Her brother would have laughed, said I told you so. In flashes, she appreciates the irony, but she guesses she’s supposed to feel lucky and she feels . . . alone.
The knock makes her jump. Fuck. She was never this jittery when she was . . . alive?
“I’m coming!” she yells, half-regretting the bitter veneer that shrink-wraps her words. She cinches the soft tie on her fluffy pale-blue bathrobe and tries not to think how badly she wants the . . . other one. The one with see-through elbows and coffee stains on the front.
She swings the door open. Larry’s standing there, hair damp but combed, holding two steaming cups of coffee.
“Shit!” She remembers. Lunch and racquetball. She told him noon. It must be at least two by now. It’s funny – there are clocks everywhere, but she doesn’t like to look at them. “I’m sorry. The game-”
He shrugs and holds out the coffee. “Racquetball’s boring.”
She wants to say What isn’t?, but she takes the scalding coffee (which should burn her hand but of course doesn’t) and steps back. “You want to come in?”
“Only for a minute.” He walks past her. His cologne smells the same. The way it did when she sat in front of him for her first interview, reminding herself over and over not to fidget, to keep her hands still. The way it did the time they worked all night on the McCaffrey case, even though she had a stomach virus, and she had to sit four desks away from him to make sure she didn’t catch a whiff.
The way it did when he walked into holding to tell her that Jack had been infected with the biotoxin.
She wants to hit things, split her knuckles, see blood and ripped skin.
Skin doesn't rip here.
“You okay?” he asks.
“No. I want to go home.”
He sips his coffee. It’s so quiet she can hear him swallow. Time stretches, whatever time is, here.
“Why do they deliver goddamn Newsweek?” she asks, as if this is at present the most important question in the world.
Larry sets his coffee cup on the counter and takes a few steps toward her. “The night I got here, the only thing I cared about was finding out what happened to you and Jack. I didn’t mind being dead except-” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “It makes me a terrible person to be glad you’re here, right? It does. I know. But I am.” He pauses, and Renee watches his face, changing expressions like a kaleidoscope. “I missed you.” His voice is quiet and haunted.
She takes a sip of the coffee. It’s the best coffee she’s ever tasted, and she doesn’t care. “I miss him,” she says. “I want to know if-”
“I know. But it doesn’t work like that. So play racquetball with me.”
He’s hazy and swirled through the liquid that distorts her vision. She smiles, muscles without meaning. “Okay. Let me change.”
Renee/Larry [Any place except your heart]
Her brother would have laughed, said I told you so. In flashes, she appreciates the irony, but she guesses she’s supposed to feel lucky and she feels . . . alone.
The knock makes her jump. Fuck. She was never this jittery when she was . . . alive?
“I’m coming!” she yells, half-regretting the bitter veneer that shrink-wraps her words. She cinches the soft tie on her fluffy pale-blue bathrobe and tries not to think how badly she wants the . . . other one. The one with see-through elbows and coffee stains on the front.
She swings the door open. Larry’s standing there, hair damp but combed, holding two steaming cups of coffee.
“Shit!” She remembers. Lunch and racquetball. She told him noon. It must be at least two by now. It’s funny – there are clocks everywhere, but she doesn’t like to look at them. “I’m sorry. The game-”
He shrugs and holds out the coffee. “Racquetball’s boring.”
She wants to say What isn’t?, but she takes the scalding coffee (which should burn her hand but of course doesn’t) and steps back. “You want to come in?”
“Only for a minute.” He walks past her. His cologne smells the same. The way it did when she sat in front of him for her first interview, reminding herself over and over not to fidget, to keep her hands still. The way it did the time they worked all night on the McCaffrey case, even though she had a stomach virus, and she had to sit four desks away from him to make sure she didn’t catch a whiff.
The way it did when he walked into holding to tell her that Jack had been infected with the biotoxin.
She wants to hit things, split her knuckles, see blood and ripped skin.
Skin doesn't rip here.
“You okay?” he asks.
“No. I want to go home.”
He sips his coffee. It’s so quiet she can hear him swallow. Time stretches, whatever time is, here.
“Why do they deliver goddamn Newsweek?” she asks, as if this is at present the most important question in the world.
Larry sets his coffee cup on the counter and takes a few steps toward her. “The night I got here, the only thing I cared about was finding out what happened to you and Jack. I didn’t mind being dead except-” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “It makes me a terrible person to be glad you’re here, right? It does. I know. But I am.” He pauses, and Renee watches his face, changing expressions like a kaleidoscope. “I missed you.” His voice is quiet and haunted.
She takes a sip of the coffee. It’s the best coffee she’s ever tasted, and she doesn’t care. “I miss him,” she says. “I want to know if-”
“I know. But it doesn’t work like that. So play racquetball with me.”
He’s hazy and swirled through the liquid that distorts her vision. She smiles, muscles without meaning. “Okay. Let me change.”