are two. How do you like your coffee, and are you a morning person or do you like owls?”
She bites her lip, pretending like she’s really having to think it over. His gaze flicks to the motion, his cheeks darkening as he quickly redirects his attention to his phone. “Let’s see. Black and owls. You?”
“Tea and morning. Would that be roosters?”
“I think so.”
“Did you ever see one?” he asks, making her think of the sad state of the world if the smog-filled image outside the windows is any indication.
He thinks mermaids were real, and he’s never seen a rooster.
It must be worse than she’s imagining. She needs to get started on those videos. Back to roosters.
“Of course. They’re noisy and can be aggressive. On the other hand, chickens can be quite beautiful. We had several different breeds when I was little.” He looks thoughtful for a moment, prompting her to ask, “Is this as effective as you were hoping?”
He scratches his forehead. “I’m terribly afraid to say the wrong thing, but yes, I think so.”
Why does that make her feel guilty? His ineptness is his own fault—a result of choosing manupartners over humans for companionship, but he seems earnest. Plus, she shouldn’t judge.
It’s not like she has any idea about the people now and their norms and customs. “Go on. Ask me another one. This is kind of fun.”
His eyes brighten as he scans his phone.
For a second, she’s so overwhelmed by how handsome it makes him, she can almost see how he blurted out his comments that first day.
Because with the way the lock of sandy blond hair is falling over his forehead, how the open collar of his shirt exposes the strong line of his throat, or how his lopsided grin makes a dimple appear on one side only, the only coherent word her inner narrator can manage is beautiful.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” His brow wrinkles as he stares at the screen, which makes her giggle.
“I had many. More than I could count,” she says, which makes his eyes widen. There’s a certain thrill in surprising him.
“How many, really?”
She raises a brow in challenge. “Hundreds.”
“How did you have time?” he mutters.
“Book boyfriends, of course! You know, the men written by women in romance novels. That’s what they’re called. Now I guess people have manupartners.”
“I suppose since this is going well, I won’t point out your obvious hypocrisy,” he says, smirking, to which she responds by chuffing and rolling her eyes. “However, I will ask, why not a real one, considering it was so common during your time?”
Because she never prioritized finding one.
She was too busy making sure she had enough to get by on.
Not that she didn’t dream of one day meeting a tall, golden stranger who would blow into her world and sweep her off her feet.
A stranger whose cool, impassive eyes would ignite only when they looked upon her—
What is wrong with her? Her inner narrator really needs to get a grip. She can’t say any of that, so she says, “Timing was never right. We should probably move on.”
He looks up, seeming to sense her momentary discomfort, and damn her if the gilded flecks in his eyes don’t dance with mirth. “Oh, here’s a good one. What recreational activities does she enjoy?”
“Reading, obviously.”
“Besides that, then.”
“I liked riding my bike—”
Res6 beams. “I know that!”
Her eyes narrow. “Wait, how do you know that?”
“It’s how you . . .”
“How I what?” she asks, more than a little curious now about what he’s discovered about what became of her life.
He hesitates. “Died?”
“Died?” She picks up a pillow and chunks it across the bed at him. “That’s not funny! God, just when I thought you might be decent. You’re the worst.”
Her laughter starts to dwindle as his expression turns stricken. His hands fall back to his knees, squeezing. Self-soothing.
Shit.
“Res6, please tell me you’re joking.” A sudden knot of dread takes root in her stomach.
“I didn’t know how to tell you, and you already seemed so upset. Honestly, since you learned how to use your tablet, I’m surprised you haven’t looked yourself up.”
She considered it, but she was too afraid of what she might find.
Her entire purpose in life right now is to drag herself out of this victim mentality pattern and get out of bed.
Thanks for the extra dose of self-awareness, Janet.
She isn’t sure if she could bear learning that she died young of cancer like her mom or something equally horrible.
“Ignorance is bliss?” A lump is quickly building in her throat and tightening.
Tightening. Tightening. “I died in a bike accident?”
He rubs his temples as if he’s the one receiving the hostile news. “You were hit by one of the trolleys, actually.”
“How old was I?” she asks, sensing where this is going.
“The same age as you are now. Twenty-nine.”
She gasps. “Is that why my memories stop when they do?”
He clears his throat. “Yes.”
“Oh God, my—my—”
“Don’t worry. Your books were published posthumously. All the proceeds went to charitable foundations—”
“My family, you idiot,” she cries. It’s like the floor has dropped out from under her. The tears she managed to keep at bay for twenty-four hours are back. “My dad and Janet,” she sobs, as if somehow saying it out loud might garner some impossible sympathy.
Her parents must have been devastated. After everything they invested in her—all their love, their hopes and dreams for her—what a waste to have died so young. Her blood hums in her ears as a wave of dizziness washes over her. She cannot have a panic attack in front of him.
Janet’s grounding voice sounds in her mind. Remember the steps.
Sucking in a slow inhale through her nose, she concentrates on the sensation of filling her lungs.
Hold for three seconds. And release. Focus on three things that are real.
Her breath is an easy one, and at this point, she’s going to need easy ones.
Two is the plush yet sturdy weight of the bed supporting her, holding her.
Grounding her. Three—her head snaps to Res6, then down to the light dusting of hair on his forearm, which must be soft and warm.
He notices her observation, then scoots closer, reaching out his arm for her inspection.
Before she thinks better of it, she wraps her hand around his forearm. “You’re real,” she mutters.
Res6 stares at where her fingers grip his arm. “Electra?”
“It is a technique my stepmom Janet taught me.” She sighs as the pang of loss strikes her anew. But it’s too surreal because it doesn’t feel real, hence the exercise. “Remember, I told you she was a psychologist? I learned so much from her. I already miss her like crazy.”
He doesn’t say anything, and she wonders what he’s thinking. He’s probably comparing her and her emotional outburst to one of his manupartners, cursing his luck.
She releases his arm, takes the tablet, and enters a quick search.
He leans forward and takes the device. “Are you sure you want to know?” She glances up, blinking through her tears. “You’ve already had a distressing week. Perhaps you should put this off until you’re more mentally—”
“Stable?” she interjects, shaking her head. “Like that is going to happen. Maybe I did something in my past life to deserve this. I must have been a tax collector, or politician, or worse!”
He reaches forward, takes her hand, and places it back on his forearm. They both stare at it for an extended moment. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you anymore,” he assures her.
She lets out an undignified huff. “How can you possibly say that?”
“Because I may not be your version of perfect, but I’m highly competent, and you are my responsibility.”
“Are you sure you aren’t my punishment from your non-deities?” she asks.
He moves his arm, letting her hand fall away. “Maybe we are each other’s punishment.”