Page 83 of Famous for a Living

And yes, I’ve had over a decade to deal with the facts of my childhood. Yes, he’s only hearing it now. There’s something to be said for shock factor.

But I guess I just didn’t expect him to take it so seriously.

To care, really, in a world full of tragic people and problems, about me.

About the things of my past.

So much.

Nobody—not even Serena—has ever cared quite so much. With looks to kill.

Part of me shivers under that look. Shivers in a way that makes me want to shiver forever.

“I haven’t told Uncle Terry much. He knows enough to know it was worse than he feared, but we sort of leave it at that. I don’t want him to feel responsible for the decisions I made. I—” I take a breath. Did I just share a secret with Zaiah? “I hope you understand.”

The music clicks off, signaling with certainty that it’s time to leave.

He nods, and I know that’s as good as his word.

“I see you doing that all the time.” He looks at my fingers running over the locket from Uncle Terry. “He must be very special to you. Now I understand why.”

“He’s all I have. I’d do anything in the world for Uncle Terry.” My chest feels tight. A lot more than I intended has been shared about my life; it’s not a bad thing, but it’s just . . . heavy. I need a break. I need to talk about something else.

“So what was that about not being a stranger? Mark made it sound like you stay away from this place. What, you just can’t bear to leave the woods?” I say, half kidding but also hoping, a bit desperately, that that’s not the truth after all.

I like the woods. The forest is growing on me, admittedly. But really, you can’t be a hermit all the time. I realize even as I’m saying it, I’m measuring him up with a questionnaire as if to see just how compatible we are. It’s not just a question out of idle curiosity.

Part of me is saying, “But seriously, Zaiah. How much time do you really spend outside of society? Because I can’t—I’ll never, ever be—the girl cooking up deer-jerky stew alone in some cabin all the time. You can’t expect that of me.”

But then he swallows.

And I see him pull back.

Everything about his body language screams, “I’ll allow you to share your secrets. You can do whatever you like. But I’ll be keeping mine.”

“It’s a great place,” he says. “Mark—Mark runs a good shop. I just haven’t had the time to get away lately.” He pauses. “When we lost half our paid staff last year, it came down to just me and your uncle.” His eyes flicker over to Mina, Jax, and Kevin, now standing by the door. “Those three are young and a handful, but they’ve also been what’s made it possible to survive the past year.”

I frown. He’s trying to distract me from the heart of my question. He’s trying to pull my heartstrings on another topic.

I won’t take the bait.

I feel foolish, sharing something with him when he so clearly is uninterested in doing likewise. Like I’ve stretched out my hand for a handshake, only to have him stare at it, then retreat.

Together we move toward the counter and I set my mug among an empty dozen. “Right,” I say. “With any luck we’ll get the park back on track soon.”

* * *

The coffee has been cold for a while now but I press the takeaway cup to my lips and take a thoughtful sip. I’m bundled up in four thick blankets and bearskins, per usual for my evening routine when the temperature dips down into the single digits and the baseboard heaters fight their nightly battle. My knees are tucked in at my chest as I sit up on the pullout bed and watch the flames lick the roof of the little woodstove. Mina went to bed an hour ago.

Days go by easier. It’s easier not to think about the crisis overhead or the fact that Bobby went missing the day after everything exploded. It’s easier to focus on trying to find any viral way (any, any at all) to discuss the generational effort to restore whitebark pine without putting people to sleep. It’s easier to enjoy watching the sideshow of Jax sneaking behind Peggy’s back and pouring the pot of coffee out every single time she refills it. It’s easier to watch her chase him out with her cane when the jig is up.

Mina isn’t alone; I too have my floating vampires hanging over one shoulder. Mine are just financial.

I take another sip.

Maybe I was fairly hard on her tonight about that. But the girl is nineteen years old. Beautiful. Innocent. More unique and fascinating and just a delight with every passing day. My, well, my roomie.

And just . . . well, the protective side of me took over. I’m not always going to be around. And here she is, living out here all alone. I need to know she can take care of herself.