The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(30)

“The street is too quiet and open for a discreet stakeout, and they can’t afford to take officers away from normal tasks for something with no routine or predictability.”

“There’s such a thing as simple answers, you know.”

“You literally just scolded me for giving simple answers.”

She drops her chin to her arms and doesn’t respond.

I add some seasoning to the chicken and veggies, then open the fridge. “Something to drink?”

“Wine?”

“Sure.” I pour us each a glass and go back to poking. I add the sauce to the veggies at almost the last minute, giving them enough time to cook through without getting soggy, and serve it up in equal parts between two plates and three plastic containers. Handing her a fork, I pull out one of my sets of chopsticks, the nice lacquered ones that Inara and Victoria-Bliss gave me for Christmas, and put them with my plate to one side so I can clean the grill while it’s still hot.

We eat in silence, me leaning against the kitchen side of the counter, her seated opposite, and it might just be the loneliest meal of my adult life. When we’re done, I rinse the plates and fork and put them in the dishwasher, then handwash the chopsticks and leave them on a small towel to dry. For some reason that makes me think of Sterling’s coordinated kitchen, even though my dish towels are thin and ratty and pulled at random from the dollar bin at Target.

“I miss you,” Siobhan whispers to my back.

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Why do you think I’m here?”

The sound I make should be a laugh, but it really isn’t. “Hand to God, Siobhan, I have no earthly idea. I’d love to think you’re here because you want us to figure this out, but if I assume that, you’ll tell me you still need space, so I’m not going to assume anything.” I still have most of my glass of wine, but hers is empty, so I pour her another. “Have you decided what you want?”

She’s silent for a long time. I don’t try to prompt. I lean against the counter, sipping my wine, and let the silence settle between us. It’s familiar, that silence, has always been there just under her steady stream of chatter. It’s where substance is supposed to be. Finally she responds, her voice small and scared. “No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I miss you!” she cries.

“And we what, have a grand reunion and fall into bed, and everything’s magically fixed? Because I thought we agreed, Hollywood is full of shit.”

“How can someone so romantic be so utterly unromantic?”

“Situational response.”

She flips me off, then looks at her middle finger and sighs. “I learn bad habits from watching you and Eddison together.”

“That’s okay, Sterling does, too.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“That does seem to be our life right now.” As long as we’re not having a conversation, I go ahead and finish wiping down the kitchen, washing the cutting board and knife and setting them next to the chopsticks to dry.

“For one night, just . . . just one night, can we please keep . . .”

“Pretending?” I shake my head. “You don’t really think that will help, do you?”

“But what could it hurt?”

So much. It could hurt so very, very much, but when she comes into the kitchen and kisses me urgently, the edge of the counter biting into my hip, I don’t push her away. I’ve made worse mistakes before.



12

I’m pulled out of a half doze by the feeling of Siobhan’s fingers tracing the words on my ribs, T. S. Eliot floating against a brightly colored nebula, do i dare disturb the universe? It hurt like a bitch to work over the bone like that, but when I got it, I didn’t ever want to have to worry about it showing in the field. I love Eliot, in that slightly embarrassed and embarrassing high school kind of way, not for whole poems but for solitary lines and images, the way one line will jump out and cling to your thoughts even as stanzas and movements continue on. This line is more personal than that, the reminder that disturbing the universe can be a good thing; it’s my skin, my blood that mixed with the ink to form the only scar I chose.

Her lips brush over the question mark, and I open my eyes to find the clock nestled between the teddy bear’s legs on my nightstand. Eleven forty-five p.m. It’s better than I’ve slept in a while.

“Your nose is twitching,” Siobhan murmurs sleepily.

“My face itches.”

She gives a soft laugh and pushes at my back. “Then go wash it.”

I use the toilet and scrub my face clean of the makeup I left on longer than intended, pulling my hair back into a ponytail because sex hair doesn’t do curls any favors. It’s like hundreds of other nights; when I get back into the bedroom, Siobhan will be starfished across the bed, with only about a fifteen percent chance of her head being anywhere near the headboard, probably already asleep because she can drift off at will. But tonight isn’t the same as all those other nights. I’m not good enough at pretending to convince myself that it is.

Groaning, I grab leggings and a camisole from the dresser, then head out into the living room to grab my phones. A few text messages have come in—Eddison, Sterling, Priya, and Inara—but nothing that needed an urgent response.