Chapter 13 #2
“They think they know you.” Her voice gets louder and faster as she releases pent-up frustration.
“Because you’re loud. Or funny. Or confident.
Or because you can talk about anal on the internet without combusting.
” I glance over, not flinching at her words.
She continues, “Which, don’t get me wrong, I’m all here for sex positivity, but I don’t love that it’s all people have come to expect.
And I am confident in the stances I take, but… ”
“But?”
“But fucking hell! It’s a lot to carry. Confidence becomes a costume eventually.” She laughs again, but it sounds tight and forced. “Then one day you realize nobody’s asking if you’re okay anymore because you accidentally taught everyone to believe you don’t need anything.”
The honesty in her voice hurts to hear. I can imagine it—the shell. The performance. Not totally fake, but polished sharp enough to survive.
“You know,” I say carefully, “I listened to more than just that one episode about the data centers.”
Daisy nearly trips over a rock.
“You did?”
I nod.
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why?”
“Maya made us do research.”
“What episodes?”
I grin despite myself because she looks genuinely alarmed.
“There was one with the relationship therapist who said most straight men think emotional vulnerability counts as flirting.”
Daisy points at me. “That woman was correct.”
“And there was another one.” I glance ahead, trying to remember. “The woman who was on a bunch of Twilight Zone episodes.”
She blinks.
“The actress who talked about ageism in Hollywood?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “You fangirled so hard. I could tell you genuinely loved her work.”
Daisy comes to a sudden halt.
“You listened to that?”
I stop too, suddenly nervous.
“Yeah.”
“That’s like…” She stares at me. “A deep cut. We don’t push that one at all. None of my listeners had even heard of Twilight Zone.”
“I know.”
“You listened voluntarily?”
“I was driving through Nevada and Taylor stole aux privileges. Plus we all love The Twilight Zone.”
An incredulous laugh bursts out of her before she can stop it. Then she studies me more carefully.
“So, what did you think?”
I remember almost all of it. Mostly because it surprised me. I expected shock-jock girly podcast energy. Loud jokes. Viral clips.
Instead, I remember she lit up.
Not because of the celebrity, but because she genuinely loved the show.
She rattled off episode titles from memory, connected them to modern horror, and asked thoughtful questions about Rod Serling's writing and what it felt like to be a woman working in Hollywood at that time.
Halfway through, they seemed to go off-script, geeking out over practical effects and the way science fiction has always been less about monsters than people.
There was a moment near the end when the actress said she'd spent decades worrying she'd only ever be remembered for what she looked like in black-and-white television instead of the work she'd done since.
Daisy got quiet.
She told the actress, "I think people confuse being seen with being known."
I remember sitting in the car afterward thinking Daisy had let more of herself slip into that interview than she probably realized.
"You sounded different," I say.
Daisy snorts. "Good different, or 'please never publish that again' different?"
"Different in a real way. Not that you were fake in the data centers conversation. But this one… it felt like I was a fly on the wall. And after getting to know you, I know I was right. You really are that girl."
She looks over at me.
I shrug. "You weren't trying to seem entertaining or intelligent. Your enthusiasm was refreshing."
The silence stretches between us, then she looks away toward the trees.
“That’s kind of the problem,” she murmurs as wind stirs the pines overhead. “I think I got so good at being consumable that I forgot how to be…” She gestures vaguely. “A person.”
Something in my chest twists hard. Consumable. Jesus.
“Wow, that sounded dramatic,” she mutters afterward like she regrets saying it out loud.
“No,” I say gently. “I don’t think it did.”
She looks over at me then.
Really looks at me.
And suddenly I understand something terrifying: Daisy and I are actually scared of the same thing.
Being misunderstood.
Being reduced to one visible thing until nobody bothers to look deeper.
Her: the loud, confident sex podcaster.
Me: the weird, nerdy conspiracy guy.
Both of us terrified that if people saw the softer authenticity underneath, they’d leave.
As we approach a cliff edge, I guide her again toward the inside of the trail. This time, when my hand brushes her lower back, she doesn’t tease me for it.
Instead, her fingers brush my forearm for balance. My entire body lights up, desperate for more of her touch.
“Oh my God,” she laughs. “That was the fastest blush I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m literally hiking.”
“You’re literally panicking,” she laughs.
I think about all the ways I’d like to make her blush in retribution.
She winks. “I see you, Miles.” I know she does.
I drag a hand down my face while she grins at me.
Instead of succumbing to embarrassment this time, instead of panic, I let myself feel seen. Because she’s not laughing at me. She likes me. God help me, she actually likes me.
By the time we reach the rendezvous point near the fire road, I realize I trust Daisy now. Far more than I ever planned to.
And worse? I think she knows it.
That night back in the Machine, exhaustion crashes through all of us hard.
The crew talks over each other for hours once we’re reunited.
Taylor dramatically recounts their “vehicular hostage situation.” Jax insists he nearly died—this time, of something other than dehydration. Maya documents everything Ridgefield did for insurance purposes with a calm that feels more unsettling than yelling would.
After everyone has settled for the night, thankful for their own tiny beds, Daisy is brushing her teeth while I linger in the tiny doorway.
I’m half asleep already, but we haven’t stopped talking all day and I don’t want it to end.
“And the thing about Appalachian migration theories is people focus too much on elevation and not enough on water access because if you look at older sighting clusters near abandoned mining routes…”
I start to drift off while standing, blinking sleep from my eyes.
“Miles?” She lets out a soft laugh. “You’re falling asleep mid-conspiracy again.”
“I was making a point.”
“You were about to fall over.”
I smile sleepily into the dim bathroom as she slides past me toward her bunk, her hands brushing my chest. “You know,” she whispers, “I like hearing you talk about this stuff.”
My chest warms where her hand was, as if she transmitted the words into my body. I watch her climb into her bunk, a little more gracefully than she did on her first night here.
I lay down, thinking about the feeling of her head on my chest last night. I fall asleep smiling.