Page 3 of Gorgeous Misery

But it’s also all very temporary.

You see, we can’t be together. Not for any length of time.

It’s all so very complicated.

Her truck door opens and she steps out, leaning back into the cab to grab something, which I see is a backpack once she closes the door. She pauses and her eyes find mine in the window. She sucks in a deep breath, then walks towards the porch. I meet her at the open door and I have the same thoughts every time this happens.

I want her to fall into my arms.

I want her to melt into me, and kiss me hard, and admit that she has been miserable since our last meeting.

Sometimes it almost happens that way. The first time we met out here, seventeen days after Chek’s death, she kinda did fall into me. But that’s not how it happens this time. Or any time after that one time, to be honest. Because even though we both show up here and do what we do, it always ends with a fight.

She always hates me when she drives away.

My heart hurts when this happens, but my brain—the rational side of me? That part is always OK. Because even though she walks out, she takes the job I offered with her.

She doesn’t want to do the jobs, but Wendy is a lot of things. She is moody, bitchy, mean, ruthless, deadly. But she’s also a professional. And she always comes through for the jobs I give her.

Hold on, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking—Damn, Nick. That’s harsh. You’re using her for jobs?

And if I was really using her for that kind of job, I’d agree. It would be way more than harsh. It would be… unforgivable. But I am not asking Wendy to kill people when I send her out. It’s busy work. That’s it. She digs info for me. She keeps an eye on shit. And maybe she knows these jobs are fake, or maybe she doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. These jobs are just how we keep in touch between Christmases and birthdays. I hand them over, she does them, sends me back the info I ask for, and we pretend this is all normal.

Wendy and I are very, very good at pretending.

I’m blocking the front door when Wendy approaches—and I do this on purpose. It’s a way to make her choose.

Does she want to hug me? Kiss me? Push me aside?

She pushes me aside. Squeezes past me and keeps walking deeper into the cabin. I turn and I’m just closing the door when she drops her backpack onto the counter. Then the pause.

There is always a pause.

A moment she takes to ask herself things like, Do I want to be here? Do I want to do this? Why, why, why do I even show up?

But it’s Christmas, not her birthday, and that means that if she wants to have a fight when she arrives, it will be a small one.

She turns, a smile on her face, and she says, “Hello.”

It’s always been about ‘hello’ with us.

I nod my head at her, cool like that, and walk into the kitchen. “Hello, yourself. Did you have a nice drive in?”

She shrugs. “It’s the road, ya know?”

Yep. I do know. “Are you hungry?”

She doesn’t answer me right away. Instead she looks around, spots the tell-tale signs and then sighs as she leans against the kitchen island and crosses her arms. “How long have you been here this time?”

I could lie. But I don’t want to lie. I want her to know. “Two weeks.”

She scoffs out her words. “Two weeks?” She blinks at me. “Why?”

“I like it.”

She goes quiet for a moment, then just shakes her head. “Well, I’m not staying. You told me to come, so I came. But I’m not staying.”

“Then where are you staying?”