Heavy by Cate C. Wells

5

DINA

It’s dark when we land in Las Vegas. The city lights are a neon motherboard edged by a pitch-black horizon. It’s late, so the airport is less crowded, and I’m adjusting. I am capable of handling change. I hate it, but I can do anything I have to do. My therapist was on me all the time about my “rigid thinking” when I was a kid, and maybe my thinking is rigid, but I’m not.

Mom’s convinced I’m agoraphobic—or I will be if she doesn’t make me go to church and the grocery store with her—but I’m not afraid of leaving the property. I choose not to. Why is it that when everyone else lives life how they want it’s the American way, but when I do, it’s a disorder? People don’t make sense, and they don’t like differences.

Kind of makes places like Las Vegas truly weird. The vibe is so different from Pennsylvania. There are ads everywhere for casinos, magicians, circus acts, acrobats, singers—it’s exactly how I imagined, but more faux class, less retro kitsch.

How come folks can’t handle differences in people, but when they’re on vacation, they’re like “I want to pay a hundred dollars to see dudes painted blue playing drums?” Weird.

Heavy herds me through arrivals, not touching me but matching his pace to mine and grunting when I head the wrong direction. People stare and whisper.

Do they think he’s famous? He could be a professional wrestler, I guess. Cash and I watched a lot of WWE when we were kids. He always wanted to practice his moves on me. It was easy enough. He leaped at me from a windowsill, and I pretended to fall.

I don’t think Heavy looks like a wrestler. There’s nothing flashy or smooth about him. I know for a fact he’s clean, but to look at him, you’d figure he smells like wood smoke and dirt.

When we get outside, it’s scorching. At least ninety-five degrees. We wait at the curb for the car Heavy ordered. There’s a muddy flyer on the concrete. A stripper dangles from the neck of a buff cartoon beaver smoking a cigar. It reads “smoking hot beaver.” I guess there’s plenty of kitsch in this town, too.

“Are we getting married right now?”

Heavy’s checking his phone. “We’re going to the hotel. I have to take care of some shit, and there’s paperwork. We can get married tomorrow.” He casts me a look. “We need to buy you a dress.”

“No lace.” I shudder. Lace is worse than sequins.

I wouldn’t mind getting hitched in sweats, but not in this heat. A night in a hotel will be okay. Heavy and I can mess around again. Right after he jizzed on my leg, I wasn’t sure if I liked it, but the memories kept coming back to me on the plane.

I liked the way his bulk felt under me. Between my thighs. Like I was riding a giant beast. At any second, he could have thrown me on my back, taken charge. But he didn’t. He behaved for me.

I kept picturing his expression. Heavy-lidded eyes. Lazily curved lips.

And his taut muscles. The crisp black chest hair.

I was squirming in my seat, worried I’d make a damp spot on my sweatpants. I’m not wearing underwear.

I wouldn’t mind doing it again.

It felt good, and I came way harder than when I play with myself, but that’s not all. I loved being on top. Heavy held a gun on me, stripped me, and locked me in a closet, but he ended up on the bottom, asking me what I wanted. I love irony. I don’t always get it, but when I do, it’s delicious.

Except for hogging the arm rest, he hasn’t touched me since we got on the plane. He was fun in Elfin Odyssey—we got all the way to the Bonsai Forest, and he destroyed all kinds of things I thought were indestructible—but he’s clammed up since we disembarked.

I put it out of my head. I have no idea why people react the way they do. The logical response to that kind of limitation is to give zero shits. Mom is the only one who still bothers trying to get me to understand people.

You insulted her when you said the pie was salty. He was waiting for you to stand so he could pass you to get out of the pew.

But isn’t there less of me in his way if I’m sitting than if I’m standing? That one still makes no sense to me.

Anyway, Heavy’s absorbed in his phone, so I ignore him and examine the beaver brochure. It’s a coupon for twenty dollars off at the door. Clearly, I don’t understand strip clubs. There’s a cover? Don’t you just tip the dancers and overpay for beers. Cash is always bitching about having to drive two hours to Shady Gap to pay seven bucks a bottle for domestic at the gentleman’s club. My twin is a class act—very discerning tastes when it comes to light beer. 

Eventually, a limo pulls over. Heavy has a word with the driver, and then he opens the door and jerks his chin for me to climb in. The upholstery is black leather, the paneling is wood, and the smell is air freshener layered over women’s perfume with notes of stale sex and weed. I take the seat furthest from the mini bar and roll the window all the way down.

Heavy sort of crams himself into the seat across from me. Even with his shoulders hunched, his head brushes the ceiling and his knees are bent at what has to be an uncomfortable angle.

Maybe that’s why he rides motorcycles. So he’s not hemmed in. I understand the feeling. I was raised riding horses. Horses are hella easier than people. Stamping, chuffing, rearing, butting. Compared to a smile or a conversation, it’s like horses hold up signs. I like you. Stop doing that. I’m ready.

And then there’s the dude across from me. I’m going to marry him tomorrow. I get why. He’s trying to limit his exposure the best he can. It’s a business relationship.

But he seems—seemed—into my body. He fingered me.

So we have a personal relationship, too.

And in the airport and on the plane, he was cool. More or less. So this is becoming a friendly relationship?

But now he’s ignoring me, and being all stompy and scowly, and I keep forgetting that I don’t care.

This is why I don’t people.

Besides my immediate family, I’ve had two friends in my whole life. Glenna Dobbs, who was my best friend through seventh grade until she dropped me like a hot potato. Apparently, I was a social liability, which is ironic since she’s now the town pariah. It’s a long story, but basically, Glenna Dobbs played Nancy Drew, and forgot that everyone in River Heights couldn’t stand snoopy Nancy Drew.

And then there’s Rory.

Rory is my person.

I need to call her. I missed our regular calls this week because I was preoccupied with putting my plan into action.

I hope Heavy booked two rooms. I need privacy. I open my mouth to ask, but he’s actually talking on his phone now, grunting every so often as a muffled voice drones on.

I make the mistake of looking past him out the rear window. Lights everywhere, flashing, neon, super bright. There are crowds of people, palm trees, towers, and a Ferris Wheel and a hot-air balloon and tons of digital billboards.

It scrambles my brains, but I can’t look away. I slide into the numbness of overstimulation. I’m not Dina anymore; I’ve sunk two or three levels below the surface, looking up.

The limo drops us in front of a casino on the strip. Somehow, I crawl out and follow Heavy through sliding glass doors into a gust of arctic air conditioning.

There is a fountain in the lobby. No, three fountains, and the entrance to a mall to the left, and more signs, restaurants and a walk-through safari, and a comedian who was big in the 90s. A bazillion things go bing, bing, bing, and even though everything is marble and glass and larger than life—and smoking has been banned inside for a decade at this point—there’s still a faint whiff of cigarette in the air.

This is hell on Earth.

My skin crawls.

How many eyeballs do they figure we have? It’s like if nails on a chalkboard, a pokey bra wire, and squeaky shoes were a place, and then that place slapped you in the face. In desperation, I dig in my purse for my earbuds, pop them in, and crank noise-cancellation to the max. If I just look at Heavy’s boots, it’s tolerable. Just.

After we stop by a boutique and buy me some clothes, we trek a quarter mile to reception. Heavy checks us in, then leads the way to a bank of elevators. He doesn’t give me a key card. I should have asked for two. Too late now. I’m not crossing that lobby again until I have to. The fountains cause people to swerve left or right, and they’re all heading to different wings, and so visually, the impact feels like watching a hockey game with ten pucks in play.

Sometimes I think of myself in terms of Elfin Odyssey. I am at ten percent life force. Red bar. I need a break.

We get on an elevator, and another couple follows us on. They’re holding hands, but they’re not talking or looking at each other. The man hangs his sunglasses from his collar. The woman shakes out her sweaty shirt.

“It’s a hot one,” she says.

Shit. Small talk. One of my goals on my I.E.P. when I was in school. I had to sustain a back-and-forth conversation of at least three turns with seventy-five percent consistency. I glance at Heavy. His nose is back in his phone.

“The locals don’t think anything of it, but—” She makes a yowling sound. What does that mean?

Ugh. Weather. I can do this.

“Yeah. I hear it’s calling for rain later in the week.” Forecasting rain—or snow in the winter—is conversational gold. Doesn’t matter if you’re right or not. It lobs the ball right back over the net.

“It is?” the woman replies. “Can’t come too soon. We’re from Minnesota. We can’t handle all this dry heat!”

The elevator dings, the door opens, the man draws the woman out, and I don’t even have to take my conversational turn. Score.

It’s silent as the elevator ascends. It takes me a little while to realize Heavy’s not on his phone anymore. He’s staring down at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You have no idea whether it’s calling for rain later this week in Las Vegas,” he says.

I don’t see how he can know that for sure, but he’s right. “Nope,” I concede.

“Who taught you to lie like that?” His voice is pitched slightly lower than usual. It’s raspier. There’s a tension in his frame. I can’t identify the emotion. I’m exhausted. Seven percent life force.

“The public school system.”

The elevator dings. He exits, and I follow. I’m expecting him to head down the crazy long hallway, but he stays in the lobby area with a decorative table and mirror.

“Explain,” he demands.

I watch our reflection. His black eyes glitter in the harsh artificial light, tiny creases at the corners. I like his eyes. They’re like a silverback gorilla’s. Even if I could read eyes, I don’t think I could read his. They aren’t like other people’s. I wouldn’t have a frame of reference, no handy poster.

He sniffs. “I’m waiting.”

I don’t know why he cares, but it’s no secret. “I was in a special program in elementary and middle school. I had social skills every day.”

“And they taught you to lie?”

I lift a shoulder. Pretty much.

Honesty is a ridiculous concept. You must always tell the truth, except when the truth is hurtful. But sometimes you have to tell hard truths. That’s called tough love. And sometimes you have to lie to protect people’s feelings. Those are white lies. Fibs are okay, and everyone tells them—but lies are wrong even though everyone tells those, too.

My family says I’m a bad liar, but somehow, that’s not a compliment. My grandma used to say tell the truth and shame the devil, but in social skills group, we practiced saying things like, “I’m doing well, thank you” regardless of how we actually felt.

So, yeah. I figure honesty is like nudity—something other people care about that doesn’t mean much to me at all.

“Conversational turn-taking was one of my individualized educational goals. It’s hard to get to three turns with the truth. Lying is more efficient.”

“Bullshit.” A sharp line appears between Heavy’s eyebrows and his full lips turn down. He doesn’t agree, or maybe he doesn’t like the fact. But I’ve done the math. I’m right.

This is what’s wrong with neurotypicals. Their rules don’t make sense, and they get their panties in a bunch when you point it out. Or worse, they drone on and on about why they’re right despite clear evidence to the contrary because of some philosophical principle that doesn’t hold in real life.

I seriously thought Heavy was smarter than this.

“How was your day?” I throw at him.

He glares.

“How was your day?” I ask again.

“Fine,” he bites out.

I make an obnoxious buzzer sound. “Lie. You got blackmailed. You’ve been wedged in one undersized seat after another. Your phone has rung, like, one thousand times, and it always sounds like a problem. Your day sucked. How was your day?” I ask again.

A strange rumbling sound is coming from his chest now.

“It sucked,” he says slowly, enunciating each word.

“Looking forward to your stay in Las Vegas?” I’m smirking. I’ve run the numbers so many times. Lying is just more efficient.

“Yes.”

I make a buzzer sound. “Lie—”

“—Not a lie.” He steps toward me, one pace, then another, forcing me backward. I can’t see us in the mirror anymore. My shoulders hit the wallpaper. He’s between me and the bank of elevators and the long hall and everything. My hands fly up to his chest. Not to push him away. But to rest there. Lightly.

His ribs rise and fall against my fingertips.

“I’m looking forward to riding your sweet pussy like you rode my fingers. I’m looking forward to prying open that brain of yours and fucking it just as hard.” He bares his teeth, flashing his pointy incisors. “I look forward to ruining you, little girl.”

I swallow hard. “I don’t think I’d be into skull fucking. I’d probably puke.”

He makes a choking sound. His face—it’s hard to describe. It’s kind of like what happens when a cartoon character gets slapped?

“What the hell do you know about skull fucking?”

“I’ve seen it in porn.” Not on purpose. I don’t search it up or anything. It just shows up randomly on the home page sometimes before I can click on “female orgasm.”

I like watching men make women come for real. It’s hard to find, and honestly, I’m not sure if I’d know if the women are faking it or not, but I like what I like, you know?

Heavy rocks back on his heels and runs a hand through his hair. “That’s not what I meant.”

“That’s what it sounded like.”

A gaggle of young women come stumbling down the hall, laughing and boisterous. Heavy grabs my hand and tugs me in the opposite direction.

He mutters something indecipherable.

“I don’t know if I’d be into sucking cock, but I’m curious. I wouldn’t mind trying it out if I knew I wouldn’t choke. I have a pretty sensitive gag reflex.”

His grip on my hand tightens, and he picks up the pace.

“I don’t want to swallow cum, though.” It was warm and thick when it hit my leg. Like bisque. I only like bisque when it’s freezing cold outside. Otherwise, that consistency is gross.

Two guys in khaki come around the corner and blink. They heard me. One snickers, and the other smirks. Not a Duchenne smile. Heavy puffs his chest, and they hurry past. Heavy lengthens his stride, dragging me along.

“This is a really long corridor.” It makes sense. The hotel and casino take up the entire block, and a block here is at least ten times longer than a block in Stonecut. Still, with the dark red carpet and gold walls, it feels like a horror movie.

Finally, when we’re almost to the emergency exit stairs, Heavy slides his key card in a door and kind of flings me inside. I was expecting—something else.

We’re in a corner room, so there are two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city lights and the pitch-black desert beyond. It’s a suite with a sunken living area, white leather sofas, and glass coffee table that just screams “snort cocaine off me.” There’s a kitchenette, a garish chandelier hanging over a round table, and three doors opening off the main area. The closest is a powder room. That means two bedrooms.

“Sweet. I get my own room.” I make for the nearest door, but I don’t get two steps before I’m in the air. I shriek, scrabbling for purchase, but Heavy has hoisted me under his arm, and my shoulder’s wedged in his armpit, my legs dangling.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I kick air and grab at him, but it’s like clutching a rock face.

He shoves a door wide with his shoulder, and then he dumps me on a huge bed. I bounce and land on all fours.

“Stay.” He points his finger at me and kicks the door shut so hard it slams. He’s being very aggressive. Even when he held the gun on me, he wasn’t this physical.

I pop up to sit on my heels. The edges of my shoe soles are touching the comforter. Shoes don’t belong where you sleep. It’s almost as gross as socks in bed.

Heavy’s chest is rising and falling more quickly than our speed walk to the room would cause. He’s widened his stance, and his fingers are twitching at his sides. I’m guessing he’s pissed.

I sigh and sink to my butt. It’s time for my least favorite game. Figure out what I did to piss off the neurotypical.

“I’m sorry,” I venture, reaching back to take off my flats.

“For what?” His head tilts the slightest bit to the left.

“For doing it wrong and making you feel uncomfortable.”

Usually, those two things cover about everything. My mom’s the only one who actually cares that I understand what I’ve done anymore. Everyone else who knows me has pretty much accepted the way I am. They know I either don’t mean it, or I can’t help it. Even Cash lets it go when I inevitably do or say something a little too blunt.

Heavy’s still looming there.

I toss my shoes, one by one, off the side of the bed.

“Are you stripping?” he asks, his voice like rocks in a tumbler.

“No.” I tilt my head until it’s at the same degree as his. “Do you want me to strip?”

He’s silent for a second, and then he bursts into motion, pacing toward the window, yanking the cord to raise the blinds. It’s crazy dark past the blaze of the city lights. No stars. Velvet blackness.

The room is lit by lamps on the night tables. It’s a mellow light, easy on my eyes. The comforter is cool, fluffy cotton. I want to stay in here awhile. Even with Heavy being weird, it’s relatively peaceful. I feel my life force charging up.

He turns an armchair to face the bed, and then he lowers himself down, extending his legs to their full length. He steeples his fingers. It’s a very villainous pose.

“Okay. Strip.”

I rotate to face him. I don’t understand what’s happening—which is not a novel experience for me at all.

“Aren’t you mad?”

“I was. But I can put it aside for the moment if you want to show me those sweet little titties again.”

“Why were you mad?”

He exhales slowly. “Maybe mad’s not quite the right word.”

I try really hard not to roll my eyes. “Is mad close enough? ‘Cause I don’t do nuance.”

A smile plays at his lips. “No. I guess you don’t.”

“Are you gonna tell me or what?”

“Are you going to take off your top?” He arches an eyebrow.

I shrug, yank the hoodie over my head, and chuck it next to my shoes. My nipples harden instantly in the air conditioning. Heavy makes a rough humming sound.

“Touch ‘em,” he orders.

“Why did you get pissy?”

He sinks back in his chair, and again, there’s a long pause before he speaks. “I don’t like you lying. I don’t like other people hearing you talk dirty. I don’t like dropping ten g’s on women’s clothing when the woman doesn’t give a shit.”

That’s a lot to unpack. He did buy me a crap ton of clothes. Did I say thank you?

I stretch out my legs and prop myself back on my hands, so I’m comfortable. I’m mulling it over when he adds, “I don’t like that for some reason, I feel compelled to tell you the straight truth.”

See? He doesn’t like me lying, but he doesn’t like telling me the truth. The concept of honesty is bonkers. More ambiguous than smiles. Or words like “fuck” and “yeah, right” and “bi-weekly.”

“If you lied to me, I probably wouldn’t know.” Not unless it was super obvious.

He draws a knee up. “You shouldn’t tell people that.”

“It becomes apparent pretty quickly when you get to know me.”

He sucks his tooth. He does that a lot when he’s thinking. He runs his tongue over a pointy incisor. I’d call it a tell, but Heavy is the kind of guy who looks like he’s always thinking, so it’s not really a tip-off that the wheels are turning.

“You need to go back where you came from. A farm, isn’t it? Out near Stonecut?”

I nod. His eyes drop to my breasts. They’re kind of thrust up since I’m leaning back.

“You don’t seem like a country girl.”

“What kind of girl do I seem like?”

“Trouble.”

I snort. “I never get into trouble. On purpose.”

“You say you’re gonna kill a man.”

I don’t want to think about that. Not in this moment. He brought it up, though, and he still doesn’t seem to understand. “I am going to kill a man.”

“You have no idea what it takes.”

“That’s why I came to you.”

“I’m not killing him for you.”

“I don’t need you to. I need you to help me cover it up.”

“You can’t possibly understand what you’re talking about doing.”

“I’m a country girl. I can shoot a gun.”

“I’m not talking about that.” He’s staring at me, intent. Deadly serious. I’m gazing past his left ear at the sparkling city lights. “You don’t want to live with blood on your hands. Do you know what that’s like to carry? Every moment of every day. It’s not an albatross; it’s a rotting corpse. Your shadow. You’ll never breathe easy again. You’ll never sleep deep. You won’t have a choice anymore about the person you want to be. You’ll be a murderer. At the end of the day, that trumps all.”

I’m not so dense that I can’t tell he’s talking about himself.

“I’m not like you.”

He laughs, and it’s a sour sound. “No. You can hardly walk through an airport without losing your shit.”

The cold is puckering my skin. I wrap my arms around my bare breasts. Guess the stripping plan is out.

“John’s mentioned you,” he goes on. “You’re a shut in, right? You work on computers, never the leave the house. And you’re gonna kill a man? Your uncle? So not even a stranger—family. And then you’re gonna go back to your tower or whatever and you’re gonna live with that? Alone?” He scoffs. “There’s no fuckin’ way.”

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t need to. And besides, I’d never betray Rory by explaining it to him.

“You don’t have to worry about that. All you need to do is bury the body.”

He shakes his head. “You’re living in a fantasy land.”

“You’re making false assumptions.”

“No, little girl. You are.”

I raise my eyes to the ceiling. “Why do you care? You help me, you get your evidence. The state of my conscience is not your concern.”

“Why do you want him dead?”

“He committed a crime. He has to pay.”

“With his life?”

“Yes.”

“He hurt you?” he bites out.

“I already said he didn’t.”

“So this is some kind of vigilante justice?”

“There’s no such thing as justice. He did what he did, and time only moves in one direction. But he’s not going to do it again.”

His voice has changed again. “And you have to be the one to stop him?”

“No one else has.”

For a moment, he seems at a loss for words. Finally, he coughs to clear his throat and says, “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Then he stands, all business, and strides from the room.

“We’ll get married tomorrow,” he throws over his shoulder as he goes. “I have shit I need to take care of.”

He shuts the door firmly behind him, and I flop back on the bed like a starfish. The pressure in the room seems to drop. I half expect my ears to pop.

* * *

Heavy is even harderto figure out than most people. When he carried me in here, I thought we were gonna mess around again, but it turned out he wanted to talk. I’d rather have made out.

I still don’t get what pissed him off.

He didn’t like that I lied about the weather? Is he that fastidious about his principles? There’s no way. Dude’s a criminal. He didn’t get his knickers in a twist because some randoms overhead me talking about skull fucking. He’s the president of a biker gang.

I guess it would suck to spend a bunch of money on someone and not get a thank you. Oh, shit. Did I say thank you? Probably not. Despite Mom’s efforts, my manners are garbage. It’s ‘cause I don’t really care about clothes. But I do know you’re supposed to be appreciative even when you don’t like a present. I just don’t ever remember.

What was his other beef? He didn’t like it that he feels compelled to be honest with me?

That’s definitely his problem. Nothing I can do about that.

There’s the thump of a door shutting from the other room. He must have left the suite. I let myself sink into the fluffy comforter. There’s a knot tightening in my stomach. I will definitely kill my uncle, but I’m far from at peace with murder. My face lacks expression; I don’t lack feeling.

Heavy’s completely wrong. I understand what I’m doing. I’ve been plotting it out for months, and the whole time, I’ve been hoping with all my heart that my brother Kellum—the acting sheriff—would make it right. He hasn’t. He can’t. So I don’t have a choice. I carry this either way. Once I kill Van, at least I know the burden won’t get heavier.

My phone rings in the pocket of my hoodie. I roll over and reach for it. There’s only one contact who I’m not currently sending straight to voicemail.

I wriggle back onto the heap of pillows at the headboard. “Can’t sleep?”

Rory’s voice, as always, is gentle and small. “Your family keeps calling.”

“Don’t answer. We’re camping, and we don’t have cell service.”

“They sound really worried in the messages.”

“They didn’t open my email, so they freaked out.”

As always, Rory is understanding. “Well, you’ve never left home before.”

“By the time I called, they’d formed a search party.”

“You should have told them before you left.”

“Mom never would’ve believed me if I told her we were going camping to her face.”

“I don’t think anyone believes you now. Kellum called. He left a message. He said to tell you not to do anything stupid.”

“I’m not doing anything stupid.”

“Just a solo road trip, right? To clear your head?” Rory’s changed since she moved to the city. She never questioned me before. I was her hero.

I press my eyes closed. I’m not going to lie to her, but I’m not going to let any more ugliness touch her either. “Actually, I’m in Las Vegas. With a man.”

“What?” Rory the mouse actually shrieks.

I pull the phone away from my ear.

“What man?” she demands.

“Just a man.”

“Did you meet him on the internet?” Rory’s worried. I can read her feelings better than almost anyone’s. I’ve known her since she was five years old and I was eleven, so I’ve learned them as she grew.

“Yes.”

“The fairy in Elfin Odyssey?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Kind of like a mountain man. Kind of like one of those Scottish athletes who throws telephone poles.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “So he’s hot?”

No. Not conventionally. His face is too rough hewn. He’s definitely an endomorph who lifts, not a natural athlete. You can tell if he started spending time on the sofa, he’d be sporting a beer belly in no time. He also has a lot of hair.

But damned if he doesn’t turn me on.

“I like the way he looks.”

Rory sighs like I’ve said something really romantic. It’s so hard to believe that despite everything—the junkie mom, the struggle with school, what happened with my uncle—Rory still lives with her head in the clouds. I don’t want to change her, but she needs to see things a little more cynically.

“It’s just a fling. I’m scratching an itch.”

“So it’s not serious?” She sounds disappointed.

“Not at all.”

“You’ve never left home before.”

“I never had a reason to.”

She sighs again. “I’m so happy for you.”

And she is. There’s no doubt in my mind. Rory’s like my brother Jesse—one of the rare, truly good, truly pure people in the world.

I met Rory on her first day of school. She was five. I was eleven. We were both in the special program at the school in Anvil, so with all the stops, we were on the bus for almost an hour both ways. Rory had been born premature and addicted to opioids. She wasn’t stupid, but where an average kid would need five iterations to master a new concept, she’d need twenty. At home, no one had the inclination or sobriety to work with her, but the ride was long, and helping Rory passed the time.

My most peaceful moments as a kid were hunched down in a vinyl seat over a wheel well, bumping along the country roads up Stonecut Mountain, heads together as we worked on Rory’s math facts or her spelling list.

When I graduated, Rory and I started playing online RPGs so I could still keep her company on the bus. For all intents and purposes, I’m her big sister. When Pandy Bullard asked her if she wanted to take over the job cleaning my Uncle Van’s house, of course she said yes. When he did what he did, of course she didn’t tell a soul.

I’d never have known if she hadn’t left town without warning. But she can’t lie. She’s worse at it than I am. There’s no way Rory Evans wanted to “try to make it in the big city.” She craves routine more than I do. When she wouldn’t talk, I went snooping, and I saw the CCTV footage from the camera mounted on Van’s garage.

Rory would do anything to protect me. And I’d do anything to protect her.

This is what Heavy doesn’t understand, and why would he? I haven’t explained. I won’t. It’s no one’s business.

I didn’t use to be able to navigate the world this well. I was perpetually lost in static. And people? People were like the crowd in the episode of Star Trek when Kirk is kidnapped to infect an overpopulated planet—unknowable and omnipresent and menacing.

And then there was Rory. She was hungry, so she asked to share my lunch. And then she smiled. Or she was cold, so she wriggled under my jacket and fell asleep. So I brought her an old coat, and she wore it every day, even when the weather turned warm. If I wanted to do times tables for an hour, she was down with it. If I felt like rehashing the plot of my favorite Buffy episode for the one hundredth time, she listened. Rapt. Happy.

My uncle hurt her. I know about the NDA he made her sign. The money he’s holding over her head to keep her quiet until the statute of limitations on a civil case runs out. I can imagine the pressures he’s applied, but Rory loves me. She’d keep her silence just to spare me.

She’s a very convenient victim, and Van knows it. How long before he decides to go after her again?

The thing about me is that I’m naïve and oblivious until I’m not anymore. I don’t willfully deceive myself. Theory of mind doesn’t come naturally, but once I understand what a person is, I don’t lie to myself about them.

My uncle targeted a vulnerable eighteen-year-old, hurt her, and used his money and influence to make her go away. Then, out of greed, he tried to run off the mother of Kellum’s child, again. Just like he did years ago. It’s a pattern of behavior. He’ll do it again. And why not to Rory? She’s alone now, and he must think since she hasn’t told anyone, he’s home free.

To my parents, an ugly scene and an estrangement is somehow a conclusion, a fitting end. Life can go on, safe and pleasant in bucolic Stonecut County. Of course, they don’t know about Rory. But even if they did, I bet they’d be content with cutting Van out of their lives. Out of sight, out of mind.

My brain doesn’t work that way. I think about it all the time. Rory’s face on the video. Scared. Crying. Helpless.

I wanted to reach back across time, through the video, rip her out of that moment that went on and on. Tuck her into our seat on the bus. Let her cuddle into my side.

I took care of her when I couldn’t manage myself. Mom likes to talk about the specialists and the program in Anvil like they’re the miracle workers, the reason why I’m verbal and somewhat competent at life. But it was Rory. It was loving someone that gave me a path out of my head and into the world.

“You know I love you.” It slips out of my mouth.

Rory laughs gently. “I wasn’t sure you were still on the phone. I thought you got distracted.”

I do that a lot. Rory leaves me on speaker and watches her shows when we talk. She’s used to my ways.

“I was remembering the bus to Anvil.”

She makes a soft hum. “Those were the days.”

“When I’m done here, I’m going to come out and visit you.”

“Whoa, Dina Wall,” she teases. “You’re really bustin’ loose.”

“I’m not a shut in.”

“No,” Rory happily agrees. “You’re a homebody.”

“I go camping with Dad and Cash all the time.”

“You used to.”

She’s right. I haven’t gone on a hunting weekend for a few years now.

“It’s not totally insane that you and I would go on a trip together,” I argue.

“No more insane than you going on a solo road trip to meet up with a man in Las Vegas.”

“It’s just I’ve never wanted to leave Stonecut before. Now I do. So I did.”

“I never thought I’d leave Stonecut either.” There’s a weight in her words, but I can’t place it. Regret? Relief?

“We’re not tied to Stonecut. We can go wherever we want.”

“We can be whatever we want, right Dina?” There’s a hollowness in her voice. We both know that’s not true. We are how we were made.

There’s that saying from Aristotle—give me a child until he is seven, and I’ll show you the man. Not true for Rory and me. My destiny was written in my genes, Rory’s in the chemical bath she somehow survived, asleep in her mother’s belly. Some paths have never existed for us, and wishing won’t make it so. For Rory and me, what we are is we what we can overcome.

“If you want it, I’ll do anything to make it happen,” I swear to her.

“I want you to fall in love and find a place that’s full of people like you so you don’t have to be alone all the time.”

She’s getting lost in her pink clouds. She hasn’t done this in a while. Not since she left Stonecut. I usually yank her right back down to Earth, but maybe this once—

“People like me?”

“Fairy godsisters.”

That’s what she used to call me when she was little.

“And I’ll marry a prince?”

She laughs. “Oh, no. Not you. You’d be so bored with a prince.”

“The evil villain then?”

“You wouldn’t tolerate the evil.”

“So who would I marry then?”

There’s a second’s pause. “The dragon. High in his mountain cave, guarding his treasure, breathing fire on everyone. You’ll flit into his lair and drive him nuts, rummaging around in his booty.”

“Wouldn’t he just eat me?”

“No. He’ll see your true self, and he’ll know you’re a treasure worth more than all his gold and jewels.” Rory’s voice is breathy. I bet her eyes are hazy like when I’d read her Hans Christian Andersen and Charles Perrault on the bus.

“What if I don’t want a dragon?”

“Then you can steal a sword and suit of armor and ride him off into the sunset to rescue damsels yourself.”

“I like this story better.”

She’s quiet again. This time longer. “You know you don’t need to rescue me, right Dina? I’m okay.”

“I know.”

“I’m tougher than you think. I’ve got a job. Things are coming together.”

There’s a lump in my throat, and I don’t know what to say.

“I’m happy you left Stonecut, too. We’re finally living our lives. No one knows us out here. We can be whoever we want. Right?”

“Yeah.” My eyes are scratchy. “I have to go now.”

“Are you going out with your new man?”

I stare at the high stucco ceiling and listen to the rush of the air conditioning in the silence. “Yeah. We’re going to go out dancing.”

“Until your soles wear out?”

“Of course.”

“I love you, fairy godsister.”

“I love you, Rory Evans. I might be busy tomorrow. Don’t worry if I don’t log on to Elfin Odyssey until late.”

“I won’t. Night,” she whispers.

“Night,” I whisper back.