you were running out of time
“For what?”
Saint gave me a droll look that didn’t need transcribing, one that told me he probably knew more about the last year of my life than I did.
He typed again.
also, there’s a new security system in the court building. we didn’t want u to get caught
“We? Oh fuck, you mean the better half of your double act, don’t you?”
Saint grinned, and I liked it too much to be as annoyed as I wanted to be.
“I really messed this up, didn’t I?”
“How?”
“I wanted to surprise him. Then shit kept getting more complicated, and now I’m too far in to back out.”
“Then keep going.” Saint’s voice was rough, as if it truly hurt to speak. “You’ve done the hard parts.”
I snorted.
He frowned, sharp and questioning. But I didn’t feel like explaining that most of my anxiety was coming from the scenario my worst weed nightmares had concocted when I was too busy stuffing Haribo down my throat. The ones where Rubi laughed in my face and repeated the shit he’d shocked me with a few months back. The same shit he’d repeated multiple times since.
Mathersons don’t get married.
Man, I didn’t think about drugs much anymore, but I damn sure could’ve used a hit of something to calm me down right now. Ket. Benzos.Rubi, even if my spiralling thoughts had left me irrationally fucking annoyed with him.
I hadn’t seen my phone since this morning.
Dodging Saint’s stare, I returned to where I’d last seen it. Or where I last remembered seeing it, which was always going to be a shot in the dark.
The pile of boxes cluttered the workbench. I reached for them, but Saint grabbed my wrist.
“Bleeding.”
“Who is?”
“You.” He tugged me away from the boxes and to the sink, dragging my hands into a sink of warm water.
They stung as blood and oil seeped from my skin. I found the cuts and gouges I hadn’t noticed. A thumbnail already turning blue.
Oops.
I washed up and dried my hands on the towel Saint brought me. Let him patch me up. Then he wandered off and came back with my phone. “It’s dead.”
Of course it was. I’d been using the computer in the corner to stream my music all day, and without Rubi around to charge my phone for me, I’d clean forgotten it existed. “Why do I always sabotage my only way of talking to him when he’s gone?”
Saint produced a power bank from his pocket, connected the phone, and handed it to me. “You’re wired for a different world.”
So was he. And I didn’t get why he’d handed me a portable charger when the garage had too many plug sockets to count.
Until he dropped my bike keys in my other hand. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
Saint walked away in lieu of answering.