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Outside the shop, which was run by a guy who’d been in his late thirties a decade ago named Nate Kaquatosh, Elliot stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Val, you don’t have to do this.”

“Yeah, I do,” I replied. “Ido.”

Elliot tilted his head to this side. “He doesn’t even know, does he?”

I shook my head.

“Your arm, your choice,” is what he said next, then grabbed the door. “After you, Link.”

“Fuck you, Bucky.”

28

My arm itchedlike a mad thing. It was my own damn fault, of course, for getting the tattoo, which was scabbing a bit, hence the itching. In addition to having spent three hours with my slightly weepy mother in the car this morning, we’d gotten the fun and excitement of navigating the Milwaukee airport and had just been loaded like cattle onto the metal flying tube that was going to take us back home. I’d gotten smart and bought a gaiter-style mask—plain grey, but with a little Bucky Badger logo stitched onto it—so at least my ears didn’t hurt.

Taavi was peering out the window onto the snowy landscape of the airport, his Navajo-patterned gaiter up over his nose. You could still see the bruising and abrasions around his temple and cheekbone, the color having shifted from red and angry to purple, yellow, and healing.

“They let you fly in snow?” he asked.

“Yep. They’ll de-ice us before we go, though.”

“De-ice?”

“Yep.”

“Isn’t that dangerous? If the plane gets ice on it?”

“And that’s why they de-ice it.” I pressed my palm against the tattoo under my sleeve.

“Do I get to see it tonight?” he asked me, noticing what I was doing. I’d had gauze over it most of the time—except in the shower—so he hadn’t seen it yet, and I hadn’t told him what it was of.

“Yep.”

“You really hate flying, don’t you?”

“Yep.”

He leaned in closer, and I arched one eyebrow. He pulled down his mask just long enough to kiss my temple, then pulled it back up. “At least we’re going home.”

I let out a breath. “A-fucking-men.”

* * *

I’d handedover a giant box of cheese and a giant Tupperware of Mom’s cookies to Doc when he’d showed up at the airport in my Charger—holy shit, I missed my car. I didn’t realize quite how much until I got into the driver’s seat, but after a month-plus of driving my mom’s Taurus, having my baby back was like an extra Christmas present. Taavi and I dropped Doc off at home, then drove back to my apartment, which seemed small and sad from the outside after having spent over a month living in the combination of my parents’ house and Elliot’s.

Not that I wasn’t happy to be back at my own—ourown—place. But apartments are tiny. At least all the stuff inside was either mine or Taavi’s, and I could leave my toothbrush in the bathroom again.

We’d somehow successfully managed to risk checking luggage so that Taavi could bring back a bunch of my old clothes—for him, not me—and Mom had sent several more containers of cookies for us, as well as several loaves of bread and another box of cheese, because Wisconsin. Taavi had called in My Noodle takeout from the car, and we’d grabbed that on the way home so that we’d be eating more than bread, cheese, and cookies for dinner.

After somehow wrangling all our shit up the stairs and not tripping over a very enthusiastic and very angry Pet on the way in the door, I managed to dump all my luggage, scoop up my cat, and collapse on the couch. Pet yowled while purring, shoving her head at the bottom of my chin.

“Yeah, fuzzbutt. I know. I’m mean and I abandoned you.”

I heard Taavi laugh from the bedroom where he was presumably unpacking things and putting them away where they belonged. Instead of doing what I usually do and leaving the suitcase for a week before tripping over it for the fifth time finally made me put shit away.

I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, stroking Pet’s fluffy back and scritching under her chin, enjoyingnothaving to be anywhere, do anything, or reassure anyone. Not having a murder hanging over my head.

I squirmed a little to pull my phone out of my pocket, then texted both my mother and Elliot to let them know we were back home.