5. Vortex
FIVE
VORTEX
Connie’s apartment is a half hour drive away from the casino, but only fifteen minutes from my own place. I wanted her closer to me, but Connie had insisted on finding her own place and not being in the same building as me.
Seven crowds close to me as I knock on Connie’s door. I don’t know how I feel about bringing him here, but Caleb didn’t want Seven alone today, and Connie did ask me how he was doing.
“If you get uncomfortable, we can leave,” I say. “Connie will understand.”
She probably won’t, but Seven doesn’t need to know that.
He shakes his head. “No, I’ll be okay.”
I’m not so sure about that. He’s been unstable, to put it lightly, and Caleb had mentioned that he’d made a comment about the balcony being locked that has me more than a little nervous about his mental state.
Maybe we need to think about something else for Seven — medication, therapy, anything . But I know he’d never agree, and even suggesting it would undoubtedly make him shut down even harder.
Maybe after the Lockwoods are dealt with, he’ll be willing to work through some of the memories that drag him down so much.
The door opens, and Connie greets us with a wide smile. “Hey guys! Come on in.” She’s wearing a baggy black sweater and a pair of gray sweats. It’s worrying, because normally she’d be in bright, colorful clothes. Even before she got pulled into that TerMa crap, she liked bold colors.
Her hair looks like she hasn’t washed it in a few days, and there isn’t a single dab of makeup on her.
Seven’s brow furrows, and he glances up at me. I give a slight shake of my head, then step inside Connie’s apartment.
She’s never been a neat freak, but it’s even messier than usual, too.
“You doing okay?” I ask her as she closes the door behind us.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just the lingering headache,” Connie says. She leads us to her kitchen. “I bought, um. Ingredients. For mac and cheese. I figured we could make it for lunch.”
“Sure,” I say. “Seven, you can help us cook, or you can just watch.”
“I’ve never cooked before,” he remarks, which I already knew — but I’m surprised he’s admitting it in front of Connie.
“It’s not so hard. You can’t be worse than Sebby,” Connie says. She bends down to get a casserole dish out of a cabinet, then stops there and clutches her forehead.
“Connie?” I ask, alarmed. “Do we need to go to the hospital? Come on. I’ll get your stuff, and we can go right now.” How had I not realized how poorly she was doing? I’ve been so wrapped up with Seven that I’ve neglected my own sister.
“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Connie says. She stands up, casserole dish in hand. “I just get dizzy sometimes. The doctor said to take it easy and keep popping ibuprofen.”
“Are you sure?” Seven asks tentatively, like he’s afraid to draw attention to himself.
I squeeze his shoulder, but my attention is focused on Connie. “Are you taking it easy? Or are you running around like you shouldn’t be?”
“I am!” Connie says. “I had to run some errands yesterday, and… Uh, never mind. Anyway, Seven had it way worse than I did.” She looks at him. “Are you okay? Did Sebby set you up with a therapist?”
Seven goes still. “What? Why would he?”
I grimace. “Because what happened was traumatic,” I say carefully. “It wouldn’t be a bad?—”
“No,” Seven interrupts, his expression going distant. “I’m not seeing a therapist.”
Well, that answers that.
Connie shrugs. “It’s not so bad. After Mom and Dad died, this big jerk made me see a therapist. It ended up being nice to talk to somebody who was always on my side.” She smiles. “Well, almost always. And she did agree that my brother was a big, overbearing worry-wart.”
“He is,” Seven agrees, but he doesn’t relax.
I’m content to let them poke fun at me as long as they’re getting along. “Where’s everything else?” I ask, only to realize she’s already set everything out on the counter. “Look at you being all prepared.”
Seven nudges me in the side. “Be nice, Sebby .”
“Okay, so the noodles will bake in the oven if we add enough liquid,” Connie says. She sits down at the kitchen table and gestures at the ingredients. “You guys can toss in the pasta, some butter, milk, and then all the cheese.”
I glance at her skeptically. “Is that really how Mom made it?”
She shrugs. “It’s how I’ve been making it.”
“I don’t think it works that way,” I tell her. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to cook the pasta first.”
Seven pulls his phone out, doing a quick search. “Nope, there’s a recipe right here that starts it dry,” he says.
“Whose side are you on?” I gripe. “Let me see that.”
He shows me, and while I’m skeptical, I’m doing this for Connie, not for me.
“All right. We’ll try it,” I say.
We put everything in the casserole dish, and for a time, we only discuss the pasta and the directions. It’s not until the dish is in the oven that silence settles over the kitchen, and I realize it’s quickly going to get awkward.
“What have you been up to?” I finally ask Connie. “Watched anything interesting? Read anything?”
“Mostly watching streamers online,” Connie says. She rolls her eyes. “I had to unsub from one guy who went full into the gambling content. Who thinks it’s interesting to watch another person gamble away a million dollars in a day?”
Seven perks up. “People share things like that?” he asks. “Where?”
I inwardly groan. I guess it wouldn’t be terrible if he was only watching, and maybe that’ll get some of the itch out of him. “Yeah, people stream everything they can possibly do,” I tell him. “Maybe we can find one of the ones who does blackjack, if you promise not to go play.”
“I told you I wouldn’t!” he protests.
Connie laughs. “Yeah, don’t get sucked into it. The whole gambling industry exists to exploit the vulnerable. Did you know, some casinos will call their regular gamblers and offer them free hotel stays to get them to drop even more money at the tables?”
“Really?” Seven asks, looking at me.
I run my hand over the back of my neck. “Uh. Yeah. They do offer incentives to get people to come back and gamble.”
To hear Connie talk about exploitative practices is ironic, and it’s all I can do not to switch the subject to how MLMs prey on the vulnerable.
“Anyway, what other streaming are you watching?” I ask.
“Video games. Some beauty influencers. Oh, there’s one streamer who reviews luxury goods.” Connie sighs and rests her chin against her palm. “Maybe I should be a streamer. It can’t be that hard, right?”
“Um,” I say. “It’s not consistent income.” I don’t actually know that much about streaming, but I do know it’s a slog, and I’m not sure Connie has the focus and determination to make it work. It would be better than the MLMs, though.
Wouldn’t it?
“How does it work?” Seven asks, finally perching at the edge of a chair in the kitchen.
“You set up a camera in your home studio and then film yourself doing stuff,” Connie says. “Video editing should be easy to pick up. And if I don’t do VODs, only direct streams, there’s less editing anyway. I’d just need to buy the camera and microphone, probably some soundproofing?—”
Seven’s expression goes from curious to blank as she keeps talking, but all I hear is dollar signs.
I haven’t exactly stuck to my pledge not to supply her with more cash while she blows through it, but it’s not like she’s in a position to find a solid job, either.
“Maybe it’s something to work toward on the side,” I say. “A way to make some cash when you aren’t busy.”
Connie gives me a sardonic smile. “You really think I’d go for it? All the internet trolls would call me a fat cow or ask me to show them my tits.”
“Why would they do that?” Seven asks, and it’s such an innocent question that my heart breaks from it.
“People are unnecessarily cruel,” I say. “Especially to women.”
This isn’t a lesson I want Seven to have firsthand, that’s for sure, but it’s not like he’d ever be in a place where we’d let him do something as visible as streaming.
“Especially to women who aren’t a size zero.” Connie looks down at herself. “I’d say I need to lose weight, but I’m not missing mac and cheese just to please some assholes online.”
“You’re pretty like you are,” Seven says.
I’m not sure if he’s saying it to be nice or if he believes it. I know he doesn’t like her, but they both seem to have softened toward each other after Seven was kidnapped and she was dragged into this whole mess.
“Thanks,” Connie says to Seven. “Also, don’t get offended, but I have to ask… how many other boyfriends do you have? I thought it was only the hot Latino guy, but then you were all up in Caleb Spade’s arms.”
Seven’s chin lifts in that stubborn way he gets, and he replies, “Vor— Sebastian knows how many I have. And he’s okay with it.”
Connie giggles and looks at me. “I should get five boyfriends. You wouldn’t be able to keep up with the threats and shovel-talks then.”
I could absolutely keep up with the threats, and the shoveling wouldn’t only be talking, but I don’t tell her that. “Try me,” I growl.
Seven gives me a look. “You really wouldn’t be able to say anything if she did, you know. Just as long as they cared about her as much as you care about me.”
Does he actually understand how much we do care about him? That all three of us would do anything for him? “Yeah,” I say, my voice rougher. “I guess.”
“God, you’re so mushy, Sebby,” Connie says. She lightly shoves my shoulder. “Now go check on the mac and cheese. I bet it’s bubbling.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I tell her, heading for the oven. I open it and pull out the rack so I can check on the pasta. “I have no idea how to tell if it’s ready. Is it just ‘bubbling’ in the directions?” I ask skeptically.
Seven pulls out his phone again. “I mean, as long as it’s been an hour, it should be fine?”
“Use a spoon to check if the pasta is done!” Connie gets up and grabs a spoon. She gingerly pulls the aluminium foil off, revealing fluffy, fully cooked pasta. It smells cheesy, too, and my mouth waters.