8. August 20, 2024
Steel
How did you apologize to a woman for sending her partner, your friend, to his death?
You didn’t.
He glanced to the garage. A pair of bicycles—one pink, one purple—leaned against the side of the building. Jesus fucking Christ.
The door to Kubrick’s personal residence opened. That was something, at least. She would have checked the security feed to see who was at the door.
He braced himself for a violent outburst of swear words directed personally at him, but nothing came.
Instead, she stood at the door, her features pale and haunted, eyes red-rimmed.
She wore a sweatshirt that was too big for her and bore the word “NAVY” across the chest, sweatpants, and mismatched socks.
Without saying a word, she stepped back from the door and disappeared into the living room off to the right. Hesitant, he stood on the screened-in porch, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, working hard to keep his breathing unlabored and his face a blank mask.
This would be the hardest conversation of his entire life. Worse than any interrogation he’d ever suffered, a debriefing after a failed mission, or an inquiry into his behavior.
When he felt he’d buried his emotions as deep as possible, he followed her inside the house, making sure to close the door and lock it behind him.
She sat on the antique couch, a fuzzy blanket pulled over her.
A binder and stacks of what looked like haphazard papers fanned out on the floor, along with pens, highlighters, pencils, her tablet, sticky notes, and every other office supply known to man.
There was also a full trash can and an empty tissue box in the mix.
Perhaps the most telling item was the unopened box of snack cakes.
“Kubrick—” His voice cracked. He swallowed, then tried again. “Kubrick, I—”
She lifted the blanket off the sofa next to her and tipped her head, signaling he should sit next to her. Uncertain he should, but unwilling to ignore her, he sat at her side. She dropped the blanket over him, put an arm around his shoulder, and pulled him into her.
Tears welled in his eyes as she tucked his head into the crook of her neck.
Kubrick was always so strong. She’d lost her family at a young age.
Spent almost her entire career fighting against the misogyny of the Hollywood machine, including a producer who hated her.
Lost her adopted brother, her last remaining family member, who was still out there, missing and in danger. Shot and killed a man who attacked her.
Now this.
How much more could she take?
“I’m—”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” she hissed. “You will bring him back to me. I know it.”