Self-Portrait with Nothing by Aimee Pokwatka

Author:Aimee Pokwatka
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group

12

PEPPER DIDN’T PACK so much as cram all her stuff into her bag and hope for the best. Their flight wasn’t until noon, so she had time but lacked the will to sort and fold. Scott bundled his clothes in an orderly, practiced way. There were packing cubes involved. Pepper had woken with her head tucked into his armpit, his hand splayed across her back. It’d taken her too long to remember who she was in bed with, and she’d rubbed her own hand across his chest, stopping only when she registered its smoothness. Ike’s chest hair was soft and dense, and she liked to draw in it with her fingers. Now she and Scott maneuvered around each other as she gathered her toiletries, each of them moving farther out of the way than necessary to avoid touching.

Ike had texted while she slept

what did i miss

and she hadn’t responded yet. It wasn’t fair for her to be upset that he wasn’t constantly staring at his phone, ready for her next crisis, but she was anyway. She’d been in a state of dread since she’d left the restaurant, more convinced than ever that the Everett Group was involved in Ula’s disappearance, even if Ula was no longer disappeared. The fact that Scott had hidden so much only made her more certain. Ike had been dismissive of her worry. Facing this alone left Pepper too raw to manage self-control. She never had this kind of feeling. Of course no one believed her now that she did.

She made herself focus on small, simple tasks. Pack. Check out. Get to the airport. One manageable task at a time, until it was over.

Scott opened all the room’s drawers even though Pepper had already checked them.

“Do you feel like breakfast?” he said.

“I’m not hungry,” Pepper said. “But I need coffee.”

In the hall, a man in boxers was knocking on the door to another room. He kept his face down, though it was clear he’d been crying. No one answered the door. He knocked again. Kacper was at the desk in the lobby, and he avoided eye contact with Pepper as Scott checked out. Pepper couldn’t afford to stay if the magazine wasn’t paying. At a café down the street, she and Scott found seats among a ramshackle collection of couches. The walls were painted raspberry pink, and there was a framed black-and-white poster of the Rat Pack on one wall.

“Your husband must be happy you’re coming home,” Scott said.

Pepper watched people walk past the window. It was the middle of the night now in Connecticut. She and Ike couldn’t seem to realign themselves. Outside, there was a man in a suit and a hat who looked just like the statue of a man in a suit and hat rising through the sidewalk in the Polaroid she’d found in London. Today was Friday. Tomorrow, she’d wake in her own bed, salvage what was left of the weekend in the lab. It would almost be like it never happened.

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