The Darkest Joy by Marata Eros Page B

first time in five months.
    “. . . Reaching out to these survivors . . .” Clearwater says and I realize he’s been speaking while I’ve been Having a Moment.
    “Yeah . . . give me their names and numbers and I’ll . . . talk to them,” I promise.
    Clearwater sounds relieved, reciting the numbers, and I write them on my hand, scooping a pen off the floorboard of the bus where it has rolled underneath the pedals.
    “I’m glad we could talk, Miss Starr.”
    I smile; it feels rusty. “Brooke.”
    “Okay . . . Brooke. We’ll keep you posted as updates are needed. And the possibility of protection . . .”
    I don’t need that up here , I think, but don’t say. I look around at the wilderness as far as the eye can see, encroaching my surroundings with its frozen presence.
    “Thank you,” I say.
    “You’re welcome.”
    I begin to say good-bye and he interrupts me. “And Brooke?”
    “Yes?” I ask, my mind already running to all the things I want to accomplish.
    “You take care . . . and thanks,” he says, and I can hear a smile in his voice.
    “For what?”
    “Your trust.”
    I sit there for a second and hold a phone that’s now dead. I look at the cell battery. Dead as a doornail . I shake it. Like that’ll help. Dumb thing.
    I know it’s my fault. I’ve overcharged it one too many times and now the battery life is a couple of hours at a go.
    Well, that’s okay. We got to say what we needed to.
    I turn the engine on and the bus comes alive like Old Faithful, the classic VW rumble signaling my presence at about half a mile. I back up, pulling away from the Dawg . . . feeling like I have a new lease on life. A little warm light of hope sparks inside me and I allow it.
    Maybe I deserve . . . to live.
    I drive the length of the spit, noticing every detail like it’s in HD. I feel like I’m Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz . She leaves a black-and-white Kansas and arrives in Oz and suddenly everything’s in color.
    It’s more true than I could ever know, because that tornado is coming. And it will consume me.
Chance
    I use the long-handled scrub brush, because my flake of a cleaner texted claiming sick .
    Translation: hungover.
    Homer is so small I’ll know in the next ten hours if it’s a bullshit excuse or he’s tossing cookies. Doesn’t matter, I’m still out here washing my own boat like the truly self-employed. It’s a two-hour job done right, as salt water’s like slow-working microscopic acid on a boat’s hull. It’s a gotta do it , not elective in the least.
    I hear someone approach on the dock, the floats softly hitting the side of the boat as it rocks with the waves in the protected harbor. I stand, my entire purpose getting the boat hosed off, making myself busy so I don’t think about Brooke.
    My hand clenches on the hose attachment as I ruthlessly spring it to the left on full throttle and the water shoots out in a fire-hose stream of straight pressure, blasting the debris and shit off in a steady spray.
    “Beatin’ the hell out of her?” Evan asks like he doesn’t expect an answer.
    I turn. “Yeah, dickhead Matt didn’t show.”
    “He’s a girl about booze.”
    Knew it . “So what? He’s hung?”
    Evan nods. “Like half dead.”
    Shit . “Now I have to find another cleaner last minute,” I say, shaking my head in disgust.
    “I thought Brooke from Seattle’s doing it.”
    I stiffen without meaning to and Evan gives me a look. “Sore spot?”
    “Nah . . . just thinking it might be to much for her.” I look at Evan, my friend since middle school, and ask, “You guys friends?” I turn and spray the boat more, turning down the jet attack.
    “Yeah . . . but she’s hot, if you feel me . . . I want it to be more.”
    I’m instantly angry. Evan and I are like brothers. But suddenly he’s my enemy.
    I turn and he looks in my face. I can’t hide it.
    “Whoa . . .” Evan says giving a low whistle. “You’re hot to do her?”
    I