Pulse

Chapter 18

Lucie

I was beginning to experience the effects of sleep deprivation, which I guess I technically asked for by staying awake the whole night. My eyelids were heavy, my body fatigued and sore, and I was even slightly dizzy. I was—very attractively—sucking down mug after mug of coffee to keep myself awake, so much so that the waitress wouldn't even ask if I wanted a refill, just swing by, take up my empty mug, and return with a filled one.

I sat in an old booth at a diner, Cian across from me. He had removed his hoodie and draped it across the empty space beside him, and was neatly slicing his stack of blueberry pancakes into eight vestigial triangles. We had gotten a window seat, and were front row to witness the waking up of the rest of the world, lights flicking on in beach houses, surfers cleaning their elaborately designed surfboards, cars sleepily withdrawing from driveways. Lights switched from green to yellow to red and back again, directing the steady ebb and flow of traffic. Car horns beeped and waves crashed and people chattered. Most of all it felt like home.

Inside the diner, the air was scented sickly sweet by syrup and butter. Voices shouted distantly from the kitchen.

I watched Cian remove one of his triangles from the rest of the herd and devour it. Seven vestigial triangles left. "I thought I'd bring you somewhere peaceful," he murmured, gripping the syrup dispenser. He held his fork in his teeth while he went to work drowning his plate in sugar. "No one wants to hear about death, but I figure it's better to hear about it over pancakes, and, in your case, infinite mugs of coffee."

I made a face to demonstrate my disdain for his judgement."I'm trying to stay awake."

"You should have slept in the car."

"And leave you by yourself?" I countered, and saw him raise his eyebrows at me. "Nah. I trust you, but not that much."

He laughed again: that short, guttural sound, a cough just tinted with humor. I liked, however, the way it changed his face: unconsciously lifting a side of his mouth, revealing a line of straight, white teeth, splitting the scar across his lips in half. It crinkled his eyes at the sides, brought color across his sharp cheekbones. It transformed him from the Cian who was still afraid of himself to the Cian who had all he needed. "What else must I do, muffin? You've seen me in my natural habitat, have been inside both my house and my car. You know me better than my parents do."

I pointed at him accusingly, stirring spoon still in my hand. "That concerns me. And I told you not to call me muffin."

"Biscuit, then?"

"No."
"Cupcake?"

"Cian, no."

He twisted his mouth to the side and removed another triangle. Six vestigial triangles. "How about cookie? Brownie? Rice krispie treat!"

I didn't have to say anything. He read the sullen look on my face and forked a piece of his pancake with a grunt. "You're no fun, muffin."

I no longer had the energy to fight him. Anything was better than "rice krispie treat."

The waitress came by with a new mug of coffee for me, and the surfer outside finished cleaning his board and shoved it in the back of his truck. Cian said, "I suppose I should start talking now."

This is the part where I was supposed to say You know what, I don't need to know, or It's okay if you don't want to tell me. This is the part where I was supposed to look into his eyes and notice how sorrowful he was and feel bad for prying.

The thing is, though, I'd always hated cliches.

So I just said, "If you're ready."

And he said, "Vinny drowned."