Page 67 of Fang Fatale

We talk until the fire gutters low and the only light comes from the pair of lamps flanking the room.

I have the odd suspicion that if we stopped talking altogether, the ghosts of everyone we'd ever disappointed would materialize and throw themselves a party.

Instead...

The hours settle around us in easy layers.

"I didn't want this job," I admit.

"Any of it."

"I only took it because I thought it'd be easy coin. I figured you'd disappear like all the others, I'd send Brooks an invoice, and maybe steal a week in California before he remembered I existed."

She studies me like she's waiting for the ghosts, too.

"So when did you change your mind?"

"You're assuming I did."

She pulls her knees closer to her chest.

"You went soft the second you walked into that coffee shop and saw me behind the counter."

"I went soft the second you didn't offer me cream or sugar."

I point at her.

"That level of passive aggression is rare in the wild."

Her smile flickers...

...then catches.

And suddenly I understand that Birdie is beautiful the way earthquakes are.

You don't notice the exact second everything shifts.

You only realize afterward that nothing will ever sit quite the same again.

When she speaks again, her voice is quiet.

Almost apologetic.

"You could've told me about Leland sooner."

I don't argue.

"You could've run farther."

"I did."

The words settle between us.

Perfectly symmetrical.

Neither of us knows what to do with them.

Neither do I.