I could have turned off the alarm but I let it buzz anyway, for Josh’s sake. He stirs, mumbles something in his sleep, and turns over on his side.
I turn the alarm off.
I watch Josh for a little while more, this man who is a boy and a friend but who isn’t my boyfriend. I’ve never asked him to stay the night—at least not the entire night—and it’s strange to have him in my bed this morning, snoring lightly, his body odor absorbing into my sheets.
The only man I’ve ever let sleep in my bed is Zane.
But no, I can’t think of Zane in the present tense. When I think of Zane it always has to be in the past tense, because Zane is gone, has been gone for two years now, never to return, having not been able to jump back from Death’s Door like I had managed all those times before. Zane my friend, my lover, someone who I actually found myself caring about, someone who I envisioned spending the rest of my life with.
I get out of bed, walk through my apartment to the kitchen. I turn on the coffee machine, open the fridge to look at what’s inside. Not much besides V8 and leftovers and milk that expired yesterday.
I shut the door, turn back around and look at my cluttered kitchen as if for the first time—dirty dishes in the sink, newspapers stacked on the table, empty cereal and cracker boxes littering the counters—and my gaze falls on the corkboard hanging on the wall. Right in the corner amid pictures and Post-its of scribbled notes, held in place by a sky blue tack, is a Bazooka Joe comic.
Without even looking I know it’s number twenty out of fifty, Scooter’s all-time favorite comic.
But no, I can’t think of Scooter in the present tense anymore either, and it’s this realization—what I’ve been trying to deal with for the past twenty-four hours—that finally brings it all home.
My vision starts to blur as one tear after another fills my eyes. Then all of a sudden comes a deluge, and my shoulders hitch, my legs go weak, and before I know it I’m on the floor, holding my side as I sob.
I sob for Scooter and I sob for Zane and I sob for Karen and I sob for Rosalina, wherever she is now. It’s been almost two years since I’ve cried and it feels strange at first, like I’m not doing it right, always having forced the tears back, no matter what, always telling myself I was strong enough to keep them away, that a woman like me shouldn’t cry, cannot cry, because crying shows weakness, vulnerability, helplessness.
It’s Scooter I have in my mind, the guy forever chomping his Bazooka Joe, but quite suddenly Scooter’s face fades and becomes Zane’s face. Zane who taught me how to love and care and understand the world, who made me feel like I had an actual purpose.
No, stop it. I can’t think of Zane. I can’t think of Scooter. I can’t think of any of the people I’ve lost because they are dead now and I am not and I have to worry about today, about tomorrow, about next week, I have to worry about the next mission and how I can’t make any mistakes, I have to—
A floorboard creaks, and Josh says, “Holly, are you okay?”
It’s such a stupid, pointless question that I want to ignore him, just stay where I am sobbing on the kitchen floor, ignore him until he goes away and never comes back.
But he takes a step forward, leaving the doorway and coming toward me, dressed only in his silk boxers. I wipe my eyes, start to sit up, find myself leaning against the refrigerator. I lean my head back against its cool surface, my left ear grazing the Universal Studios magnet my mother brought back from Florida last year.
Still Josh continues forward, the sleep completely wiped from his eyes, concern now on his scruffy face. He comes and bends down and places his hand on my arm, places his other hand on my face. Slowly, gently, lovingly, he wipes away my tears with his thumb.
And right then—right at that instant—I want to sleep with him again. Right here on the kitchen floor if need be, I don’t care. I just need the closeness, the warmth of another human soul, something to remind me that I am not completely alone in this world.
It’s why I called Josh last night and invited him over, Josh who by now knows the score and arrived within the hour. Josh who I went to high school with and who I have stayed in contact with the past ten years, always just casual friends, a nod and hello if we see each other in public. Josh who has been in love with me since eleventh grade, who had more than once asked me out, and who I always turned down because even at sixteen I never liked the idea of dating, of relationships, always seeing the entire process as a huge waste of time and energy.
So after Zane died—was killed, I remind myself—I needed something to bring me back down after every mission, my body so pumped up, my nerves on edge, and so I called Josh and asked him over and seduced him. Afterward, Josh wanted to spend the night but I told him that probably wasn’t the best idea, he should go.
For the past two years he has known the score, not understood completely the reasons why I sometimes call him out of the blue to come over, but still he always arrives within the hour, knowing what to expect, having just showered and brushed his teeth, his underarms fresh with deodorant.
And right now, his hands on my arm, my face, wiping away my tears, I want to seduce him again, if
