Vicarious (6 page)

“It's also okay to tell me to back off,” he says.

Back off.
The words get lost on the way to my lips. Jesse's face is still out of focus. I am still swimming behind his eyes.

He touches his cheek to mine and everything is amplified. His beard prickles my skin. My breath goes still. I clutch at the handle of a drawer behind me to keep from sliding right down onto the floor. Softly, Jesse's mouth brushes against my jaw, a single point of heat on my shivering skin. He holds my chin steady so I'm forced to look at him.

For a second, I am absolutely terrified that he's going to kiss me and I have no idea how I'll respond. Will I kiss back? Run away? Start to cry? I'm just a puppet waiting to see which string my handler will pull.

But then Jesse leans away and I regain some tiny degree of control. With one hand, he traces the curve of my eyebrow, my cheek, my throat. A strange collection of noises escapes from my mouth. I ball the fabric of his shirt in my free hand as my eyelids flutter shut. He presses his lips to my jawbone again, but this time he leaves them there.

“Jesse,” I whisper. “Gideon might wake up.”

“So come downstairs with me,” he murmurs, his breath hot in my ear.

A wanting burns inside of me, hungry and raw, and with it the tinge of dread that always comes at the thought of getting too close. Reluctantly, I open my eyes. “I can't.” The words fall from my lips in pieces. I tuck my head low so my hair obscures part of my face.

“I know.” He nods. “I'm sorry.”

He returns to his seat and my face flushes red. I can still feel his hands on me. His lips. A tremor races the length of my spine.

“The excitement of the night, you know?” he says. “I didn't mean to get carried away.”

“It's fine.” I return to my pseudo-work at the counter so I don't have to face him, swiping at the clean sink with a dish towel and then carefully folding and refolding it until the corners match up exactly. I peek into the nearest cupboard and find a container of mild sedatives. Popping off the cap, I shake out two of the pills and dry swallow them. “Headache,” I explain as I close the cupboard. “From the overlay.”

“Those can be brutal,” Jesse says. “I can stay with you for a while until you're feeling better.”

I shake my head. “I should probably try to study a little bit before I go to sleep.”

“With a headache?”

“It's not that bad,” I say. “Sometimes focusing on academics relaxes me.”

“So what you're saying is that studying is so boring it puts you to sleep?” Jesse grins. “I still can't believe you go to high school on the Internet.”

“It's just easier for me. Rose went to regular school for a year. She never talked about it much, though. I figured maybe she didn't want me to feel bad because I couldn't go too.”

“Trust me,” Jesse says. “You're not missing anything.”

“Being around a lot of people makes me nervous anyway,” I say. “I learn better in a controlled environment.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “I should get to work. But thanks for everything tonight.”

Jesse knows a dismissal when he hears one. He takes his untouched tea to the sink and dumps it. Greenish-brown liquid spirals down the drain. He washes his mug and then rinses it thoroughly. “I know it would make both our lives easier,” he says. “But I'm not giving up on you, Winter. On us.”

I take a tentative sip of my tea. “There is no us,” I say, hating the cruel way it sounds. If I wanted any guy, I would want him. But right now, I can't be the girl he needs.

Jesse doesn't even flinch at my harsh words. He sets his mug in the drain pan to dry and then turns to face me. “Just because you say something, doesn't make it true.”

I narrow my eyes. “Oh, really?”

He shakes his head. “Forget it. I don't want to fight with you.” He slips back into his quilted jacket. “Drink your tea. Get your work done. I'll come get you tomorrow so we can edit the recordings before we go to Krav Maga.” Jesse tugs his boots back on and slips out into the hallway.

I exhale deeply as the door closes behind him, both relieved and a little sad that he's gone.

Krav Maga class is how Jesse and I officially met. I had seen him around Escape once or twice, but we never really talked until we paired off for sparring
.
Jesse was the first guy who offered to go up against me, quick to point out that what I lacked in brute strength I made up for in speed and agility.

He scared me at first, with his tattoos and his mangled ear, and this air of intensity that made me want to look away when he came close. He didn't hold back when he was fighting me either. Jesse said I challenged him in ways guys didn't, that working with me would make him better. From that day forward, we were sparring buddies, showing up for the same Sunday afternoon class each week.

A couple months later, when Gideon wanted to pair Jesse and me up for a martial arts ViSE, I found myself excited about the prospect of partnering with him. I knew he would push me to be my best. Gradually we became friends and he traded in his intense stares for smiles. Now I've grown to feel safe with him by my side. I should feel less safe after a glimpse into the predatory way he looks at the world, but I don't.

I know Jesse would never hurt me.

But why? Why does he see me as something other than a collection of vulnerabilities to exploit? I fetch my tablet from my bedroom and work through some physics homework to avoid thinking about it. I sip my tea repeatedly as I wrestle with the equations, downing almost the whole mug without realizing it. The warm liquid reminds me of Jesse's lips on my skin. My brain clings to the moment when I thought he was going to kiss me, replaying it, extrapolating out what might have happened if I had let it.

What might have happened if I were normal.

Abandoning my tablet, I head for the bathroom. I yank off the clothes Jesse loaned me and turn the bathtub faucet on extra hot. When the tub is full, I slide into it and duck completely under the surface, letting the scalding water cleanse away my shame and confusion.

 

CHAPTER 7

I dream
of a small room and a man with one eye. Blood seeps like scarlet tears from his empty socket. I turn to run away from him and the room becomes a hallway that becomes a stairway that becomes a roof. The wind tugs at my body; the sky tries to wrap me in stars. Below me, a gazebo glows with red light. A line of black cars crawls like cockroaches through the streets.

An air conditioner exhaust fan chitters angrily near the roof's edge, one of its blades bent just enough to scrape against the side of the casing. For a second I let the wind push me close enough to the fan's razor-sharp blades that a lock of my hair gets snipped and sent out into the night. As it twists and flutters toward the gazebo, I think about just letting go, letting the breeze carry my body into the whirling blades, the wind scattering pieces of me throughout the city. Blood and flesh seeping into the cracked pavement. Flowers blooming wherever I land.

“Winter.” Rose's voice comes from everywhere at once. I whirl around, but I don't see her. The one-eyed man stands in the doorway that leads back to the building. He watches me without speaking, his face stained with blood.

“Eonni? Where are you?” I ask.

She doesn't answer.

I turn back to the air conditioner. The blades spin. I step closer, hypnotized by the crackling noise.

Behind me, the one-eyed man laughs.

“Winter. No.” My sister appears at the edge of the roof. She reaches out for me.

But it's too late. It's time to fall to pieces.

*   *   *

I wake
with my hands tightened into fists, my heart large inside my throat. I'm curled up on the floor of my room, my neck bent at a strange angle. My muscles ache and my head feels like it's full of wet cotton.

At first I think I've sleepwalked. I used to do that right after we moved to St. Louis, especially when my dreams were particularly lucid. But then last night comes back to me. Trading ViSEs. The way Jesse's touch made me feel. Trying to drown my shame and confusion with a bath. I vaguely remember returning to my room after the bathwater went cold.

I don't remember going to sleep on the floor, but I do that sometimes when I'm anxious. Dr. Abrams calls this behavior “regression,” because Rose and I used to sleep on a mat together when we were little.

There's a sharp knock on my door. “Winter. Are you all right?” It's Gideon.

I glance at my phone and swear under my breath. I'm already late for my workout. “Coming,
oppa,
” I say. Oppa means older brother in Korean, but it's used outside of blood relations too. Although Gideon prefers that we speak English at all times, that desire does not extend to me disrespectfully addressing him by his first name. “Give me five minutes.” Hurriedly I change into my
dobok,
my Taekwondo sparring outfit, and pull my hair back into a ponytail.

Gideon waits for me in the hallway already wearing his dobok and headgear. His dark eyes look me up and down in an almost clinical fashion.

“Sorry. I forgot to set my alarm.”

Wordlessly, he turns and strides down the hallway, pausing outside of my sister's bedroom. “Have you talked to Rose today?”

Something in the tone of his voice makes my chest go tight. “No. Why?”

“I have something to ask her.” He pauses. “It's nothing urgent.”

The door to her room is cracked open. I knock. “Eonni,” I say. No answer. I knock again and then push the door inward. Miso is sitting on the dresser, pawing gently at a bright red wig. I scoop him up in one arm and set the hairpiece on an empty stand between a wavy black wig and a silky blue one. Rose's bed is full of stuff—high-heeled boots, two dresses, three fashion magazines. There's no way she made this mess today. I would have heard her moving around.

“It looks like she didn't come home last night. Did you send her to Inferno?” I ask.

“She wasn't doing anything for me,” Gideon says.

My chest tightens further. “She told me she was working.”

“Rose has been doing a bit of … freelancing. You didn't know?”

“No.” My teeth grate hard into my bottom lip. I knew Rose and I had secrets, but I didn't know we kept any from each other.

“I'm sure she's just crashed out at a friend's place,” Gideon says kindly. “It wouldn't be the first time.”

He's right. My sister is no stranger to staying out all night. Still, something feels off.

Gideon's phone buzzes in his pocket. He taps out a quick text and then says, “Come. It's getting late and I still have to pack for my business trip. Our workout will help clear your mind.”

I follow him through the penthouse. A few sunbeams scatter their way through the miniblinds, just enough light to illuminate the Kandinsky print hanging above the fireplace and the private elevator that opens directly into the back corner of the living room.

“Where are you going again?” I ask.

“Chicago. Just for a couple of days.” Gideon slides open the balcony door.

I step outside, the chilly morning air turning to ice in my lungs. A short flight of stairs leads up to the roof. It's empty up here except for an air-con unit and a ten-foot square drawn in chalk. My protective headgear sits in the southeast corner as always.

As I hurry over to it, something slams into me from behind. The blow strikes at the level of my kidneys and I fall to my hands and knees on the unforgiving cement. Instinctively, I curl over onto my back, my right forearm hooked in front of my face to protect my head.

Gideon stands over me, his mouth twisted into a mix of amusement and displeasure. “You're unfocused.”

Frowning, I leap to my feet. “I wasn't ready.” Blood blooms in the layers of torn skin on my palms. My knees sting from the hard landing.

“You must always be ready.” Gideon reaches out, bracing my jaw with his thumb and forefinger for a moment as he studies me. To an outsider his actions might appear intimate, but his hands and eyes aren't cherishing me; they're searching for injury. Weakness. Apparently satisfied, he steps back and gestures at the headgear.

Being careful not to turn my back on him, I dress for battle. We bow to each other and then retreat to opposite corners. For the next hour we fight hand-to-hand, no breaks. Gideon and I are about the same height, but he's stronger and faster than I am and it is all I can do to stay on my feet. We do not use a mat because he says in life there are no mats, and I must learn to fall in a way that protects my bones and organs. It's all about the transfer of energy from the part that hits the ground first to the rest of the body. The whole self—physical and mental—must absorb its share of the blows.

There are more blows today than usual. I am slow, sluggish. I rest on my heels instead of springing forth from the balls of my feet. My chin hugs my chest instead of leading. Repeatedly, Gideon attacks and I struggle to dodge and block, ending up on my hands, my flank, my back.

“Did you stay up late after you finished your recording?” Curiosity glimmers in his eyes.

“Yes. Studying.” The words come out sharper than intended. I lunge forward, my left arm lashing out in a ridge-hand strike, my right arm protecting my body.

My head snaps on my neck as Gideon lands a fist to my chin. I stumble backward, only barely regaining my balance before stepping outside of the chalk square. There are no chalk squares in life either, but there are enclosed areas and that is what the perimeter is supposed to represent.

Gideon's jaw tightens as he returns to his side of the square. “I thought perhaps you went out with Jesse afterward.”

“He wishes.” I drop back into horse stance.

“Is that so?” Gideon attacks again, but this time I am ready. I block him both high and low and sweep my left foot in a hook kick. He stumbles but doesn't fall. I follow up with a second attack, a knife hand and a crescent kick that sends Gideon outside of the chalk line. He recovers just before he falls, dipping into a bow. “Good,” he says. And then, “It appears speaking of Jesse inspires strong feelings.”