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It's been one year since Vyn disappeared.
Rosa has tried to stop counting time. It's better to let it pass anonymously, after all. It reminds her of her first part-time job. She was a high schooler at the time, trying to save up some pocket change, with big dreams of a car and college and an automatic ice maker. At the time, she worked the floor of a fast food restaurant in two hour shifts because she was still 15, and wasn't allowed to work more because it was a school day.
Now, Rosa is closer to turning thirty than the womb. She's working her dream job, making more money in one day than old Rosa made in two weeks. She's everything 15 year old Rosa would have wanted and more.
And yet . . .
The car park is silent as the elevator lets her out on the first level. Her heels clip the concrete as she walks. The grief is more solid in her chest tonight than it has been all week—think about breathing around a bowling ball. They say that when you love someone, that love never goes away—so where can she put it? All that love is molding into grief in her chest. It squelches when she moves like old grapes, the scent of wine staining her lips.
Rosa stops in the middle of the lane.
It's cold. Almost the holiday season. Christmas is in less than a month; Rosa should really go shopping soon. She's got some money saved up, and she's so tired recently. She should treat herself. She should buy a one-way ticket to somewhere warm. She should . . .
A sob crashes into her teeth. Rosa claps a hand over her mouth, trying to force it back down.
But it leaks out like air out of a balloon. Her chest—it curls in around the bowling ball. All of a sudden, Rosa's top heavy, she's wilting forward.
The sob invites its friends. But she can't cry; this love used to be a good thing. A beautiful thing. Crying is for if there's no hope. And there's a lot of hope.
Even if on nights like this one, when the old love in Rosa's chest makes her whimper like a wounded dog, there's hope.
She didn't always believe that. But she does now, one year after the curtain closed on the most magical act of her life.
BEFORE
The credits roll on the documentary, and Vyn lets out a sigh.
The room is dark. Rosa's all too aware of the man sitting next to her. She keeps her eyes trained on the sheet tacked into the ceiling, listening not to Vyn's breathing, but to the electronic humming of the projector. Not to Vyn's quiet chuckle, but the soft violin solo bleeding out of the speakers.
"Why are you laughing?" Rosa wonders aloud. A distraction.
Vyn sighs again. It's what he does when he finds something interesting, something he forms a professional opinion about in a matter of seconds. And it's almost always something contradictory.
"Oh, it is nothing." He smiles at her, then clicks off the projector using the remote. "Shall I make dinner? What are you craving?"
Vyn moves to stand up, but Rosa takes his hand and pulls him back down gently. He follows, his expression is quizzical
"Tell me," Rosa pleads. "I want to hear your opinion."
Vyn glances at the now blank sheet, which once hosted the image of a gruesome murder scene. Rosa thought it was horrific—how a man murdered his beloved because he thought she was involved with another man, but it turned out to be false. How that man went on to murder every man his love had ever spoken to.
Including himself, in the end.
Vyn picks up right where Rosa's thoughts trailed off. "The man in the documentary . . . his methods were quite primitive, don't you think?"
"What do you mean?"
"Certainly, there are less violent ways to express your desires. Wouldn't you agree?"
Rosa pondered that for a moment. "I'm sure there are."
"Murderous tendencies point to several flaws in the affected patient's psyche; it's been the question of ages why a human, once properly motivated, turns to violence to express their anger. For example, a sane person would have a civil conversation with their enemy. But a psychopath would reach for a knife instead."
He reaches out and brushes her hair away from her face.
Rosa's cheeks heat. Vyn doesn't show affection often, but when he does, it never ceases to reduce her into a blushing schoolgirl.
"But . . ." Vyn continues, "I also think it's important to understand people who behave that way. It can help us observe our own behaviors. Our own desires."
"Dr. Ritcher—"
"Call me Vyn."
"Vyn . . . I think you're wrong."
His brow creases. "Explain."
"You talk about murderers like they are subhuman. And they are, to some extent. But . . ."
Rosa trails off, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. She tries to turn away, but Vyn's gentle, yet firm hand guides her face back toward him.
"Tell me," he says softly. "I value your input."
". . . Is it wrong to believe I could kill for love?"
Her words don't surprise Vyn like she expected; actually, it seems they have the opposite effect. Vyn takes her hands in his, brushing her knuckles. His expression is somewhat relieved.
"No," he whispers. "That's not wrong. Can I be honest?"
"Always."
"I would resort to violence for the woman I love, too."
Shock runs through Rosa's system. She holds Vyn's hands tighter, and meets his gaze. For that instance, she can see to the very essence of his being.
Rosa can see that she and Vyn are the same: Two potential killers, staring each other in the face.
She smiles.
It's the dead of night.
Lightning crashes outside of the floor to ceiling townhouse windows. For an instant, the whole house is illuminated in a blue alien glow, before fading back into obscurity.
Rosa stands outside of a door, debating on whether or not she should go inside. Common sense tells her that beyond, Vyn is fast asleep beneath his covers, having a nice dream about that woman he would kill for. That she shouldn't interfere because she doesn't want to be a witness, an accomplice.
But fear urges her to slip inside.
That she does.
Vyn's bedroom is comparatively quiet compared to the maelstrom audible from the loft. A mouse-quiet tune is bleeding from a speaker somewhere—a nice classical beat, something liable to lull Rosa to sleep where she stands.
The door clicks shut with a soft snap! Rosa stands in the shallow inlet, eyes resting on the bed, where Vyn's prone form lies still beneath the covers.
Rosa feels like an intruder. Like a child who just threw up all over her pink blankets, her polka dot sheets, her penguin-patterned pajamas. Vyn is the tired parent. She could wake him up, tell him about her nightmare, and cry as he coos and rocks her in his arms.
Could she tell him that she had a nightmare about murdering him with her lips, her kiss, her love?
She feels like a psychopath.
She could be that.
Instead, she creeps closer to the edge of the bed. Vyn snores softly. Once, Rosa attended a class on sleep. She wonders which stage he's in, if he's dreaming or not. If he is, what is he seeing? Is it nice, full of flowers and black tea and melodic piano symphonies?
Or is he dreaming about her? Murderous, obsessive, psychopathic her?
Whatever it is, Vyn doesn't stir when Rosa slips onto the mattress, laying her head down on the empty pillow next to his.
She studies him for an eternity. Counts his breaths. When he stirs like he might wake, she slips her eyes closed to fake sleep.
Her guilt grows. Starts as a seed, sprouts into a rosebush with bleeding blooms, dripping sweet, poisonous nectar.
Yet she can't bring herself to go back down to the couch. It was so cold before—here, next to Vyn, it's warm.
Watching Vyn sleep is peaceful. Warm and peaceful.
A peace she would kill for.
PRESENT DAY
The air is so dry, it sucks the moisture straight out of Rosa's face.
She tucks deeper into her scarf. The cold doesn't bother her like it used to, but it would be troublesome if her nose started running because of the weather.
She picks up her step, now power walking down the sidewalk. It's not often Rosa's late for an appointment, but when she is, it's because she accidentally overslept.
Why did it have to be today . . .
Praying the signs of her exhaustion aren't showing on her face, Rosa shoulders into her destination: a small cafe on the corner of a busy street.
"Rosa!"
Kiki Bennet—Rosa's co-worker and best friend—is sitting at a table for four in the center of the room, waving her over urgently.
Rosa slips into the seat opposite Kiki, an apology dancing on her tongue. But Kiki starts yapping before Rosa has a chance to even greet her.
"Rosa! I'm glad you're here—hurry and look at the menu. I can't decide what to get, it all looks so good." She sticks her nose in the booklet, colorful animations of shrimp and avocados concealing her. "Coffee for sure, but what else? Rosa, get whatever you want. It's on me today!"
Rosa tries to smile. "It's good to see you, too. Where's everyone else?"
Kiki beams at Rosa over the top of her menu, and it's like standing in a ray of sunshine. "On their way. Celestine said she and Jeremy can't make it, and to eat without them." Kiki sighs, resting her chin on her hands. "Parenting sounds so hard."
"But they're the best for the job, right? I would love to be Celestine's kid."
Kiki giggles at that.
The time melts away as Kiki prattles on about her life, her sparkly new position at Themis Law, about her dog. Rosa listens. She doesn't chime in as often as she used to. For Rosa, listening is more important than ever.
Besides, Rosa likes cats more, but she'd never care to admit that out loud.
Kiki is halfway finished spilling a steaming cup of workplace drama when the cafe door chimes. She stops, looks over Rosa's shoulder, and her face lights up once again. She waves emphatically, bouncing out of her seat in excitement.
"Luke, Marius!"
Those names . . .
Rosa looks up in time to catch a wink from Marius as he slides into the chair to her right. "Miss? You look healthy."
She laughs. "Glad to see you haven't changed, either. You've got some paint on your cheek."
"Really?" He starts scrubbing at his face with a napkin.
". . . No."
"Wow," Luke chides, "you're too harsh, Rosa."
Rosa looks over at Luke, and her heart breaks a little. His head is covered with a black beanie all the way down to the eyebrows. His face, once so bright, is now dull and sallow. Purple bruises shadow his under eyes. It's like he got punched.
She offers him a sad smile. "Hey, Luke. How are you feeling?"
He smiles back. It's genuine, Rosa can tell, but the pain is there. He's good at coexisting with sadness. It's something she's always envied about him.
"Me? I've never been better." He scrubs a hand over his head, feeling for the hair that isn't there anymore. "Doc said I've got one more treatment, then I'm home free. You shouldn't worry so much. If you aren't careful, your hair will fall out too."
The table releases some of the tension with a synchronized chuckle, a forced laugh at a morbid joke. Still, Rosa is glad to see that his illness hasn't robbed Luke of his charm in the time they've all spent apart.
"By the way, where's Vyn?" Marius turns to Rosa in his casual manner. "Haven't seen him in a while. Still Dr. Sexy Smartypants I hope?"
Rosa keeps her eyes trained on the table.
Kiki coughs, drawing the attention to herself. "Boys, why don't you both decide on what you want? I'll get Rosa's order first."
The two nod and begin to talk amongst themselves.
"Thank you," Rosa says through an exhale.
Kiki reaches for Rosa's hands, and holds them tightly in her own. "That's what I'm here for. But that segue wasn't all for the sake of sparing you. Tell me what you want. Eat a lot, okay?"
Rosa nods and opens her menu. Kiki was right, there really is a lot to choose from . . .
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Can I get your order started?"
A familiar voice. Rosa turns around to see Artem Wing, her former boss, clad in a black apron. Underneath the apron, his cornflower blue button down is rolled up to his elbows, a watch gleaming on his wrist.
He smiles warmly at Rosa over his notepad.
"Artem . . ." she starts.
When he resigned from Themis Law Firm last year, he mentioned his dream of starting a business of some kind. Rosa always assumed it would be a three-star Michelin. But doesn't a modest cafe on the corner make much more sense?
Rosa rises from her chair and wanders into his embrace.
He wraps his arms around her, holding her tight against him. "How have you been?"
She pulls back a fraction, just enough to look him in the eye.
"Talk later?" he asks softly.
"Miss, you're making me super jealous. Where's my hug, huh?"
She ignores Marius's whining, but steps away from Artem all the same. Rosa turns back around to Kiki then. "You didn't tell me—"
"Surprise!"
The joy on Kiki's face completely dissolves Rosa's ire. She can scold Kiki for not saying anything later.
Rosa sits back down, and Kiki gives Artem the order. The next few hours pass in a warm haze, one that leaves Rosa content and full. At some point, Artem closes the shop and joins them at the table, his honest conversation adding something essential that was missing before. Rosa leans back with a fresh cup of black coffee clasped in her hands, watching Luke and Marius bicker about something trivial.
Oh, how she's missed this. Just spending time with the people she loves. Just having warmth.
It's been too long.
One of her limbs is still missing. That bowling ball in her chest is still heavy. But evenings like this make her stronger; it's not that the weight gets lighter, but she gets better at carrying it. The struggle doesn't show on her face anymore, she doesn't think.
"What's on your mind?"
Rosa looks up as Artem flips the chair beside her backward and sits down, leaning against the back with his arms crossed.
". . . A lot."
She's honest with Artem. He's safe like that. His objective view of her pain—would you call it pain? isn't it more like excess weight?—leaves no room for undue judgment.
"Tell me."
Rosa sighs. She watches as Kiki pulls out her phone to record the boys' argument, tears of laughter moistening her cheeks. "I'm stuck."
"Stuck how?"
"I have this higher calling. It's urging me to move forward. But the cold makes me slow. I want to stop, and to never move again."
" . . . I know how you feel."
"Huh?"
Rosa shifts her attention to Artem. His chin is resting on his arms. "It's like a weapon you thought you were strong enough to wield, but aren't, and now it's just dragging you down. You know you should call for the range safety, but you can't seem to push the words out. It's arrogant—trusting your own failing strength to save you. That limbo can turn deadly if you aren't careful." His eyes meet hers then. "Be careful, Rosa."
"How do I set it down?" Rosa whispers.
"Unload the clip."
"Won't that hurt someone else?"
Artem hums in acknowledgement, still measuring her with those piercing eyes of his. "You're right. Thankfully, you have a spot, and they can see you're struggling."
"A spot?"
"Yes." Artem reaches out with a hand, palm up, receiving. "Pass it to me."
Rosa is at a loss for words. But before she can find them, Artem snatches his hand back just as fast as he offered it. In a rush of movement, he stands, setting the chair back the way it was, stepping around Kiki and Luke and Marius to collect all of the dirty dishes.
Rosa's eyes followed him, confusion lacing her thoughts. What was that just now?
She wouldn't get an answer that afternoon. Kiki pays the check, screaming about the insane discount Artem gave her even as they walk about the door, doggy bags in hand.
On a random street corner, the group says their goodbye's, gives their hugs, their well wishes, and parts ways. But even as Rosa's feet lead her in a direction that isn't toward home, her mind lingers on the softness in Artem's face as he reached for her.
Pass it to me.
On the third try, the townhouse lets Rosa unlock the front door. It swings forward with a groan. Like Marius when Rosa teases him, or Luke when Rosa used to meet him for their morning runs.
Beyond the threshold, all is dark, the lovely interior wreathed in shadow. Everything once familiar is now sharp and otherworldly as Rosa slips off her shoes in the entryway. Her socks track dust further into the townhouse. How spotless were these varnished cherry floors kept in the past? How disgraceful. She should really come and clean one day. If only the authorities couldn't find her here, with a sponge, scrubbing away time's mark on the crown molding. Shining the candelabras with a carbon cloth. Beating out the rugs on the balcony railing.
If only it wasn't illegal for Rosa to take care of this house like she wants to.
Moonlight pools onto the floor of the living space, shimmering. Rosa steps into the moonpool. It's cool, sliding over her skin like liquid metal.
It somehow makes the view of the garden through the floor to ceiling windows that much easier to digest. Rosa goes to the window, presses her hand and nose against the glass. "How did this happen to you . . ." she asks the overgrown rose bushes as wild weeds choke them out. Asks the tulips withered and shrouded by the decaying fallen leaves. The beautiful lounge ruined by rain like tear stains.
One day in the near future, Rosa will have saved up enough to buy this place back from the bank. The salary of an attorney is good here in Stellis, what with all of the publicity due to Marius and Pax—it shouldn't be more than five years. When she does that, she'll be able to learn how to take care of roses. She'll learn to dust the arching ceilings and wax the hardwood flooring. Her only wish now is that potential buyers will turn a blind eye to this place. That they find its vintage charm tacky and outdated, as she once did.
How foolish she was.
She leaves the garden as she sees it, knowing her pity alone can't save it. She goes to the staircase and takes it up to the second level, following her heart into her favorite place.
Vyn's old bedroom greets her with a stale exhale. It's exactly as it was when he left—the bed meticulously arranged. The closet organized sensibly, the shoes lined up just so. The small vanity with a few pots and potions, a hair brush, a rusted hot styling tool lying off to the side.
That was Rosa's. She left it here to make it feel like she still sleeps here sometimes. Like she used to. Almost every night. By Vyn's side. Without thinking anything about it.
She took it all for granted.
Rosa swallowed that realization, the first time it occurred, just as well as she might a cantaloupe with a dry mouth. But it was true—she didn't know what she had until it was gone.
And now the townhouse is diving into disrepair.
Rosa slid into that dusty bed, fluffed the blankets and pillows, sneezing and eyes watering. She turns toward the right side. Runs her fingers over the sheets, the mattress that still remembers Vyn's shape.
She smiles at the memory of him, carrying him with her into sleep.
In this dream, the garden is full and beautiful, the blooms behind Rosa curling in around her figure.
She's dizzy. Wine-drunk. And she's reduced Vyn to the barest essence of his desires, pinned beneath her on the bench, a smile laced with expectation curling his lips.
Rosa plucks one of those blooms free. She leans down, tucks the stem behind his ear, his hair silver threads of moonlight spilling over her fingers.
As if the blood red rose could add to Vyn's beauty.
As if it could do anything to distract her.
"Rosa."
That accented voice, deepened with tangible wanting, never ceases to make Rosa shiver. She drags her gaze up to meet his.
He doesn't say anything using words. Instead, he reaches up and toys with the thin strap of her dress, teasing it off her shoulder.
That's all it takes—a word spoken softly, a glance, a touch.
Rosa took his face in her hands and leaned forward, kissing him deeply.
He tastes like tangerines, like black tea, like her lip gloss. He feels strong beneath her, moving to take her hips in his hands, holding her hostage with a strength she could never rival.
Impossible to think. To do anything other than render herself to him, to his obsessive hungers, to kiss and bruise him. Evidence of her touch like a brand.
The ring on her pinky is a promise—of marriage, of what comes after, but sometimes Rosa has the strength and restraint to explore. Now, she follows the line of his neck down. Past his collarbone, his chest, stopping somewhere around his navel. And there she drags a lazy finger over his skin. Across the line of his waist.
Her reward is a low moan.
Rosa leans back to look at him, those heavy-lidded eyes, but freezes.
Vyn. He's bleeding. A slash down his face. Through his neck, following the path her lips took down to his stomach.
So much blood.
And her hands—gloved to the wrist in red. Her lips taste like warm strawberries. Like black tea.
Like metal.
Oh, my God —
A prayer. A plea.
— What have I done?
Rosa wakes from those dreams sweating, body aching to receive Vyn's love.
Her stomach turns despite her visceral desires. She stumbles to the bathroom, throws herself over the toilet, empties her already empty body over into the bowl.
She's a killer. No matter how many times those dreams end in blood, she never prevents it. Her love kills him every time but she can't stop.
She won't.
Rosa sets the bed back the way it was, then leaves the house. A shower. A sip of water—that's what she needs right now.
Her apartment is a thirty minute walk away. She counts every step, her shame hot and heavy as it bleeds up her neck and into her cheeks.
Those dreams. They started a couple months after Vyn disappeared, and have only gotten worse. God, does she wish they would go away. That she could just kiss Vyn in her dream and without it turning into a nightmare.
Because isn't that a euphemism? a metaphor? Isn't God telling her, through those dreams, that her love makes her a killer? that her love in all its intensity drove Vyn away? that it killed him, and that's why he's gone?
So many questions.
Rosa asks God but the sky remains empty.
No answers.
That's okay, though. She checks her phone. She has just enough time to get home, shower, and make it to her next appointment.
To the only place God can't ignore her.
Rosa slides into a pew just as the organ dies down.
The pastor strides onto the stage, a thick book clasped in one hand, a water bottle in the other.
This church is just like it's advertised on social media—high ceilings, stained glass windows, a choir wearing white like angels. Their beautiful voices harmonize in a frequency that pleases the Lord.
Rosa has wanted to go to church for a while. She thinks it would be good for her—a woman who has nothing to believe in anymore—to have someone to hold onto. Someone that the saints say created her, who knows her thoughts and her heart.
That sounds really nice.
And maybe today, in this building, she'll get her answers.
The pastor leads the church in a prayer, then dives into a part of the thick book Rosa's never heard of before. Romans, Corinthians, and 1st John. She isn't sure what the names mean, but the passages sound nice and true.
Sometime later, Rosa starts when someone plops into the seat right beside her. She begins to scoot away, murmuring some apology, but stops when she hears a familiar voice.
"It's nice to see you here, Miss."
Rosa looks over, and the sight of her grinning billionaire best friend greets her.
"Marius?"
He shushes her. "Not so loud, Miss. The pastor is praying."
"What are you doing here?"
"Overseeing my assets. Isn't it obvious?"
"Assets."
Of course. Why wouldn't Pax sponsor a church? What's their tagline again? Something about inclusivity. Well, this certainly fits the bill.
Marius laughs softly. "When will you stop underestimating me, Miss?"
"I don't know," Rosa answers. An honest estimate. "Maybe never."
She gazes forward, at the massive cross hanging on the wall above the choir as they segue the service into a final prayer. Rosa bows her head this time, and when it's all done and said, she feels better.
Not lighter, but better.
The church goers start to stand as the organ blasts out a note of finality, the choir-angels weaving their voices together in an unseen tapestry of praise.
Rosa and Marius leave the building side by side. Rosa guides them to the right, away from the traffic of the crowd.
"What made you decide to come to church, Miss?"
She was expecting this question, but it's one she doesn't have an answer for. She tells him like it is. "I spent a long time blaming God for no reason," she explains. "But it doesn't seem fair to blame someone I don't even know, don't you think?"
"You have a point."
Rosa turns to Marius, expression inquisitive.
He keeps his eyes trained downward. "Ever since the police found the bast—" he stops himself. "Sorry, the guy that murdered my father and brother, I guess I've been looking for someone to blame. Hating one guy isn't enough—gotta hate the sky dude that let it happen. So I went to one service a couple months back in hopes that I'd leave hating God more than I did when I walked in. But the pastor said something that totally rocked my world. He said, 'God doesn't make bad things happen. He allows trials to happen to teach you endurance, because endurance builds character, and character produces hope.' That's stuck with me ever since."
"Huh. That is pretty impactful."
"Right?" Marius grins. "I decided to sponsor the whole deal a while back. It's a worthy investment, I think."
"That's great, Marius."
Marius bumps Rosa's shoulder. She shoves him back twice as hard, and he starts whining about her being too rough.
"You're the one who started it," Rosa laughs.
"Yeah, but you should be gentle with me! I'm a valuable person, you know."
Rosa grins at the ground, cheeks aching from using her smiling muscles too much.
After a long while of aimless wandering, bickering, and shoving, a black limousine pulls up on the shoulder to Rosa's left.
"That's my ride."
Marius skips to the door, but pauses right before he opens it. He turns back to Rosa. "Wanna join me for lunch? I hear the new Italian place in South Stellis has great reviews so far. I have a reservation for noon—I want you to come if you can."
"That's so sweet of you, but I really should get home. I have a lot of chores to do."
Marius pouts in his childish way, putting a sad smile on Rosa's lips. "Next time, then, Miss. Promise me."
"I promise."
The pout gives way to a brilliant smile. Rosa's favorite. "Done."
He pops the car door, preparing to slip inside.
"Marius?"
He pauses again, meeting her gaze.
"Could we meet for church again? Next Sunday?"
Marius smirks at her. "Of course. Anything for you."
Rosa waves Marius off as the sleek sedan speeds away. She was sorry to see him go.
Rosa has another appointment.
This one's at the hospital.
She stands in a crowd of strangers, standing on her tip-toes to see over the heads of those in front of her.
Everyone holds their cell phones, out and recording. Including Rosa. She hasn't been this excited in months—she cranes her neck, fighting to see over the crowd.
A cheer goes up. The rest of the world follows as a little girl, no older than 5, waddles down the center aisle, her face half-hidden in her father's shirt. He guides his daughter down and out of the glass doors of the facility.
Rosa smiles a secret smile.
Another wave of cheers, and a teenage boy follows the little girl out.
Rosa waits with bated breath.
After what feels like an eternity, Luke comes into view, and Rosa's grin is a bit brighter than before.
Though he is the oldest of the three patients to walk down the aisle, he is arguably the most timid. He keeps his head down, hiding his face until he walks out of view completely.
Rosa stops the recording and shoulders through the crowd. She spots him outside of the building, on the side of the road, signaling for a taxi.
"Luke!"
He barely has time to turn around before Rosa crushes him in a hug. "I'm so proud of you," she says, looking up at him.
He's shocked—going wide-eyed and everything before slipping into an easy smile as she steps away. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"I couldn't miss it. After all, it's not every day you see miracles happen."
"Yeah. I still can't believe it, either."
Luke runs a hand over his head, blowing out a shaky breath.
"Hey, you okay?"
"Yeah. Just in shock, I guess. I mean . . . I thought I was going to die for, like, two years. My doctor said it would be pretty much impossible to find a treatment in time. Like, who can cure a super rare degenerative disease? And now . . ."
Rosa waits as he finds the words.
" . . . Now I'm not sure what I'm going to do."
"Well," Rosa offers, "I can't tell you how to start living again. But you should start drawing again. Enjoy coffee, ride rollercoasters, solve mysteries . . . and invite me sometimes. I'm your Watson, remember?"
"My Watson . . ." Luke hangs his head, a smile spreading across his face. "You're right; it's been too long since I've done anything fun. And now that I don't have any more treatments, I can pretty much do whatever I want."
"Wanna go grab coffee?"
Rosa held out her hand.
Luke took it, and the pair walks on down the street, delighting in their friendship that has survived everything, including a close call with death.
Rosa walks through the doors of the coffee shop.
She goes ahead of Luke, who's holding the door open for her, and smiles at the barista behind the counter. He's young—younger than Rosa, anyway—and his expression is pleasant as he takes their order.
Still, he's no replacement for who Rosa hoped would be behind that counter.
She and Luke sit at a booth against the front window. Sunlight spills in, warming Rosa's face as she talks with Luke. They talk as they wait, and as they eat, and more as they prepare to leave.
But just as Rosa shoulders her purse, a voice calls out to her.
"Rosa?"
She looks over to see Artem, covered in flour and coffee stains, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He gazes at her with poorly masked concern and urgency.
"I'll be right back," Rosa tells Luke, leaving her booth.
She follows Artem into the back.
It's messy—the lunch rush having just stormed through. But Rosa finds all of the dirty dishes and misplaced supplies and cooling pastries quite charming. It's a sign of great success, this type of chaos.
Artem washes his hands and dries them on a pristine white towel. He then looks at her, and her weight returns in full force. It's like she's gained a thousand pounds in a millisecond. She can't breathe, she—
"Rosa."
She looks at him.
Artem holds her gaze steadily, those piercing eyes undressing all her secrets. "You came here for a reason."
"For coffee," Rosa manages.
"And?"
How is he so good at that? at guessing exactly what she's thinking and feeling? She used to find it irritating, because it was hard to lie to him. But now, Artem isn't her boss. Now, he's someone she never sees anymore, and it's like a knife in her side. He's someone she misses. A lot.
But above all else, he's someone she thinks she can talk to.
"I'm . . . I—"
Artem cuts her off. "Are you ready to tell me what happened?"
Rosa nods.
"Okay."
"It's heavy."
"I know."
"You're okay with that?"
He smiles. "Pass it to me."
Is it really that easy? Rosa's grief—she's always known it as a weight. A thousand ton bowling ball that is lodged in her chest. But what if it's more deadly than that? What if it's a weapon, and she's putting herself at risk by trying and failing to wield it? It's like Artem said: She doesn't know the first thing about firearms.
Including how to put them on safety.
" . . . I don't think I can do that."
"Then you know what you have to do."
Artem smiles. He squares his chest toward her, arms held out in a gesture of surrender.
Rosa raises her weapon. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
With the last of her strength, Rosa unloads the clip into his chest.