Page 23 of The Sin Eater
“But if anyone can get info out of her, it’s you, sis.” I stand. “Now I’ll get out of your face so you can go back to reading.”
I’m almost to do the door to my room when she says, “I see what you did there, and youwilltell me why you went out with another reclamation project. I’d say Mama taught us better than that, but we both know she didn’t.”
Laughing, I push open my door. “G’night, Dorinda Jewel.”
“G’night, Damon Jeraldo.”
Okay, I might have won that battle, but the war isn’t over yet. Dorinda’s not wrong, though. I do have a pretty shitty track record. My last boyfriend ended things by going to jail—don’t ask—and I broke up with my last girlfriend when herrelationship with fentanyl grew stronger than her feelings for me.
That’s the kind of one-two punch that keeps a guy single for a good long while.
It also explains why I asked Ezra out in the first place. As pretty as he is, I’ve never been sold on looks. Tonight, for a few minutes, he gave me a glimpse or two behind the porcupine quills. There’s a man in there, a sexy man with a sense of humor and a smart mouth. And secrets. Color me intrigued.
It’s just after ten o’clock on a Friday night, too early to go to bed, too late to get any kind of workout in. That double smash burger is arguing against anything that active anyway. If I go back out to the living room, Dorinda will be all up in my face about the maybe-date, and I have no interest in that. I should have lied in the first place.
Rather than deal with my sister, I change into some sweats and an old tee shirt and get out my laptop. I have a short list of websites I check out in my downtime. The UW teacher preparation program. Two or three different professional development and aptitude assessment pages. An AI quiz that’ll help me answer the questionwhat do I want to be when I grow up?
I should pick a form and fill it out or choose a quiz and answer the questions. I don’t. Opening the pages makes me feel like I’m doing something concrete.
In reality, I’m running back through dinner with Ezra. Which leads to ruminations on my last break-up and the one before that. To distract myself, I find a game where I can shoot things.
Except I’m not a gamer, so it doesn’t take long before I’m distracted by an out-of-date Halloween ad. The black-and-orange vibe makes me think of the Oregon State colors, which was the team we were playing when I blew out my shoulder.
Before I can stop myself, I’m in center field, running full-out after a ball that’ll win them the game unless I catch it. I should pull up before I reach the wall. I don’t. I slam to a stop as the ball hits my glove, my body bouncing off the wall and onto the grass. Yes, I manage to hang on. No, I don’t throw the ball to the cut-off man.
Couldn’t. I was flat on my back, the right side of my body pretty much numb. Fractured clavicle. Dislocated shoulder. Torn rotator cuff. When I go, I go big.
Dragging my mind back to the game on my screen, I send a volley of shots at the aliens or ninjas or whoever it is I’m fighting. I don’t need to relive months of rehab. Didn’t matter. My throwing arm never fully recovered. I managed to graduate, at least. Now my only connection to Major League Baseball is Roger’s texts.
Fighting back the sadness threatening to swamp me, I glue my eyes to the screen. After five years, I should have moved past that one catch, that one game. Should have, could have. Haven’t.
Friday turns into Saturday and then the weekend is over before I know it. Time sure flies when you’re sweating it out in the gym. On Monday, Ezra isn’t working. The only morgue tech is someone named Shanny, who says he’ll be there on Tuesday and that she will happily drink the coffee on his behalf, so I give it to her.
Tuesday morning is kind of a shitshow involving an overflow of ER patients who have to wait on gurneys in the hallway until the docs can discharge other patients to open beds. My job is to make sure they are all safe and that no one leaves AMA—against medical advice. It’s well after lunchtime before I can make a run to the Brew, my eyes grainy with the lack of caffeine and my blood sugar low.
Jett’s working, as usual. They have a rainbow-striped scarf holding their dreads out of their face, and they’re talking to thatguy they’d introduced me to, Mitchell or Michael or—no,Micah. If Micah’s hair isn’t quite as tall as last time, his attitude still holds some bite.
I nod to Micah and smile at Jett. “The usual, plus a panini.”
“As you wish.” Jett gets to work, leaving me and Micah standing awkwardly.
“So, uh, what kind of work do you do, Micah?”
Should be a pretty benign question. Still, the guy flinches like I’ve asked how much he weighs. “I’m a consultant of sorts.”
“Cool. Like in the tech field?”
“Not exactly.”
I wait, giving him time to fill in some of the blanks. He doesn’t. Glancing around for something to bail us out of this conversational abyss, I notice a flyer pinned to the wall next to the register. “Carnival of Mysteries?” I murmur. “Who the hell schedules a carnival at this time of year.”
Micah’s chuckle sounds so natural it startles me. “It’ll be fine.”
“If it’s not rained out.”
“It won’t be.”
Before I can ask him how he’s so damned sure, he raises his paper cup in a sort of salute and says, “You should check it out.”