Page 69 of Hunting Gianna
I don’t answer. I don’t want to lie to her.
Some days, I work. Kairo is working on closing some deals for the cobalt mines, so my job right now is mostly emails and calls, shuffling numbers on a spreadsheet, pretending to care about whether or not a wind farm in Wyoming gets a new battery.
Kairo texts every couple of days, sometimes just dumb memes, sometimes a string of coordinates and a time, sometimes nothing at all. Slade messaged the group chat wanting guysnight, but I don’t want to. I don’t give a fuck about that. I just want my girl.
Creed, though. Creed is a different animal. He calls at dawn, always. Never texts. Never emails. Just the flat, uninflected drone of his voice on the line, like he’s reciting a script written by someone who doesn’t believe in punctuation.
First time he calls, I almost don’t answer. I’m in the shower, steam pouring off me, water as hot as it’ll go. The phone rings three times. I let it. Fourth ring, and I can picture his face—expressionless, patient, waiting for the world to bend to his will.
I pick up. “Yeah.”
“You moved out,” he says, no preamble.
“Yeah.”
A pause. “Cabin’s empty?”
“It is.”
“Got someone I want to bring up there,” he says. “You sure you’re not going back?”
I think about it. Honestly, I want to go back, but the deal was we shared it. “Don’t kill her, ight?” I say.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, but I know he’s smiling, even if I can’t see it.
He hangs up first.
After I dry off, I tell Gianna. She’s making coffee in the kitchen, her hair tied up with a pen, wearing nothing but panties and my old t-shirt. She pours me a cup, adds too much sugar, hands it over.
“Creed’s taking the cabin for a spin,” I say, watching her reaction.
She raises her eyebrows. “You okay with that?”
I nod. “I don’t have a choice. Besides we aren’t there, are we?” I can’t help but add a slight bite at the end.
She sips her coffee, licking foam off her upper lip. “Who’s he bringing?”
“Didn’t say. Probably a girl.”
She smirks. “Good for him. Hope she doesn’t give him too much trouble. Cassidy was right, it is easier to just let you take care of me.”
I watch her, watch the way her eyes linger on my hands, the way her fingers tap out a silent code on the rim of her mug. I want toask her if she misses it—the woods, the quiet, the feeling of being completely alone together. I don’t. I already know the answer.
At night, I sit on the windowsill, watching the city breathe. Cars slide by in slow procession, headlights painting the walls with thin bars of light. Sometimes, if you look hard enough, you can see the patterns—who’s coming, who’s going, which buildings never turn off their lights, which people never sleep.
I think about the future. I think about whether or not this is sustainable. I think about whether or not I can make her happy here, surrounded by all this noise and rot. I think about whether or not she’ll wake up one day and realize that, no matter how much you love a monster, it’s still a monster.
Most days, she seems fine. Better than fine. She’s settled into being a good little house wife.
But we both know something is missing and it’s the foundation of our relationship.
One night, after too much wine, she slumps against me on the couch, feet in my lap, blanket around her shoulders.
“You hate it here,” she says, not a question.
I consider lying. “Yeah.”
She closes her eyes, like she’s waiting for something.
