2. Alone

TWO

Alone

MIKA

Routine was the only thing keeping me going anymore. That was why I crawled from the couch the next morning, drank a glass of milk, and stepped into my clothes for the day. It was why I followed the path to the train tracks and then followed the train tracks three miles to the field behind the school. It took me one hour and forty minutes. These things weren't necessarily part of an established routine, but I could pretend they were. I could pretend there was a purpose to them.

It wasn't long before one of my teachers noticed I was there, sitting in a classroom … pretending. I hated him for making the ruse known to me, but I hated him a little less when I found myself once more in the counsellor's office. I made sure to check his name on the door this time. Mr. Nicholai Fell. His eyes were br ighter, but so was the sun. It slanted over his features, turning the deep, dark indigo of his irises into a liquid ocean. It made me thirsty, so I asked him for a glass of water. A water cooler was in the corner of his office, by the door. His eyes flicked to it, and I stood to get the water myself before he could move.

"I won't ask how you're feeling." He seemed to sigh the words to himself.

I finished one plastic cup and filled it again. I was so thirsty. No … dammit , I was hungry. I had ordered pizza the night before, but it hadn't sat right in my stomach, and I had vomited it up almost immediately. I filled my cup a third time and then went back to my seat.

"Why?" I asked blandly.

Everyone who spoke to me asked me how I was feeling. It was the extent of my conversations with people these days, and since I never knew how to answer them, those conversations didn't last long.

"It's okay if you feel nothing at all," he responded evenly.

My shoulders sagged a little, and I had to place the cup on his desk before it slipped from my fingers and splashed against the ground.

Did I look as numb on the outside as I felt on the inside ?

Probably .

I couldn't remember the last time I properly consulted a mirror. I wasn't even sure I would recognise the person staring back at me.

"I can't sleep in the bed," I said, trying to fill the silence, trying to distract him from seeing me too clearly. I searched his eyes, wondering if he would offer me a drop of wisdom, a hint of meaning. He still looked too young, but I had the oddest desire to sit on his windowsill and have him care for me as though I were one of his immaculate plants. Maybe he could make me immaculate, too. "I can't bear to go near it, and I don't know why."

"Where do you sleep?" He didn't even seem surprised by my admission. He only leaned back in his chair and considered me, his attention heavy.

I couldn't look away. I no longer had the strength to.

This man was the only person I had spoken to in a long time who didn't seem afraid of me or wasn't actively trying to expel me from their presence.

"On the couch," I answered.

"Are you eating?"

"A little."

"Why do you think you can't sleep on the bed?"

"It doesn't seem right."

"What isn't right about it?"

"Being comfortable doesn't seem right. "

He watched me, allowing my answer to soak into both of us, and then he pushed his chair back and stood. He moved to the windowsill and gestured for me to follow him. He was taller than I had expected—his bicep aligned with my head. His forest green button-down stretched appealingly across his broad chest, just tight enough that I could see the barest hint of ridged muscle beneath the brush of starched material. He looked so … strong . So disgustingly healthy . He looked like the kind of man all men aspired to be, one day—and yet he was so young he likely still had his own "one day" he was working toward.

I felt sorry for whoever was out there secretly competing with him, because he wasn't done. He wasn't even close to done. His eyes were too hungry for that.

I even felt sorry for myself, standing next to him.

He didn't belong in that office.

The sunlight fully engulfed him now, drenching him in light and causing me to shy away. He was a caged wonder—a fallen angel in this concrete box for weeping victims.

"I want to go back to class." My voice was abrupt, accusatory.

He reached out but didn't touch me; he merely opened himself to me, his palm displayed. "Come here, Mika. You were staring at my plants earlier. Let me tell you about them."

I considered his offered palm, and then I shook my head. "No."

I walked out without a backward glance.

Mr. Nicholai Fell didn't know what to do with me. None of them did. I was past the point of discipline, past the point of ultimatums or incentives. I was angry because he didn't belong. I was angry because he had managed to make me angry, and I was angry because I didn't spiral at all that night. I didn't black out. I remembered everything. I went to sleep consciously, and I woke up consciously. I managed to keep my breakfast down.

I skipped the first two classes the next day because Nicholai was busy with other students. When he caught me sitting outside his office, he dismissed the other student waiting, telling her he would see her next week, and then he waved me in.

There was a little plant on his desk. He pushed it toward me, toward my chair.

"It's called a bonsai," he told me.

I knew then that I was wrong.

He knew exactly what to do with me.

"Bonsai actually refers to the method, not the tree," he said when I didn't respond to him. "It means tray planting . It's the method of creating a miniature tree by snipping the roots and shaping the foliage to match your design. I can teach you, if you like."

He wasn't too young anymore. Now, he was too smart.

"Is the little tree going to fix me?" I picked it up, drawing it into my arms, even as I moved for the door. I didn't want to be around him anymore, but I would take the immaculate little tree plant because I liked it.

He stood, moving around his desk to open the door for me. He smelled like the snap of a frigid ocean breeze—not exactly a relaxing scent. I hugged myself against it, fighting the desire to breathe him in, hoping he would be cold enough to numb my insides. He was wearing a dark olive shirt today. Fitted, like the last one. It made my eyes trail over his disturbingly impressive torso, momentarily lost in the faint diamond pattern decorating the material. The colour made his eyes seem less shadowed—soft and strangely intricate with those threads of violet and the deeper blue depths. I had hoped he would be ugly in the glaring light, but he was painfully striking.

I hated it.

I briefly entertained the idea of him being hit by a bus—a small bus going relatively slowly. Just enough to make him ugly.

I wondered what he would say if he knew how fucked up my thoughts were .

"You don't need fixing, you know." He was staring down at me because I wasn't moving.

I scoffed quietly. "If you want to help me, don't lie to me."

He winced, the spasm moving over his features almost too quickly for me to catch. I enjoyed the crack in his composure until one of his hands settled on my shoulder. It seemed like he intended it to be a soothing gesture, but his hand was too big, his finger brushing the skin above my collar before he readjusted so that there was no direct contact between us. His skin had felt rough, and it burned. It struck me once again that he didn't belong. He should have smooth hands. Smooth hands, a smooth body, and jaded eyes. He should have bled softness and empathy. He should have rolled over when I scoffed at him.

"Come back tomorrow, and I'll show you how to trim the leaves, okay?"

There was a genuine question in his eyes, but it dissolved when I didn't answer. He looked at his hand, removed it, and sucked in a short, subtle breath.

"Thanks for coming in today."

I left, my heart racing. Why was my heart racing ? I didn't want to care, so I skipped my next class and waited out the rest of the day on one of the back fences by the bus stop. My little tree plant was in my lap, and I stared at it, touching the tiny leaves .

"Hey—what are you doing out here?"

I glanced up over the leaves to a worn leather belt. A guy was standing there, flanked on either side by two more. They all wore tanks and faded jeans. Two of them had open button-ups tossed over the tanks. The guy who had spoken to me had light brown eyes, the kind that always looked so much deeper than the usual, darker shade of brown. The kind that looked like light shining through glass. There was a scar on his neck—a thick one, puckered and white.

"Nothing," I muttered.

"Nothing?" He quirked a brow, sharing a look with one of his friends. "We were about to skip last period; you wanna come hang out with us?"

This is the part where you run back to school , a little voice whispered to me. This is the part where you realise you're spiralling again.

I shoved the voice away, slipping off the railing and adjusting the plant under my arm. "Fine."

"Name's Marcus." The guy didn't seem surprised, but his friends did. They hadn't expected me to agree. Marcus motioned to the one on the left. "This is Smith, and Duke—my brothers."

Now that he mentioned it, an age difference became visible. Duke was the oldest; he had brown eyes like his brothers, with a crew cut and a tattoo snaking up the back of his neck. Marcus must have been the middle child. Smith was slighter, shorter, and younger than me. That would put Marcus around my age and Duke a year or more my senior. He shouldn't even be in school anymore, but then again … I shouldn't have been either. They walked me to a car parked in the student lot, and I got into the back with Smith. It was a beat-up sedan painted yellow. I wasn't sure of the make.

"Duke doesn't go to school," Marcus told me, twisting around in the front passenger seat to talk to me. "He lives around here, so we skip class to hang out sometimes."

I turned to the window, mumbling some kind of affirmation to prove that I was listening. Marcus kept talking. He told me about his sister, Jean, who also went to our school, and asked me if I was the Grey girl. The one who got taken out of school for a year while the police tried to figure out who murdered those people . I told him yes. He asked if those people were my parents. I told him yes again. He asked if I was in a mental institution for a year. The words stuck in my throat. Smith then decided he was interested and asked me what a murder looked like.

"Red," I mumbled. "It looks like red."

"That's enough," Duke snapped from the driver's seat. "Stop asking her about it, you dicks."

They drove to Summer Estate Trailer Park , and I opened my mouth to ask them how they knew where I lived, but they cruised straight past my RV and toward the back of the park, closer to the train tracks, but on the opposite side to the owner's lot. Duke's place was one of the bigger, more permanent trailers. They pulled onto the grass despite the sign hammered into the sidewalk reading: No Parking . I exited the car and stared at Duke's trailer, wondering about the coincidence.

"It's not much," Marcus muttered, standing beside me as Duke unlocked the front door and disappeared inside. "But it's his—he owns it—and that's pretty cool."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Sure."

"Let's go inside." Smith found my other side, pressing on my back.

The interior was like mine, with a kitchen and living area in the centre and a doorway at the other end, giving a glimpse into a bedroom. On the other side, there was a set of bunk beds. Duke had his head in the fridge, and when he withdrew it, there was already a beer in his mouth, the top of the bottle clenched between his teeth. He handed one off to Marcus and one to me.

I shook my head, refusing it. "I'm not thirsty."

He shrugged, taking it off me and handing it to Smith instead. Smith grinned at me, grateful, as though he wasn't usually allowed to drink. I placed my plant on the table as Duke led us all outside again, where a ring of chairs had been set up beneath an awning. He had an armful of beers and tipped them into a cooler before sinking into one of the chairs. He set his beer down to strip off his shirt, and then he was drinking again, ignoring the rest of us.

Marcus was chatting, asking about a geometry test.

"I think I was away for that." I made my excuses, managing to look apologetic.

Marcus had a mean appearance, but he seemed harmless. He wanted to be friends. He was almost desperate for it. Maybe his appearance scared most people off. Marcus and Smith didn't sit in any of the seats. They spread a blanket on the ground and pulled out a battered Monopoly box. I found it strange that they skipped school to drink beer and play Monopoly, but I decided it would be a good distraction when Marcus patted the blanket beside him.

"Everyone's talking about you at school," Smith chirped as he counted out play money.

"Cut it out," Duke growled, indicating that he was listening to our conversation even though he had made an effort to separate himself from us.

The mangy cat appeared again, strutting across the opposite side of the road. It sat in the garden, staring across at me, tail swishing, ears twitching. I hadn't noticed before, but there was something off about its eyes.

This time, it refused to approach.

Smith was quiet for a few minutes but perked up again as the game began. Marcus offered me his beer three times, and on the third, I accepted it. We drank seven beers between us, with Smith nursing his one drink for three hours. I felt buzzed when Marcus finally won the game, so I went inside the trailer to find a bathroom. Duke was at the counter making sandwiches. He had given up watching us only minutes before, and now he had the TV on. It rambled almost mutedly about drug raids and traffic disruptions.

"You don't talk much. I've been watching you." Duke had turned around and was examining me as I contemplated the TV.

"You don't either," I said.

He smiled a small smile devoid of any real humour. "You're right."

He walked toward me, eyes dropping from my face to the hem of my dress. It had become crinkled since I had been sitting on the ground as we played Monopoly. I didn't know what he found so fascinating about it—a simple summer dress, light blue, with thin straps. It ended a few inches above my knee.

"Talking isn't my thing." The simple statement had sounded like a warning of some sort. "I like that it isn't your thing either."

His hand threaded into my hair, cupping the back of my head, and then he was kissing me.

I supposed he really had been warning me. It was his way of asking for permission.

It seemed as good a time as any to have my first kiss.

It hadn't taken so long because I was shy or unsure. I had been very sure, once upon a time, that it needed to be special. That it needed to be love .

I no longer believed in special, or love.

Duke took my lack of resistance as an invitation, his free hand tugging on my hip, bringing our bodies closer, tucking me against him. His tongue was inside my mouth, his fingers flexing on the back of my head.

"I've been thinking about this," he murmured, pulling back an inch. "It was all I could think about with you sitting there in your little dress, all silent and tortured …"

The sound of the door opening broke him away from me, and he returned to his sandwiches, leaving me standing there, apathetic. I still needed to pee. I told him so. He pointed out the bathroom, which was behind the main bedroom. His eyes were darker than they had initially appeared. Marcus snatched one of the sandwiches; he was oblivious to the looks his brother shot me because he was too busy watching the headlines scroll across the bottom of the TV. I read something about a superstar found dead in a hotel room, and I escaped into the bathroom.

Inside, the mirror seemed to be accusing me of something. My hair was tangled, and my dress was even more crinkled than before. My cheeks were flushed from alcohol, and my lips were rubbed red. I wanted to feel guilty, but I didn't. I didn't feel anything. No curiosity, no spark. No guilt, shame, or disgust.

I didn't like him.

He was nothing to me.

Maybe I would let him kiss me again, but my apathy was melting into exhaustion. I left the trailer without saying goodbye as they all gathered in Duke's kitchen to eat.

The mangy bundle of fur followed me and escaped into the trailer the second I opened the door. I stood there for a few minutes, wondering if I should be annoyed.

"Out," I ordered, pointing to the door.

It poked its head out from beneath the bed, its odd little stare piercing. I frowned, bending to get a closer look. One of its eyes was clouded, milky, and unfocused, while the other was a clear brown. It hissed at me, and I swore, backing off.

"Fine. Whatever. Do you have a name, at least?"

It hissed again.

"Satan it is." I rolled my eyes, yanking open my backpack and retrieving the can of cat food I had bought from the corner store on my way to school.

I opened it and set it on the floor.

Satan retreated fully beneath the bed, disappearing.

"Not hungry?" I asked, collapsing onto the couch. "Yeah, me too."