PULSE [H.S]

025

"Remembering everything doesn't mean you know everything. It just means you have access to it all at the right time." — David Baldacci

I've always loved the snow.

Not when it's a flurry or a thin layer of snow. I mean, when there's so much snow that it takes hours to even shovel. It snowed over a foot last night, and it's still snowing out there.

I look out of the window, and all I see is white, untouched snow. It's the best sight, really, to see the snow before anyone has even ventured outside or tried to remove it.

I canceled all of my clients for today and tomorrow, since it's obvious I won't even be able to get to my car for a while. One of the perks of living in an apartment complex is that it's not our responsibility to clear the sidewalks or driveways.

When I go downstairs, Harry's in the kitchen making some eggs. He's shirtless, and my eyes admire the muscles of his back for a few seconds, until I see the gun tucked in the back of his pants.

I say, "Do you carry that thing everywhere?"

"Mhmm," he hums.

I ask, "Even in your own home?"

"Can never be too safe," he shrugs.

I scoff, "Yeah, I'm sure all of your enemies are trudging through the foot of snow outside right now to come attack you."

He ignores me, asking, "Want eggs?"

I shake my head no, but he raises his eyebrows at me, so I nod my head yes instead. A few minutes later, he passes me a plate of eggs and toast, and I thank him for the food I was intimidated into eating.

Harry puts some of the remaining scrambled eggs in Scrappy's food bowl. Scrappy comes running over, checking out the eggs, and then happily munching on them.

I shake my head. "Harry, you're not supposed to give her people food."

"Why not?" he asks as he slides onto a stool. "She clearly likes it."

This is not the first time I've caught him putting leftovers in the cat bowl. I say, "She's going to get fat with all of the food you give her."

"She's been starving her whole life. I think she deserves to get a little chunky," he says, making me laugh.

Something about him saying the word 'chunky' is funny to me.

My mind wanders to Elias and the threats he gave me the other night. I'm slightly worried that he's going to make me an escort because I said that's the one thing I didn't want to do. I can't imagine slimy old men putting their hands on my body.

I ask Harry, "Can you teach me how to shoot one?"

"Thought you never wanted to touch a gun," he says, eyeing me. It's hard to keep eye contact with him when he's shirtless.

I say, "I don't want to, but I feel like I should know how to if I ever find myself in a bad situation."

"Alright, I'll show you how to shoot. There's a shooting range under the gym," he says casually. I look at him, stunned. He adds, "It's soundproof. We use the basement for other things too."

I don't ask what he means by that. Sometimes it's better to live in ignorance. I help him wash the dishes and then sit at the dining table, using the free time to draw a little in my sketchbook.

I realized that I needed to pursue something in art while I was in college. I would doodle on everything—homework, lab reports, case studies. I even failed a test once because I got so distracted drawing something on the side of the page. It was clear to me that it's all I want to do.