99 Percent Mine

“No shit. He’d be on the next available flight. Business class, window seat. Snobby blond snob, drinking wine in a suit, frowning down at the world below, swooping in to save Tom from my clutches.”

“That’s sorta hot,” she slurs as she fades off, her head rolling to one side.

Good Lord. Several barrels of Chemical X must have rolled into the reservoir. Echoes of Holly’s breathy He’s so good-looking reverberate around the room. I wonder if Jamie has buried himself into Truly’s primordial lizard brain, like a tick.

If he has, I’ll tweezer him out.

In the living room, I sit back down with my needle and thread. I miss my hideous handsome brother. It’s moments like this, in the dark, with no music or anyone to talk to. The absence of him is the void inside me, and I don’t know what more I can stuff into it. And on top of it all, I’ve just fucked up, big-time. I think of Tom’s abject terror. I was too honest. And I was stone-cold sober.

The cheap wine bottle is just sitting there on the rug like a penguin.

“What?” I say to it. “Leave me alone for a minute.” I sew, keeping my eyes on the needle.

It won’t stop staring at me.

I relent after a few more anchors and unscrew the cap to smell it. I take a small sip from the bottle, then deepen my swallows. About a glass burns down the hatch. I think about Tom looking in my recycling bin. I think about the task Truly has trusted me to do.

“I’ve got to concentrate,” I say sternly to the bottle, and put it in Truly’s fridge. Getting up and down a couple of times gives me some ghostly chest flutters. I’ve forgotten my medication at home.

For the first time in forever, I feel concerned for myself. This is worse than when I let my Furby die under my bed, mewling and crying. How do I correct this monumental neglect? I pat my chest. “Hang in there.” I really should go have a review and an ECG, but Jamie always comes with me to those appointments. I’m a baby. I’m just Princess, playing at being a grown-up, and failing.

I’m going to sew every single anchor before Truly wakes up. I’m like the elves helping the shoemaker. I will sew and sew. Maybe it will take my mind off Tom’s walking around in the world, single and resplendent.

Maybe I could convince him, my brain suggests optimistically, and my needle goes into my finger.

How could I risk hurting and losing him, just to have his body? I’d have to be the worst person. The most reckless, careless person. A rebound kind of girl. Oh wait. I am.

“Human flotsam,” I say to myself, and I stitch on, and on, and on.

Chapter 11

I haven’t seen the colors of sunrise in a long, long time.

In my old life, I’d be loading my car with photography gear even earlier than this and heading off to a shoot, a slave to this buttercream light. Everyone looks beautiful in this glow. It airbrushes in a way that my software package never could. It puts a flush in everything it touches.

But, all that said: Kill. Me. Now. It’s. Early. I lie in bed and stare at the exposed rafters above me.

I’d nearly bought a tent, but Tom had shaken his head and moved me into the backyard studio. Just store yourself in here with your furniture, DB. When he tossed my mattress down onto the bedframe with a sexual grunt, we never made eye contact. Not even Patty’s cheerful sneezes could break the tension. Sorry little buffer, Aunt Darcy did a big, bad thing.

I tore up the kitchen and I tore up my oldest friendship.

My voice is ringing in every silence: Tom Valeska, get in me. It echoes louder and louder, until we’re wincing and walking away from each other. He’s usually so good at erasing my weird moments, but this was too much. But I feel those gold lamplight eyes are always watching me. Something deep inside me—optimism, perhaps—tells me that he’s turning over my offer and inspecting it from all angles. Measuring it and testing it for faults. Show me what you got.

It’s our first day on site; the day that Tom has been obsessively preparing for. He’s been working so hard, and it’s why I’m up this early, to prove that I’m as committed to this as he is. What do building crews wear? I’m not entirely sure. I go with a tank, black jeans, and Underswears that say VILLAGE IDIOT across the rump. Girl panda makeup. Elvis hair. I tie my boots tight. I am no-nonsense.

I slide open the studio door and step out into the beautiful light. I feel like I should be dragging a suitcase to the airport. I check the time on my brand-new phone. Five thirty A.M.

Time to be a grown up again.

Tom lives outside my bedroom window, down on the grass, just like the Valeska I pictured as a child. No one would make it past that tent to my studio’s glass door. Right now, his tent is zipped shut. He’s being very quiet in there.

I walk up to the front and scratch my fingers lightly on the flap. Patty scratches back. “Tom? Is the water turned off inside? I’m busting.”

Every time I go to use a basic amenity, it’s off. Or on, but can’t be used. It’s infuriating.

There’s no sound and no reply. I unzip a corner just big enough for Patty to squeeze through. She stampedes to the nearest clump of grass and pees endlessly. I’m almost ready to join her. “Tom? Are you in there?”

“What?” His voice is blurry from sleep. There’s a pause. “Oh fuck.” There’s a rustling sound, some struggling grunts, and Tom forces his way out of the tent like he’s being born. “Fuck. What time is it?” He looks me up and down; hair and makeup and black.