I stared into the wet night. Streetlights cut into the darkness and illuminated beads of raindrops. Wet leaves clung to the asphalt and hugged the base of the parking garage. No cars drove through the empty street Xander had taken the time to cordon off. The night belonged to us and the bad guys. I could barely contain my excitement.
“I went on some dates,” I said, gripping my wedding ring.
That was the truth, but what Xander didn’t need to know was that I never formed a connection with any of the women. None of them compared to Callie. To force some type of intimacy, I went home with three different women over the past seven years. We had watched movies until I passed out on the couch, and then I had waken up a few hours later to a cold spot beside me. I also hadn’t bothered to take my wedding ring off on those dates—which goes to show you the caliber of person those women had been.
I shook my head, not really wanting to delve into my lonely, depressing love life. “I go on a date about every night with Palmela. You know her, right? Palmela Handerson?” I leaned across the center counsel and whispered, “She puts out every… single… time.”
Xander chewed on his lip and nodded slightly. I didn’t know what ran through his mind. Did he judge me? Did he sympathize with me? Feel bad, because I couldn’t move past my wife’s death even after seven years, because I wouldn’t allow myself to connect with another human being?
“Does it feel like your betraying her?” he asked, taking me off guard and continuing the conversation. “Is that why you avoid meeting someone new?”
I didn’t know how to respond to that—because honestly, I’d never reflected on why I had never dated after Callie. So, naturally, I went with banter. “Call me old fashioned, but I’m not a one-night guy, my friend. I need substance. I need consistency. You wouldn’t take a brand new weapon—something you’ve never shot—into battle, would you? It has to be reliable, trusted. It has to feel right.”
“You know she’s dead? And no matter what answer you get tonight, no matter who killed her, no matter if you kill them… she’s still dead.”
I grabbed the seatbelt and squeezed it in my hands. My teeth clenched together, and my entire face turned to stone. “Fuck that, man. Maybe killing those bastards is exactly what the doctor ordered. Maybe after bathing in their blood I can finally feel clean again and move on.”
Xander licked his lips. “Well,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder, “I’m here for you, Joe. If you ever need to talk.”
“Yeah?” I asked, allowing myself to fall into my favorite pastime—poking at Xander in a nonsexual and mostly verbal way. My expression remained stoic. “I want to talk right now. Like, a serious talk.” I adjusted in my seat and faced him. “Tell me, my friend, when was the last time for you? Or are you still aiming for your lifetime goal of celibacy? Or do you avoid women like the plague because you are…” I paused to build suspense, placing a palm over my mouth and inhaling sharply with feigned surprise. Added to Xander’s many great dating qualifications—his hairline, his lack of humor, his top secret job—were his politics and theology. Old boy was a staunch republican and a strict Christian. He couldn’t say the words ‘gosh darn’ without blushing.
My insinuation that his sexual orientation swung toward the same sex had the desired effect. Xander straightened in his chair, all high and fucking mighty, and he crossed his arms and curled his lips. “We’ve been over this, and you know—“
I smirked, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing, growing solemn once more. “It’s okay, man. You don’t have to hide from me. I’m here for you and I accept you as you are. If you ever need to talk. If you ever need support. I’m here.”
Xander leaned sideways in the seat and rested his head against the driver’s window. “Did you even try?” he asked, reverting the subject back to me. “To build a real relationship? To actually talk to someone and move on?”
I had lost five years of picking on Xander’s archaic opinions and belief systems, and I wanted to keep ribbing him. For now, though, I decided to back off. Maybe he could eventually come around to the idea that the world had moved on from 1457, but I didn’t think this was the time. Maybe after our little rendezvous with the baddies, we could hit a bar and I could convince him of that very possibility—me drunk as skunk, him sober as a… I don’t know what rhymes with sober—but he would be that sober.
“I went on two real dates,” I said.
Fucking October! He would be sober as October, because that makes sense. Don’t you dare question me on it.
“So, you live in the middle of nowhere for five years. You’re not hunting monsters, and you’re not hunting for a meaningful relationship. What are you doing—other than demolition?”
I scratched my throat, lifting my chin and facing the roof. “Hunting a buzz, most of the time.”
“Wallowing in your pain? Drinking away your sorrow? Following Mel from the shadows, making sure she’s safe?”
Ah, there was that vindictiveness that I loved so much about him. There he went, stepping up on that soapbox and preaching to a dead congregation. I glanced at the dashboard clock. Fifteen minutes till nine. “You going in with me, or you going in late?” I asked.
“Late.” Xander sat upright. “I’ll arrive when they’re set up and focused on you—make sure it’s not a trap. Step in if I’m needed.”
We sat in silence for a minute, the radio off, the engine off—only the misty rain keeping us company. Back in our military days, I used to joke that Xander was a vampire—sucking the life out of every room he entered. It had felt
