21. Azaria
AZARIA
Twenty minutes, I'd told him. That was four hours ago.
My phone buzzes with another notification—probably another brand dropping me, another headline linking my name to criminal activity, another reason why getting involved with Theo beyond the physical is the worst possible idea. I swipe it away without reading and return to my game.
The sex had been incredible. More than incredible—it had been the kind of earth-shattering, life-altering experience that romance novels promise but real life rarely delivers.
Which is precisely why I'm hiding in this room like a teenager who missed curfew instead of facing whatever conversation Theo thinks we need to have.
I heard it in his voice when I walked away.
Level 249. The gems blur together as my eyes water from staring at the screen too long.
I wonder what he's doing downstairs. It's past nine now—well past his usual dinner time, definitely past when he normally reviews game footage or whatever other perfectly scheduled activity fills his evenings.
Is he pacing? Planning what to say when I finally emerge?
Or has he given up entirely and gone to bed, writing me off as another chaotic disruption to his ordered existence?
The thought bothers me more than it should.
My stomach growls, reminding me that I never did order that Thai food I mentioned. But going downstairs means facing him, and facing him means acknowledging that what happened in the theater changed something fundamental between us.
Level 250. A milestone. The game celebrates with animated fireworks and upbeat music that sounds obscenely cheerful given my current spiral.
The worst part isn't that the sex was amazing. The worst part is how safe I felt afterward for those few seconds before my brain kicked in and reminded me that safety is an illusion I can't afford. People I care about get hurt. It's practically a law of physics at this point.
My mother's voice echoes in my memory, sharp with frustration from our last fight: "You're selfish, Azaria. You think the world revolves around your drama, but someday you'll learn that actions have consequences for other people too."
She died three hours later. Swerved to avoid a drunk driver and hit a tree instead.
I tap furiously at the screen, clearing levels with mechanical precision. The repetitive motion soothes the anxiety clawing at my chest, at least temporarily.
A soft knock on my door makes me jump, nearly dropping the phone.
"Zari?" Theo's voice carries through the wood, careful and controlled. "I brought you dinner."
"I'll just leave it outside the door," he says, and I hear the soft clink of a plate being set down on hardwood. His footsteps retreat down the hallway, measured and quiet.
I wait a full minute before cracking the door open. A covered plate sits on the floor alongside a bottle of water and—because of course—a cloth napkin folded into a perfect triangle. The considerate bastard even remembered I hate eating with plastic utensils.
Steam escapes when I lift the cover, revealing perfectly seasoned salmon, roasted vegetables, and wild rice.
Here I am, acting like a spoiled child who can't handle adult emotions, and he's downstairs making sure I eat properly. Taking care of me in the exact way I've been refusing to let anyone do for years.
I carry the plate back inside and sit on the bed, picking at the salmon. It's annoyingly delicious. Everything about this situation is annoyingly perfect, which makes my current spiral feel even more ridiculous.
My phone buzzes against the comforter. Dad's name flashes across the screen.
I've been sending him straight to voicemail for weeks.
The audacity of the man who shipped me off to Theo's townhouse like a problem to be managed doesn't deserve the reward of my voice.
But it's nine o'clock and I'm alone in this room and I'm having feelings I don't know what to do with, so I swipe to answer.
"Hello, Daddy."
"Zari." The relief in his voice is immediate. "I wasn't sure you'd pick up."
"I wasn't sure I would either."
A pause stretches between us, filled with everything we haven't said since Paris.
"I miss you," he says finally.
"I know you're still angry with me," he continues. "I just... I wanted to hear your voice."
The salmon turns to ash in my mouth. "Thanks for checking in."
We don't talk long. He asks if I'm eating well, if I need anything. I give him the bare minimum responses that let him know I'm alive and functioning. When I hang up, the silence feels heavier than before.
I grab the remote and flip through channels until I find a soap opera mid-episode. Two women are arguing over a man who's apparently been sleeping with both of them while secretly married to a third woman who may or may not be his long-lost sister. I turn the volume up and stare at the screen.
It means nothing. The characters are doing dramatic things and I can't make myself care about any of it because Theo isn't beside me for me to talk his ear off about every ridiculous plot development, which is the only way I've ever been able to watch television and actually enjoy it.
I didn't realize that until right now.
I finish the salmon methodically, each bite a small rebellion against the anxiety churning in my stomach. The vegetables are perfectly seasoned, the rice fluffy and warm. Theo's attention to detail extends even to comfort food, apparently.
The soap opera continues its ridiculous spiral—the secretly-married-maybe-brother has now revealed he's actually an undercover FBI agent, and one of the women just discovered she's pregnant with twins who may belong to different fathers.
I pull the comforter up to my chin and let the absurdity wash over me.
"Maria, you have to understand," the FBI agent says, gripping the pregnant woman's shoulders with the kind of intensity only soap opera actors can muster. "Everything I told you was a lie, but my feelings for you were real."
"How can I believe anything you say?" Maria responds, tears streaming down her face in perfectly applied mascara rivers. "You've been living a double life!"
I snort at the screen. "Honey, we're all living double lives. At least his comes with health benefits."
But my eyelids grow heavy despite the drama unfolding.
The warm food, the soft bed, the emotional exhaustion of the day—it all catches up at once.
I should turn off the television, brush my teeth, do something productive.
Instead, I sink deeper into the pillows as Maria discovers another shocking family secret.
The voices fade to a distant murmur. Sleep pulls me under like a riptide.
I'm fifteen again, sitting in Principal Danes’s office with paint still under my fingernails.
The mural I'd created on the south wall of Westfield Academy had been spectacular—a riot of color and rebellion that transformed boring brick into something alive.
Worth every minute of detention they want to give me.
Mom arrives in her silver Mercedes, jaw tight with the brand of fury reserved for public embarrassment. She doesn't speak during the meeting, just nods at appropriate intervals while Danes drones about "appropriate outlets for creative expression" and "respect for school property."
The silence follows us home. Thick and suffocating, worse than any lecture she could deliver. I fidget in the passenger seat, stealing glances at her profile. The muscle in her jaw twitches—the only sign of the storm building beneath her composed exterior.
At home, the silence finally shatters.
"I cannot keep doing this, Azaria." She stands in our marble foyer, still wearing her coat like she might flee at any moment. "I cannot keep watching you set fire to everything around you and call it self-expression."
"It's not like I hurt anyone," I fire back. “It's just paint. Mama, lighten up. The school needed some colors anyways.”
"It's not just paint and you know it. It's everything—the attitude, the complete disregard for consequences, the way you act like the world exists solely for your entertainment."
Heat rises in my chest. "Maybe if this family wasn't so obsessed with what other people think?—"
"This isn't about appearances. This is about you becoming someone I don't recognize."
"Good. Maybe the person you want me to be is boring."
Her laugh comes out bitter. "Boring? Zari, I just want you to care about something other than shocking people."
"I care about plenty of things."
"Name one."
The challenge hangs between us. I should have an answer. I should be able to list a dozen things that matter to me beyond getting reactions. Instead, I stand there with my mouth open, fifteen and furious and suddenly aware that I might be exactly as shallow as she thinks I am.
"I can't stand to be in the same room as you right now," she says finally. "I need to go get groceries anyway."
She grabs her purse from the hall table, keys jangling like wind chimes. The front door closes behind her.
I watch from the window as she backs out of the driveway, her headlights cutting through the October darkness. The silver Mercedes disappears around the corner, taillights fading to nothing.
In the dream, I follow her. I'm outside my body, floating above the scene like a ghost watching her own life unfold.
I see her stop at the red light on Maple Street.
See the drunk driver blow through the intersection at fifty miles per hour.
See the moment she swerves to avoid him, overcorrects, and hits the oak tree that's been standing sentinel on that corner for a hundred years.
The Mercedes crumples like expensive paper. Steam rises from the hood. The drunk driver keeps going, never even slows down.
And then Mom turns to look at me through the shattered windshield, blood trickling from her forehead, her dark eyes—my eyes—questioning.
"Why did you do it, Zari? Why did you kill me?"
I wake up gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Cold sweat plasters my silk pajamas to my skin. The soap opera still murmurs from the television, casting shifting shadows across the unfamiliar room.
The dream. The fucking dream is back.
I haven't had it in six years. It took five years of therapy and medication and carefully constructed coping mechanisms, and now it's back like it never left. Like it was just waiting for the right moment of weakness to sink its claws back in.
My hands shake as I reach for the water bottle Theo left with dinner. The plastic crinkles loud in the quiet room.
This is very bad news.
I am so fucked.