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Pacific Flight 121 dominates the news that night, of course. It's gruesome and absurd, which are two of LA's favorite things. When she gets sick of the FBI's questions, Mercedes straightens her scarf and stands up primly, excusing herself in a clipped voice. They call after her, saying they're not done with her statement, but no one bothers to stop her from leaving. There are things more pressing than a girl and her devoured dog.
In the hallway, Chen is leaning up against the wall, contemplating the unlit cigarette in his hand. She can't tell if he's been waiting for her or not.
"I didn't think you smoked," she says. He looks up at her, not exactly surprised but not exactly expectant either.
"I quit, a few years ago. Bad for training." He flicks the cigarette into the trash can across the hall. "It just seemed like a good a time as any to start up again."
Her eyes land on the bandage on his arm, and for a moment she panics but then remembers that he had it on before the flight. It's an everyday injury. A stupid sports-related injury. She's surprised at how relieved she is.
"Do you want to stay at my place tonight?" she asks, without thinking, and there's no guile or coyness like there usually is. She wonders if it's him that does that to her, or this entire stupid situation. "I'd rather not be alone."
He hesitates for a moment, or maybe he's just thinking about his cigarette again. "All right. I don't have a hotel anyway."
As they walk out of the airport, she doesn't know what to do with her hands. She has nothing to hold on to anymore – no Louis Vuitton valises, no designer bags, no Mary-Kate. She feels almost naked, so she places a hand on the back of his arm, barely. He doesn't pull away.
--
He sleeps on her couch that night, and the night after that, and every night after that. He finds a gym near her apartment and spends most of his time there, while she goes back to her everyday life – shopping and lunch with the girls and nightclubs, although she doesn't go home with any of the guys like she used to.
Their schedules are strange and there are times when they go days without seeing each other, but even when he's not there she sees evidence of him around her place. Boxer shorts in the hamper, mountains of protein bars in the cupboards, his toothbrush in the bathroom. It's strange, and different, and comforting almost.
When she does see him, they don't talk much. He's not really a talker. She likes that about him. She likes that he gives her half the rent even though she doesn't ask for it, that he changes the bulbs when they go out, that she no longer triple checks the deadbolt on her door before going to sleep. He has big arms and a big chest and he makes her feel protected, which should be strange because his entire body is the potential for violence. He comes home with hands red from beating a punching bag or a man – either is equally possible – but still she can't help imagining what they'd look like against her skin.
--
Her friends call him "her kickboxer friend" and she suspects it's because they don't think his name is worth remembering. They chalk it up to her penchant for bad boys, which she can't exactly deny. These are the friends who know that she actually lost her virginity to the gardener's son when she was fifteen, not to Trip McCall a year later at the debutante ball like she led everyone else to believe. She finds herself seeing those friends less and less often.
When she asks Chen what he tells his friends about her, he shrugs.
"I don't really have friends here." He doesn't take his eyes off the stupid infomercial he's watching. She sits down next to him on the couch.
"All right, fine. The guys at the gym then." She's met them a few times, when he's forgotten stuff at the apartment and asked her to bring them down.
"What's there to tell?"
"They don't think it's weird? That we live together?"
He smiles. "They call you Princess Moneybags. I think they think I'm some kind of gigolo."
She giggles at the gigolo comment, but is caught by the nickname. She supposes it could be worse, considering it's a bunch of macho steroid addicts. Chen doesn't say anything more about it and she's knows him well enough by now to tell when he's finished having a conversation.
What bothers her is that she can't figure out what Chen is. He lives with her but she doesn't sleep with him, yet she doesn't sleep with anyone else and he's probably largely responsible for that. The simplest label would be roommate, but she looks around and everything of his could be fit into one bag. If he wanted, he could leave tomorrow and leave no trace.
She cringes at the thought of that, surprised at how much it hurts, and finds herself twining her arms around his. He stiffens for a moment, then relaxes, and she rests her head against his shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the world, like they do this all the time.
--
Chen is actually some kind of celebrity. She never considered where his rent money came from, but one day she's flipping through the obscure channels of her digital cable and stumbles across his figure, high-kicking and punching another man in an octagonal ring.
She goes to his first match since he's been in LA, but it's too visceral and too real for her to stomach. He wins, barely, and comes home with her covered in bruises. When a cut on his side reopens as he's getting out of the car, he lets her dress the wound and change the bandages, even though there are probably trainers or doctors better suited for this.
She's surprised at how gentle she has to be with him when he's like this. He winces at every touch, every time her fingers graze across a black-and-blue welt on his skin. She steps back and from this distance, they look like bite marks.
She's relieved that she can cover them up with gauze and not look at them again.
--
She sees on the news that Eddie Kim has been convicted of multiple counts of murder and a laundry list of things she can't even keep track of. They cut from the Asian reporter to the defense attorney making a statement outside the courthouse, and in the background she catches a glimpse of Agent Flynn and that kid, Sean, coming down the steps.
She's glad that everything has worked out for them, but she hopes that she never sees any of them again. Ever.
--
A few days later, she gets a call from some studio guy who wants to make a TV movie out of her "experience." She agrees to a meeting, because they said they'd be willing to buy the release from her and she thinks some good might as well come out of this.
She doesn't tell Chen, though she's not sure why.
When she gets there, they excitedly recount the entire movie to her, saying they've got the cooperation of the San Diego Zoo and their extensive snake collection. They must see the uneasy look on her face because they quickly move on to who'd be playing her. They throw around names like Paris Hilton and Kristin Cavallari, and Mercedes starts to feel better.
They have that kid from Kyle XY slated for the witness, Three G's is going to play himself, and right now they're between Bruce Campbell and Harry Hamlin as the co-pilot.
"And who else is there. That Asian guy, the kickboxer. We were thinking of punching up the script a little and making him one of Eddie Kim's guys, kind of like a twist ending. We haven't worked out all the details but some martial arts never hurt anyone."
Mercedes feels queasy, like she's going to throw up or scream. "He saved my life," she says. "Twice."
They all blink at her, not knowing what to say, so she grabs her bag and leaves.
When she gets home that night, Chen is waiting for her with a tiny puppy, a mutt of at least five different breeds.
"I thought you could name her Ashley," he says with a smile, and immediately Mercedes bursts into tears. He starts apologizing, not knowing what he's done, but of course he hasn't done anything. It's her, and this stupid, ridiculous mess, and how every night since that plane ride she's had nightmares about dead, mangled bodies falling all over her. She startles every time she feels something brush up against her skin – her sheets or the wind or even Chen – because she thinks that when she turns around, she'll be met with glowing, angry eyes and poison coursing through her veins. Her own beating heart will be what kills her.
Chen says he'll take the dog back, he's sorry, he shouldn't have tried to replace Mary-Kate, but she shakes her head no. She can't form the words; she can't tell him that she's been barely holding it together, that if it hadn't been for him, she would have come unglued a lot sooner than this.
She points to her room and he carries her to the bed, staying with her until she falls asleep. She still has her nightmares – that'll never change – but in the morning, when he runs his fingers down the length of her bare arm, she doesn't flinch away. She only breathes deep and closes her eyes.