She shakes her head. “It’ll pass.”
I laugh a little. The kind of laugh that makes me vulnerable and I would have rather held it in, but when it manages to get out, I don’t feel so bad anymore. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugs. “You tell me.”
“All things pass.”
“A bit of a surface read, but it’s a start.”
“What is it, if it’s not a parable?”
“A kōan. They’re a little different from parables. Parables are supposed to teach you a lesson. Kōans make you think. A good tool if you feel your Zen practice needs a little centering.”
“Ah,” I say. “Buddhist?”
She nods. “You?”
“Nihilist.”
She gives a bemused smile, teasing me for my attempt at cleverness. It is both maddening and wildly attractive.
“I’m Ximena,” she says, offering a long, slender hand. “But everyone calls me Mena.”
“January.”
“Janus. Roman god of beginnings and endings.”
“You are full of trivia,” I tell her.
“I’m full of a lot of things. Do people call you Jan?”
“Some people,” I say. “But I like it when you say my full name.”
She leans close to me again. So close that the next thing she says, I can feel it. I can feel the movement of the air and I can feel the way it reaches through my skin.
“Good,” she says. Then she narrows her eyes and nods. “You should take the job. Come work here.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, flushing. Not caring.
She shrugs. “You’ll like it here. This place”—she gestures to the empty bar around her—“it’s sort of like a family. It’s my sangha.”
“What’s that?”
She nods her head toward the far wall. “It’s better than a family. I used to work over at Einstein. I was a stewardess, back when they first opened up to tourists. I would come stay here sometimes and there are a lot of great people who work here. So I made the choice to stay. Your sangha is the family you choose, not the one you’re stuck with.”
Suddenly I know why I am so wildly attracted to this woman. The two of us bear scars from our childhoods. Wounds that were inflicted so long ago it feels like another life and, at the same time, yesterday. Those scars are invisible to most people who would look, but we can see them in each other. Even as strangers, that binds us.
That was the moment I knew I was going to stay, so I could get to know this woman. Which may be shallow. Yeah, she was superhot. But there was something about her that felt magnetic. Something inside me pulled toward her.
Even in this moment, feeling that pull again, I know it isn’t real. Or at least, it isn’t real anymore.
It’s an echo. And as much as I want to wrap my fingers around it, pull it close to my chest, live inside it—you can’t hold an echo.
An echo can’t hold you…
…“January?” Allyn asks.
The mess of paperwork is back on Reg’s desk. The computer is unboxed, set up, and collecting dust. Allyn’s hair is longer and graying again. Ruby is floating dumbly next to me.
I’m back, the echo faded into the air.
The way it filled my heart, gone with it.
“Do you know what Drucker is doing right now?” he asks.
“Giving Teller a handie in the bathroom?”
“No, Jan, she is telling everyone I answer to that I’m employing someone who is stage two Unstuck. I had to fight to get you this job when you were stage one, and they only went for it because you were good at your job and three years out from your pension.”
“I’m not stage two.”
“Damn it, January, I know what it looks like. You were sitting there just now in a daze.” He sighs and leans forward, and doesn’t bring his eyes up to meet mine. “There’s nothing I can do. It’s time to retire.”
“No.”
“What do you mean no?”
“I mean no, Allyn.” I stand up, having gotten my bearings. “You gave me this place. You said it was my fiefdom. You said I could have it. So it’s mine until it’s not. Do you understand me?”
The decision is causing him pain. It’s all over his face. He doesn’t want to do this. I should give him credit for that. “It’s out of my hands,” he says. “You’re the one who took a swan dive directly into Drucker’s bad side. It’s happening whether you want it or not.”
“You know what, fine. Retire me. I can always get a job here.”
“Damn it,” he says, slapping a pile of paper on the desk. “What is it about this place anyway? You have no friends. You’re miserable. You were always a pain in the ass, but now you’re like a heat-seeking missile for trouble. You’re not the January I remember. Do your job. Keep shit in order. That’s all I ask. Instead you’re wandering around pissing people off like I pay you to do it.”
I get up. Push the chair in hard, knocking a pile of papers onto the floor. Pause like I’m going to bend and pick them up, and realize that’s not me.
“And you’re not the friend I thought you were,” I say, slamming the door behind me.
* * *
—
Make me go. I’d like to see him try.
I grip the railing, look down into the lobby from my spot—from our spot—and resolve to ask Reg as soon as possible about keeping me on in some capacity once this is all over. I’ll clean rooms. I’ll do laundry. Whatever.
Though if someone is going to come in and clear house, does it even matter? Maybe I should wait. Either way, they’ll have to take me out of this place on a stretcher, my brain a pile of wet leaves. And it’ll be worth it if until then, I can see Mena.
I catch Ruby in my peripheral vision and ask: “Where’s my intel on the guy?”
“Still working on it.”
“What good are you?”
“I’m doing my best, and…”
“Fine fine fine.”
This is a jigsaw puzzle someone dumped on the floor and then kicked a handful of the pieces under the couch. And they won’t show me the box, but they still want me to put it together. Quickly and in the dark.
Someone is inside our system. That’s happened before. Foreign governments. Bored hackers. But again, I don’t believe in coincidence. Too much shit is happening in conjunction with a bunch of rich people trying to buy this place out.
I think Teller is my favorite right now in Pin the Tail on the Bad Guy, but that might be his track record clouding my judgment. It’d be dumb to rule anyone out. Everyone’s hiding something. So is Allyn. What did he say before? Checks and balances?
I’m considering what those might be when a gentle buzz leaps across my brain and Kolten crashes through the front doors of the Tick Tock, grasping his throat, face red. Anaphylaxis. Behind him I hear a voice. His brother Warwick? “Where’s the pen. Where’s the fucking pen?”
I watch as Kolten falls to his knees, people suddenly rushing around him, trying to revive him. Warwick is cradling his head, screaming for someone to help, asking if anyone has an EpiPen. But it’s too late. Kolten’s chest stops moving. His eyes go glassy. It’s painful, but it’s also quick, and that much is a mercy.