More Than We Can Tell (Letters to the Lost #2)(2)

Sigh.

“Sure,” I say.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you; you’ve got a gap in the graphics in the elven woodlands. I’ll send you a screenshot on Five-Core when we’re done so you can fix it.”

“Sweet. Thanks.”

Like I said. Only gaming. Only tech.

Which is okay. I suppose I should be grateful that Ethan hasn’t asked for my bra size.

After a moment, another player name appears in the team list. GundarWez. His avatar joins the team on the screen. He’s huge and dressed entirely in black—which is a complete waste of all the customizations I spent so much time building in. I’ve never played with him before.

“Hi, Gundar,” I say into my mic.

“Hey,” says Ethan.

“Hi, Azure. Hi, Ethan.”

I stifle a giggle. After the huge avatar, I expected a deep voice. Gundar sounds like he’s nine.

Another player joins. The name appears on the team list, and the smile drops off my face.

N1ghtmare. Mr. Mouth Hole himself.

His avatar is female, because of course it is. Breasts as large as my coding will allow—which thankfully isn’t too obscene. Tiny waist. Wide hips. He’s customized the costume and skin color to be uniformly beige, so his avatar looks naked. It makes me want to remove the color from my coding.

I’m frozen in a mental space somewhere between disgust and irritation. This feels purposeful, but I can’t figure out how. He wouldn’t have known I was on the team until Ethan added him.

Maybe this will be okay. I know a lot of people will say things in a private message that they won’t say over a microphone.

“Sorry,” he says, and his voice is rough and gravelly. For half a second, I think he’s actually apologizing, but then he says, “I thought this was a real team.”

“It is,” says Ethan. “We’ve got four. Want to run the mission through—”

“No. Not until you boot the bitch.”

Apparently, some people will say things over a microphone that should never be said out loud. Disgust shifts into anger—and humiliation.

“Go ahead.” My voice is even, though my heart gallops in my chest. “Boot yourself, Nightmare.”

“No way. I’m here to play. I just don’t want to play with some chick on the rag.”

“Well, I don’t want to play with a douchebag,” I snap.

“Guys,” says Ethan. He sighs. “There’s a kid on this team.”

“I’m not a kid!” says Gundar.

I wince. I forgot about him.

“Dude,” says Nightmare. “Would you boot her? She can’t game. She’s going to drag the whole mission down.”

“Dude,” says Ethan, his tone full of dry mockery, “she built the game.”

I wince. I try not to tell anyone that.

“Is that why it sucks so hard?”

“What is your problem?” I demand.

“You’re my problem,” says Nightmare. “Stupid whiny bitches who think they know how to game because they took a few coding classes, but really, they just suck. Now shut your mouth hole or I’ll keep my promise to shove something in there—”

I slam my laptop shut. I yank the headset off. My heart pounds away. My eyes are suddenly hot.

It’s nothing new. I shouldn’t be upset.

I’m good at this. I built this game. I know what I’m doing.

You’ve got a gap in the graphics in the elven woodlands.

Okay, so it’s not perfect. But I can fix it. What does that Nightmare guy have? A chip on his shoulder? An exhausted right hand?

Ugh. I can’t believe I just thought that.

Nails scratch at my bedroom door. Before I can get up to open it, Texas, my yellow Lab, shoves the door open with her muzzle. She’s full of wags and a snuffling nose that keeps pressing at my hands.

It sounds adorable, but really this is her way of telling me she needs a walk.

Good. I need a distraction. I lock the computer, shove my phone in my pocket, and hurry down the stairs.

All the lights are on, but no one is around. Texas hops up and down on her front paws, looking eagerly at the back door.

I grab her collar and peer out into the darkness. Mom stands on the patio, a glass of wine in her hand. She’s wearing dark jeans and a trim jacket, and her hair is in a ponytail bun. No makeup. She thinks it’s a waste of time. She’s a pediatric cardiologist, so you’d think she’d be oozing with empathy and compassion, but maybe she uses it all up at work. Around here, she’s buttoned up and critical.

Compared to her, Dad looks like a stoner. He hasn’t shaved in days, and he’s wearing a zip-up sweatshirt and jeans. He’s sprawled in one of the Adirondack chairs, a laptop balanced on his knees. A bottle of beer sits open on the pavement beside him.

Light from the fire pit reflects off both of them. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but considering their irritated expressions, I would bet money that Mom is lecturing him about something.

I catch the tail end of a sentence. “… don’t like the influence it has on Emma.”

Gaming. She’s whining about gaming. As usual.

She spots me, and her face shifts to exasperation. “This is a private conversation,” she calls.