Page 262 of The Spider Queen

She didn’t even cringe this time as she shot it. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“In a relationship?”

I smiled. “No.”

“Why are you grinning?”

“Because you’re trying to turn this conversation around on me. We’re not here to talk about me.”

“I feel like I should be paying you an hourly rate,” she muttered. “This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me in a bar.”

“Seriously? The weirdest thing is a stranger bought you a drink and offered to listen to you talk about your issues?”

“Well. Yeah.”

“Isn’t this cheaper than therapy?”

It was her turn to grin.

“Let me ask you a question. What do you want out of life? I meanreallywant out of it?”

She pursed her lips in thought. Even though she knew exactly what she wanted, she was afraid to say it.

“It’s not too late, you know,” I said quietly. I traced the rim of my shot glass still filled with tequila. “You just have to know what you want. Know what you deserve.”

The feeling of her unworthiness was slowly ebbing, but it wasn’t gone completely. I couldn’t erase it entirely—that was up to her. But I could nudge it in the right direction.

“Your life doesn’t have to unfold here in this city. Your life doesn’t have to be one wrong choice after another just to prove a point.”

Her mouth dropped open. When she finally recovered, she reached for her purse. “I think I have somewhere to be.” She slid out of her seat. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She took a few steps and then turned around. “You don’t even know my name.”

“And you don’t know mine,” I pointed out.

“You knew my story… How?”

I smiled. “You don’t have to know that, either. Be well. It will turn out all right in the end.”

Chapter 2

I eased the burdens of three more people before dawn.

A middle-aged man who was grieving the loss of his wife. A troubled young college kid who was dealing drugs but wanted out. A woman in her sixties who yearned to travel now that she had an empty nest but was too afraid to go alone.

As I walked home to my apartment in Chinatown, I thought about the first time I realized I was different.

Third grade.

I’d caught my teacher crying in the women’s bathroom during lunch. I detected the faintest trace of her feelings in a way that told me more about her than even she could say, and I quietly listened as she unburdened herself. Her mother had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, and my teacher had been deeply conflicted about it.

The feelings of others grew more intense over time and I began to seek them out. Not all of them wanted to be helped. Not all burdens wanted to be eased. Not all emotions wanted to be released. So I picked and chose and did what I could for them, and for myself.

When I was sixteen, I tried to be a normal kid. Cheerleader. Class president. I shoved my gift down, burying it for as long as I could.