Ruthless Creatures

4

“I love you, you know.”

Knowing where this is headed, I look out the windows toward the lake. “I think all that kale you eat has warped your brain.”

“I worry.”

“You don’t have to. I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

And this is exactly why I should’ve stayed at home.

My voice quiet, I say, “It took two years before I could drive a car without thinking, ‘What if I didn’t break for this curve? What if I ran straight into that brick wall?’ Another year after that before I stopped googling ‘painless ways to commit suicide.’ Then another before I stopped randomly bursting into tears. It’s only been the last few months that I can walk into a room without automatically scanning it for his face.

“I live with the ghost of a man I thought I’d grow old with, the suffocating weight of questions that will never be answered, and the crushing guilt of knowing the last thing I ever said to him was, ‘If you’re late, I’ll kill you.’”

I turn from the window and look at her. “So all things considered, merely surviving is a win.”

Eyes shining, Sloane murmurs, “Oh, honey.”

I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. She squeezes my hand again, then says, “You know what we need?”

“Electroshock therapy?”

Releasing my hand, she sits back in her chair, shaking her head. “You and your dark humor. I was gonna say guacamole.”

“Are you paying? Because the guac here is ten bucks for two tablespoons, and I’ve heard I’m cheap.”

She smiles fondly at me. “It’s among your many shortcomings, but perfect people are boring.”

“Okay, but I’m warning you right now, I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Babe, I know you well enough to keep my hands at a safe distance when you’re eating. Remember that time we shared a bowl of popcorn while we watched The Notebook? I almost lost a finger.”

“I can’t wait until we’re old and you have dementia. This photographic memory of yours is the worst.”

“Why am I gonna be the one with dementia? You’re the one who refuses to eat a vegetable!”

“I’m about to have some smashed avocadoes. Doesn’t that count?”

“An avocado is a fruit, genius.”

“It’s green, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s a veggie.”

Sloane shakes her head. “You’re hopeless.”

“I so agree.”

We share a smile. At that moment, I happen to glance over to the opposite side of the restaurant.

Sitting by himself at a table, his back to the window, a pint of beer in his hand, the stranger I bumped into outside the restroom stares at me.

Because he removed his dark sunglasses, this time I can see his eyes.

They’re the deep, rich brown of Guinness stout, set wide beneath a stern brow, and surrounded by a thicket of black lashes. Focused on me with startling intensity, those eyes don’t move or blink.

But oh, how darkly they burn.

2

Nat

“E

arth to Natalie. Come in, Natalie.”

I rip my gaze from the oddly powerful trap of the stranger’s eyes and turn my attention back to Sloane. She’s looking at me with lifted brows.

“What? Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”

“Yes, I know, because you were too busy getting eye f****d by the beautiful beast who crushed your best friend’s ego.”

Flustered, I scoff. “There’s not a man on earth who could crush your ego. It’s made out of the same material NASA uses on spaceships so they don’t burn up on reentry through the atmosphere.”

Twirling a lock of her dark hair, she smiles. “So true. He’s still staring at you, by the way.”

I squirm in my chair. Why my ears are getting hot, I don’t know. I’m not the type to be unsettled by a handsome face. “Maybe I remind him of someone he doesn’t like.”

“Or maybe you’re an idiot.”

I’m not, though. His wasn’t a look of lust. It was more like I owe him money.

The waiter returns with another round for us, and Sloane orders guac and chips. As soon as he’s out of earshot, she sighs. “Oh no. Here comes Diane Myers.”

Diane’s the town gossip. She probably holds the world record for never shutting the f**k up.

Having a conversation with her is like being subjected to water torture: it goes on and on in a constant, painful drip until eventually, you crack and lose your mind.

Without bothering to say hello, she pulls up an empty chair from the table behind us, sits down next to me, and leans in, engulfing me in the scent of lavender and mothballs.

In a hushed voice, she says, “His name is Kage. Isn’t that strange? Like a dog cage, but with a K. I don’t know, I just think it’s a very odd name. Unless you’re in a band, of course. Or you’re some kind of underground fighter. Whatever the case, in my day, a man had a respectable name like Robert or William or Eugene or such—”

“Who are we talking about?” interrupts Sloane.

Attempting to look nonchalant, Diane jerks her head a few times in the direction of where the stranger sits. Her shellacked gray curls quiver. “Aquaman,” she says in a stage whisper.

“Who?”

“The man by the window who looks like that actor in the movie Aquaman. What’s-his-name. The big brute who’s married to the girl who was on The Cosby Show.”

I wonder what she’d do if I dumped my glass of wine over her hideous perm? Shriek like a startled Pomeranian, probably.