Page 27 of The Fake Divination Offense
“Please,” I add. “We’ll need to… coordinate. Sometimes. For our events.”
Another small smile. That pleasantly surprised smile that’s an intoxicant.
He takes my phone, types in his number, and sends a text to himself. “There.Boy friend,” he adds with a wink.
I smile back, liking that way, way too much.
And when he leaves the café, crosses the lobby to talk withthat guy, I clench down hard on the trash in my hand until the muffin crumbs are mushed into oblivion.
This is a business arrangement. For my career, for his. For our team.
I track Alexo and his escort as they cross the lobby, breath coming in faster pulls, shoulders rising to my ears.
The moment they leave, I toss the trash into a bin and storm through HQ to the gym. Our team drills don’t start for several hours, but a lot of people will be doing their own workouts until then. So I will, too. That’s fine.
Yeah. That’s fine. Sure.
I change into the gear I keep stored in my locker, throw myself on the first open treadmill—one of the larger ones for those of us with ancestries like mine—and wrench the speed to the max. If my nearby teammates give me odd looks, I ignore them. I just run.
And run.
And it’s too poetic, isn’t it? Running and running only to get nowhere.
When I’m so covered in sweat that my tank is translucent, I punch off the treadmill and head for the outside track that loops the training field. It’s a sweltering day, the sun high and bright, which keeps anyone else inside. Good. I’m alone, huffing and puffing and powerwalking through my cooldown until I yank my phone from my gym shorts.
I start to text Alexo. Ask if he got home okay.
Instead, I pull up Seb’s number and know I’m going to break not only my NDA, but the promise I made to myself, that even though I’m back in Philly with Seb, I’ll rely on him less. I’ll keep him at arm’s length.
I quit him cold turkey when I moved to Vegas four years ago. We still have a relationship, but it isn’t the codependent, unhealthy domination we once had. Well, thatIonce had with him, where I’d wake him up if I had Camp Merethyl nightmares or seek him out if I was on the verge of an anxiety attack. My therapist once called Seb my security blanket, and—
Alexo’s words ring in my head. That’s what he called this opportunity. Hissecurity blanket.
Everything about him feels inadvertently familiar, and I’m right back where I was years ago, losing my mind and desperate for Seb to ground me.
I don’t want to need Seb. I workedhardtonotneed him, and he’s got Thio now. He moved on and healed and he’s healthy, happy.
But this thing with Alexo is consuming me already, and I havemonthsof interacting with him coming my way. How do I function when every single thing about him seems like it was made to call to me? It’s not his fault, and I can’t make it his problem, andgods damn it, I haven’t been this unhinged inyears.
I come to a stop in the middle of the track, planting my forearms on top of my head, phone loose in one hand, and breathe.
This is just a setback. I knew I’d struggle with the lawsuit ending; my therapist and I have spent the past few months preparing for expected stumbles and pain. I knew I’d struggle with Urzoth, too, even if that went a bit differently than I’d intended.
A setback doesn’t mean all my years of striving to be better vanish. I can choose how I go forward from here.
And I choose to go forward as the person I want to be, not with the ghosts I’m running from.
I lower my phone and switch to a different contact, hit call, and hold it up to my ear.
“Hey, Mom,” I say as soon as it connects.
“Orok!” she exclaims. I smile; it’s involuntary. Seb used to tease me for what a momma’s boy I am.
My smile wavers. I’d planned to call her tonight. To tell her I’d renounced Urzoth.
“How are you?” she asks. “Are you at practice?”
“In a bit. I wanted to, uh, tell you something.”
