And to think last night I’d stood over him all sweet-mouthed and sugar-hearted, almost yearning. I remembered how sad he’d seemed, telling me I had broken his heart. Sure I had. His heart, and probably some unicorns; I was apparently quite hard on mythological creatures.
Now I wanted to put my face in his face, let him see how done with him I was. Then I’d show him my notes and the new lines and dots I’d filled in on his map, and tell him to get off his bruised ass and find my sister. After that, he was free to go his merry way. All the way to hell. I’d give him a map for that, too, if he needed it.
Birdwine’s file was sitting on the coffee table. I picked it up, and it was shaking too hard for me to read it. It took me a full second to understand the shaking was coming from my hands.
I had to pull myself together. I was furious and rumpled, and I’d woken up missing my mother, or maybe missing the feel of any human body in the bed beside me. Well, that second part was fixable.
The shower was still running, and Julian was out cold, so I had a moment. I went to the kitchen and got some coffee started. My mouth felt like this whole filthy house had crawled inside and died there. Last night, I’d searched the bathroom and come up with a toothbrush I was pretty sure was mine. I’d brought it to the kitchen and washed it with some dish soap, just in case. I used it again, now.
Then I got Birdwine’s duct tape from the junk drawer and pulled most of the hair off my skirt and blouse. That felt so much better. More like me. I put my shoes on and shrugged back into my jacket. My blowout was failing, so I slicked my wild hair back and secured it at the nape of my neck. I did the two-minute version of full war paint: matte skin, dark striped eyes, a mean red mouth.
I checked myself in my compact’s mirror and was heartened to find a reasonable approximation of my hardest self. Good enough to break a piece off in Birdwine. Even good enough to go straight to work from here. One advantage of my endless sleek black suits was that only Verona would realize I was wearing yesterday’s. She had a good eye for cut and label, combined with a twenty-something’s interest in other people’s walks of shame. She’d be so disappointed in me if she saw the hairy drooler who had shared my sofa. From here on out, I would do better. The best way to get the dregs of Birdwine right out of my system was to get some other body into it.
By then the shower sounds had stopped. His laptop was still open on the kitchen table. I woke it up and turned it toward the doorway, so he’d see it when he came in. As he came up the hall, I poured coffee into two of his random coffee mugs, one plain green and one with happy daisies that said TEACHER OF THE YEAR. If only he’d had a FATHER OF THE YEAR or WORLD’S BEST DAD mug. I was up for a little ugly irony.
He limped around the corner in an old T-shirt and some Levi’s that looked even older. His dark hair was wet and brushed back off his face, giving me a good view of his bruises. The swelling had gone down a bit around his eye, thanks to the cold peas, but the colors were coming in: black and violet and a spectacular deep plum. He gave me a wholly fake sheepish look; the real expression in his eyes was wary.
He did not apologize for last night. He’d once told me he never did, for drunk. Sorry implied a promise to stop, and he’d sorry’d about it endlessly at Stella. He could no longer muster the required faith to form the words, lifetime-level tired of watching himself fail to mean it.
Then he saw the picture open on his laptop’s screen. I’d left the browser open to the best close-up of his son, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Hubs. The boy’s head was already even with the man’s.
Birdwine stopped, his eyes gone serious and blank. If I’d had any lingering question that this was his kid, his face was answer enough. Birdwine’s good eye met my gaze, and his fingers moved to press against his temple.
I held out the mug with the daisies. After a second, he came over and took it. He leaned on a piece of counter catty-corner to me. He still didn’t speak. Neither did I. I used his own old cop trick. I was obvious about it, giving him prizefighter eyes, letting the silence build and charge. He took a sip, considering me over the rim of the cup. He knew what I was doing.
He said, “Okay. Let’s start with the kid.”
Oh, it was a good opener. His speaking first gave me the win—his way of saying he was sorry, after all. But it begged the question, which damn kid? We had a herd to choose from, he and I: my orphaned brother snoring in his Barcalounger, my missing sister, his abandoned son.
“Why don’t we start with yours?” I said. It came out sharp, accusing.
He’d given me the opening, but I could see he was regretting it already. “Really? Because I know where mine is.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get to Hana when Julian’s up. He should be in on that conversation.”
“Okay. But I don’t want him in on this conversation,” Birdwine said, like a warning. He would talk about the boy, but he was setting a timer.