74. Sage #2
“Hard merge,” I say, adopting my best news anchor voice. “There was a family meeting and everything. There’s a chore chart and a calendar and . . . it’s a lot, honestly. It’s not less insane than before, it’s just more organized.”
I don’t mention that the calendar is 75% open blocks labeled “Sage Time” in five colors of dry-erase marker, each of which seems to represent a different boyfriend’s allotted time to give me orgasms. Milo keeps drawing happy pussycat faces in his block.
Jamie looks at me across the cheap Formica. “Are you happy?”
I blink, taking a second to process the question. It’s shocking how quickly the answer comes. Five months ago I wouldn’t have known how to answer. Now I do. There’s no asterisks, no caveats, no ifs or buts or maybes. I am. It’s that simple.
“Yeah,” I say. “Really happy.”
“Good.” His face softens, then pulls tight. “I’m sorry I disappeared. I kept telling myself I’d finish one more section and then call, and somehow weeks vanished.”
“You were trying to finish your project.”
“Still. I should’ve checked in properly after pajama night.” He points an accusing finger at me. “Also, neither of you sent me the pictures you promised. I’ve been waiting for photographic evidence of tanner on the ceiling and Amy looking like a sweet potato.”
“I promised pictures of the apartment, not Amy.”
“I’m pretty sure you said Amy too. But I would’ve accepted either.”
The guilt twists in my gut. Jamie thinks he missed a ridiculous apartment disaster. He doesn’t know that while he was buried in his project, our lives filled with murder and crematoriums and the kind of secrets that either eat holes in friendships—or bind them forever.
“We should’ve called too,” I admit. “Things got chaotic with the move, and Amy needed some space after the apartment disaster. We all dropped the ball.”
He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Then we agree not to accidentally lose another six weeks. You two are my best friends. I love you guys.”
“We love you too. And we’re okay. We’re really, really okay.” The terrifying thing is that I mean it. I’m doing okay.
“That’s good to hear.”
“I missed you too. I missed this.” I gesture at the booth, the diner, the warmth of Jamie’s attention. “I need normal in my life. And you’re my normal.”
“That’s either the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me or a devastating commentary on the rest of your social circle.”
“Both. Definitely both.”
He grins. “Well, I’m here. Same booth, same laptop, same mediocre coffee. Anytime you need normal, you know where to find me. Now, get some pie in my belly!” He pauses. “Speaking of which—I think we need a redo on pajama night.”
“Oh, absolutely. No spray tan this time, though.”
“Obviously. But I have a counterproposal.” He leans forward, eyes bright.
“Instead of a night in, let’s do an afternoon out.
Bottomless margaritas. There’s a Mexican place downtown that does all-you-can-drink from two to six.
I’ll drive. You and Amy can get properly wrecked.
I’ll be the responsible adult for once.”
“You? Responsible? I don’t believe it.”
“I contain multitudes, Sage. I can be responsible when the occasion demands it. I once drove a roommate home from a party without hitting a single curb.”
“That’s a very low bar.”
“And I cleared it. With grace.” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll text Amy. How’s this Saturday?”
“Saturday works.”
“Perfect. I’ll pick you up. Amy can meet us there. Tell the boyfriend brigade I’ll have their girl home by sundown, completely intact and only mildly tequila-poisoned.”
“They’ll want to negotiate terms.”
“Of course they will. Tell them I’m a very safe driver and I know CPR. That should cover most scenarios.”
I laugh. I don’t have to check if it’s appropriate or safe because this is Jamie and Jamie is the place where none of that matters.
I think about that sometimes. About what Jamie sees when he looks at me versus what’s actually there.
He sees a waitress with too many boyfriends and a scar she covers with velvet.
He sees a woman who likes horror movies and serves decent pie and laughs too loud at his jokes.
He sees the version of me that exists in daylight—the one who pours coffee and doesn’t flinch at loud noises anymore.
He doesn’t see the knife in my boot. He doesn’t see the blood I’ve washed off my hands, scrubbed from under my nails. He doesn’t see the woman who kneels over men in motel rooms and feels nothing except the cold clarity of purpose.
Jamie sees Sage. Not Fury. Not the savage. Not the woman the guys are building into someone dangerous. He sees the girl I was before all of this—the one who moved to a coastal town because she wanted a fresh start, the one who thought the worst thing that could happen was a bad shift at the diner.
I need that. I need someone who looks at me and sees something clean, because there are days when I look in the mirror and I don’t see it anymore.
There are days when the face staring back is all shadow and sharp edges, and I need Jamie’s version of me to remind me that the other Sage still exists somewhere under the blood and the rope burns and the rage.
He’s the part of my life that stays clean.
And my God, I need it to stay that way.