27. Tink
TINK
“Great night,” Pan says. “Great fucking night.”
Ruby, on the couch next to him, mountain-climbs her fingers up his arm, while on his other side, Pearl nod-nods agreement, her head sleepy on his shoulder.
The rest of the night was a blur, not winding down ’til a little after three, when Blue was finally able to convince Pan that people were too drunk to keep playing and Fox could usher them out.
Now Fox is asleep in one lounge chair, Blue and Emerald have taken over the other, and Pan’s occupying the settee with the rest of the Mermaids.
Me, I’m just…hovering. Leaning against the archway. Trying to gather my thoughts.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess.”
How could you do this? I think. How could you be so…
Fuck. No, of course. Of course he would. Of course you would, because this is what you always do, and I should have known and I should have stopped you. That’s why I’m here in charge of the books. That’s why I’m…
“Goddamn right. Hey, give it up for my man Tink!” Pan lifts his beer in a toast, his grin lopsided and hazy.
In the corner chair, Emerald pulls away from nuzzling Blue in the neck—guess she’s moved on—to give me a polite smile of recognition, while Ruby and Pearl, clinging to either side of Pan, don’t even bother.
“Yeah,” I say, “just doing my job.” Or not, I think.
It could have been worse, I tell myself. It could have. Someone could have tried to knock us over. Knives, guns, even thrown punches. The money is in the cash box, the cash box in the safe. The debts are owed.
But…
My thoughts trail off as I watch Ruby catch Pan’s earlobe in her teeth.
And suddenly it’s too much.
“Can’t you fucking do that upstairs?” I hear myself snap.
Ruby pulls back, startled.
“Just…” I inhale sharply. “Get a fucking room, maybe.”
“Sounds like a great idea,” Blue says, grabbing Emerald by the chin and tilting her head.
He licks his lips, she titters, and then climbs off him and pads off, barefoot, toward the stairs.
Pan gives Blue a thumbs-up as Blue rises to follow, which Blue returns by flipping him the bird.
Pearl and Ruby get up too, scampering toward the stairs, then pausing when Pan doesn’t follow.
“In a sec,” he calls, still on the couch. “Meet you up there?”
They pout, but they leave, leaving Pan alone with me. Testy. Drunk. Disappointed. A mood I know well.
A mood where he only wants to talk to me.
“Tink,” he says finally. “Tink.”
I don’t say anything. Around us, the shop is quiet. Calm and dark like it only ever is this late at night. Or early in the morning.
Like it really is just the two of us.
“Tink.” He pauses. “You’re mad at me.”
I grunt. Stare at the floor.
“You’re mad at me. I fucked up, didn’t I? I fucked up bad, real bad, and now—”
I find my voice. “You didn’t fuck up.” The words come out tired.
“Did too,” Pan retorts. “Did too, and now you’re mad at me. Because I’m an asshole.”
I don’t want to smile.
But he just sounds so…petulant.
So I do.
“Oh, so you finally admit it?” I only grin wider when Pan lifts his head and scowls.
“Dick,” he says.
“You’re a dick,” I return.
“No, you.”
It’s like talking to a child, sometimes. It…basically is.
But when I don’t respond, his eyes settle on mine. On me. Like I’m the one stable thing in the room.
“No, you’re right. I am.” He nods. “I am. I’m a dick. And an asshole. I’m…I’m every fuckin’ anatomical thing that fuckin’ fucks shit up.” Another pause. “And I’m sorry.”
I don’t say anything to that. Can’t.
“I’m sorry, Tink.” Pan squeezes his eyes shut, rubs them. “We’ll fix it, though, right?”
We. Of course.
Always we.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “Yeah. Somehow, I guess.” Now I pause. “We always do.”
Pan opens his eyes.
Grins.
Gets to his feet, crosses over to me.
Knocks his knuckles all gentle against my jaw.
And even though I am exhausted and anxious and squeezed too tight around the ribs…
I can breathe a little better.
“You’re the best, Tink.”
His lips are by my ear. He’s close enough to feel his body heat. Close enough for his stupid dangling earring to brush over my shoulder.
“The best.”
Close enough to—
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Yeah—I—”
Pan drops his head on my shoulder.
His skin, touching my skin.
Just barely. But still.
I almost don’t dare to move.
“I know,” I finish.
I swallow.
For a moment, we just stand there.
“Pan!” shrieks a Mermaid. “We’re wayyyy-ting.”
“Gimme a second,” he yells back, lifting his head. “I’m just talking to my best friend, okay?”
My best friend.
My throat feels like it’s going to close. “Knock it off.” I push him the rest of the way off of me, and Pan stumbles, but doesn’t quite leave. “Just go,” I add, not meeting his eyes. “Have fun.”
Pan smirks. “Oh, I will.” He bites his lip, still not leaving. A sheepish look I kind of recognize. He lowers his voice. “Hey, you don’t happen to have—”
Oh. “Yeah.” Of course. I fish the foil packet out of my wallet and fling it at him before he can finish the sentence.
“Knew you would.” He grins. “Legend.”
Then he salutes me, condom between his fingers, and disappears.
When I finally get upstairs, it’s just Kit lying on the couch with his feet on the armrest. The end of some action movie flashes on the TV, the volume low, but he’s not watching—he’s reading, I realize, one of the purple-covered books from Wendy’s library stack.
“Oh, hey,” he says, yawning. “How’s the uh…” He nods at my arm.
I look down. God, I keep forgetting about this. “Fine,” I say, touching it gently. It barely even hurts, I think. “How was, uh…” I glance at the couch, which besides him, is empty. “How was she?” I finish.
“Fine.” Kit drops the book back on the table—Joan of Arc—and pushes himself up. “She went to bed kind of early. Said her stomach hurt.”
Guilt knots in my stomach. “Oh,” I say. “No, totally. I feel bad that I…”
“Eh.” Kit shrugs, then stretches his arms above his head. “Think that’ll do it for me too.” He shakes his wrist and looks at his watch. “Fucking hell.” He gets to his feet and yawns again, then looks a bit embarrassed. “Uh, night, Tink,” he says, and nods before heading to his and Fox’s room.
“Yeah, night,” I say.
I head for my room too, but pause at the end of the hallway, right before where the last little bit tapers off to the spare room. Before I think better of it, I take the last two steps. Rap my knuckles softly against the door. “Hey, Wendy?”
No answer. She’s probably asleep.
I lick my lips. “Sorry I didn’t make it up in time,” I add, just in case she can hear me. “Kit says you’re not feeling well? So…I hope you feel better,” I finish lamely. “And, uh, if you need anything, just come let me know, I guess.”
I wait another second or two longer. There’s a rustling sound on the other side of the door, like she’s turning over in bed.
“Okay,” says a tiny voice. “Thanks. I will.”
“Tink?”
The voice at my door is so light and fragile, it almost terrifies me.
Wendy?
I grab for my phone. 3:02 a.m. Not even the next morning yet.
“Uh, yeah,” I croak, after a moment. “I’m here. What’s up?”
“Can I…come in?”
There’s something I’ve never heard in Wendy’s voice before. A tremble, kind of like fear. Like she might be about to cry.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, more alert now. “Hang on.”
In the dark of my room, I kick off all the bedclothes, my heart in my throat, and yank on a T-shirt over my sports bra just before I throw open the door. “What’s—”
But I can’t even finish my sentence when I see the look on her face. She’s pale as a goddamn ghost, her mouth and forehead screwed up like she’s fighting back a wail.
“I think I’m dying,” she says. “I think…I think I maybe need to go to the hospital.”
“What?” Panic spikes in me, my sleepy, half-awake state cut through with adrenaline and my mind spinning with possibilities. A tattoo needle, a piercing gun. An actual gun. A knife. Some dumbass left all his weed gummies out and she thought they were regular candy…
But then I see. Her hands, streaked with red on the fingers, and a matching stain on her Wyld-N-Tru pajama bottoms, copper-colored and unmistakable, flooding through the bright colors of the fabric, and my heart falls into my ass.
Oh god. Wendy got her period.
Whatever I am feeling—and I have no idea what the fuck it is—must show on my face because Wendy’s threatens to burst into sobs, crest over.
“I don’t want to die,” she says. “I don’t.”
“Wendy,” I say, my voice an urgent, tight whisper, “you’re not dying.
You’re not.” I sound so harsh, my pulse is going at two hundred beats a minute and the calculus in my brain going faster than I can even recognize.
I have to… but if she doesn’t realize… fuck, she has no idea. And I can’t just… shit, shit, shit.
The reality of what I have to do sinks over me like lead.
Like a weight I don’t want to carry but something I can’t just throw on the ground.
I suck in a deep breath and look at her, this kid, this girl who for all the world thinks she’s about to bleed out in the middle of a bachelor pad above a tattoo parlor in a part of town she’s barely even heard of before now.
And I can make it better. I can take care of her. I can see her through this crisis. I am the only one who can, here or maybe anywhere on Earth. And I am going to have to do the worst possible thing.
A tear slides down Wendy’s cheek and it breaks my fucking heart.
“You’re not dying,” I say and clear my throat.
“You’re not dying,” I repeat, but in my real voice.
My normal, ordinary, not-pitched-down-like-I’ve-smoked-two-packs-a-day voice.
“I’ve got you. I can help you, but…I have to tell you something first.” I suck in a deep breath.
“And you absolutely, positively, cannot tell anyone else.”