Page 51 of Sexting the Pakhan

“Of course it is.”

“How much, Zoya?”

She looks at the bottle, then back at the sea. “Two glasses. Maybe two and a half. I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You’ve been drinking alone in the cold.”

“I’ve been held in a mafia safe house for four days. I think I’m allowed a glass of wine.”

“You are allowed many things.”

“Am I?”

I don’t answer at once.

That is answer enough.

She laughs again, but this time it breaks a little. She puts the glass on the table and presses both hands over her face. “I didn’t mean that,” she says into her palms. “I don’t even know what I mean anymore.”

I should leave. Send Anya up with food. Put two men on the hall and let Zoya sleep off the wine and panic.

Instead I sit in the chair beside her.

She lowers her hands and looks at me like she didn’t expect that.

I rest my forearms on my knees. “What did the email say?”

“That the Alderwood branch will remain closed indefinitely, then ten minutes later another email came saying all staff positions are terminated effective immediately because of budget restructuring.” She swallows. “Budget restructuring. Like we’re boxes on a spreadsheet. Like Mrs. Alvarez didn’t work there for twenty-seven years. Like Elise didn’t get shot in the arm trying to help a student hide under the front desk.”

“Elise is alive.” I say this because there are no staff or civilian casualties at the library. That part has never bothered me before, but this time I made sure to follow the news enough to keep track of the aftermath.

“I know.” Her eyes flash. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

“I didn’t say it did.”

“No, you just say things like they’re facts and that should be enough.”

Usually it is. With her, it never seems to be.

I look at the sea instead of her because she’s too easy to watch when she’s angry. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.” She pulls the blanket tighter around her. “That’s the problem. I don’t know anything. I don’t know where I’m supposed to go after this. I don’t know if I’m safe. I don’t know if I should hate you or thank you or call the police or ask you to never leave the room.” The last part comes out before she can stop it.

She hears it.

So do I.

The rain fills the silence between us.

Her face colors, even now, even through everything. “Forget I said that.”

“No.”

She looks at me sharply. “No?”

“No.”

“You can’t just refuse to forget something embarrassing.”