The Hit List

Chapter 17

"You should probably drink some of your water." He pushes the glass towards me, the water swaying in the cup.

Side to side. Like small waves in a contained pool. The ice has mostly melted, and water sweats on the outside of the plastic.

I just nodded, not wanting to reach for it. Fearful that he'll see the shake in my hand. That he'll make a comment that we both know will be true.

I'll still combat it. That's who I am. I wonder if that's what he'd want. The fight. The joy of taking me down one leg at a time.

And though the prospect of surrender looms on the horizon, I steel myself against the inevitable, determined to weather the storm that rages within.

He won't watch my body collapse against the weight. My skin paper-thin and torn. Red streaks against the porcelain.

He is working so hard to keep me standing, while simultaneously plotting for my downfall. Lashing out with his tongue before he's able to use his gun.

"Are you sure you don't want to order an actual meal? Something to soak up the alcohol." He runs his finger along the menu.

His concern is a fragile veil draped over the simmering tension that threatens to consume us both. I can sense the conflict raging within him, the delicate balance between compassion and calculation teetering on the edge of a cliff. Both struggle to push the other off.

"Their burritos are best sellers." He slid the plastic over to me, his finger pointing at a picture against the fiery red background.

"I'm good." I grabbed onto another chip, taking a bite as the yellow crumbs fell from the broken piece.

"You sure? My treat." Before I could muster another argument of words, he was waving over our waitress.

"Would you mind if we grab a vegetarian burrito? No cheese or sour cream." He paused, looking over the menu once more. "No onions either. Thanks."

Many thoughts are going through my head as he passes the menu to our waitress. Even more, as I watch him watch her walk away.

I'm exhausted. Our eyes meet. I can barely breathe. "How'd you know I don't like onions?" I was sure I never told him.

I keep my eyes on him. My brain is host to a crash as all my thoughts speed into each other. I can hardly duck out of this restaurant and attempt to heal the injured.

I wonder if he'll be dishonest with me. The ghost of a lie waiting to inhabit me. A confession we both know can't be forgiven.

A flicker of amusement dances across his features, a subtle glimmer of satisfaction in his gaze as he meets my bewildered stare. "You made a face when I brought groceries to your place. You're not hard to read." He took another drink, never allowing his eyes to leave mine from above the cup.

Maybe if I push hard enough he'll leave me. He'll get angry and react the way a normal person would.

As I meet his unwavering gaze, I'm struck by the raw honesty that permeates the space between us, a silent acknowledgment of the truths we've both dared to conceal. "You didn't make the face for peppers, so I'm assuming those are fine." He raised an eyebrow at me, the cup still gripped by his fingers.

"You don't have to touch any of it. Just take it home with you. It might come in handy for your inevitable hangover," His words slice through the tension like a knife, their sharpness a stark contrast to the fragile peace we've managed to carve out amidst the chaos of our shared existence. 

I took a deep drink, the alcohol not yet giving me that blissful feeling I craved. I wondered which would come first, the joy or the sickness.

"Do you drink like this often? It must get lonely." His face holds a look of honesty, with no sense of judgment in his eyes.