Page 24 of Pulse Zero
“Everywhere,” he answered once when I asked where he was from.
“That sounds exhausting. Did your childhood also include vague, ominous piano music?”
He didn’t even blink, just went back to work for the next hour.
Another time, I asked if he had family.
“Yes.”
“Alive?”
A pause. “Irrelevant.”
Which, frankly, was rude. I bared my trauma in the shower, and he couldn’t even give me a fun tragic backstory.
Still, every now and then, I got something. A slip, a reaction, a muscle ticking in his jaw. A shadow in his eyes that didn’t match the words coming out of his mouth.
Yesterday was the most progress we’ve made so far. We had anactualconversation.
I was sitting on the floor again, handcuffed to the same pipe like I’m just some particularly annoying houseplant.
Honestly, though? I’ll take it. It’s fucking boring in that room all by myself. Being out there with Reese is at leastlessboring.
He was at his desk, working on something I wish I could see. I was staring at the ceiling—there are only so many times you can count the exposed beams before you start naming them. He called time without even a pause in his typing, and that’s when I realized the tapping of my fingers had started to match his on the keys.
“What’s your favorite food?”
That got his attention, his fingers falling still.
“That’syour question?”
“I’m expanding the range of our conversations. Soon we’llbe discussing hopes, dreams, and whether you cried duringTitanic.”
He blinked several times, but he actually answered. “Steak. Medium rare.”
“That is…aggressively on brand. Do you also listen to podcasts about investing and emotional repression?”
He ignored that. “What’s yours?”
“Pizza.”
He nodded once, like that was acceptable.
“Hawaiian,” I added.
His head snapped up, and heglaredat me like I was an affront to nature. “That’s not pizza.”
“It absolutely is.”
“It’s a crime.”
“Well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” I shot back. “It’s a delicacy. Sweet, salty, controversial. Just like me.”
“Fruit doesn’t belong on pizza.”
“Tomatoes are fruit.”
“That’s different.” His eyes were still narrowed at me like I had finally become an enigma he couldn’t figure out. “Your taste is a red flag.”
