Nothing But Bones

18: Tiff's Haircut

If she had known that was what she was going to do, maybe she wouldn't have worn socks she liked. If she had known that was what she was going to do, maybe she would have packed more pants.

She flings her bag onto the bed and tries not to flinch at the sounds it makes. This is how it goes: you become a huge asshole, you remember you forgot to eat anything other than a granola bar you opened five days ago between one crisis and delivering a baby at a gas station, and the act of remembering doesn't turn you into any less of an asshole. The only truth about Tiff Sheridan is that she's habitually all over the place with exactly zero regulation. She seems to be incapable of it. As her friends have apparently noticed, forgetting simple parts of being a person certainly doesn't help.

She could play the part of the excited paranormal investigator if she put her mind to it, she's sure— but what if she doesn't have the chops? What if she can't find her way back to it as easily as she used to?

She pauses by the door to pry her socks off her feet. They're dark at the bottom from the walk back up here. Her aunt is going to be so pissed.

This is what I do. This is what I'm good at. Didn't she say that the day Ben went into his coma? The day she learned Oneiron's name? She Dunning-Krugered herself. She thought she was so capable back then— a spitfire that hadn't yet burned out of control— and now she's an empty bombshell and more lost than she was before, and she can't even shake her head about it.

There's no time for a mild breakdown disguised as a spiritual journey. Even if her life has gone to shit— even if she's married to someone who kind of hates her when she never wanted to be married in the first place, even if she's forcing herself into a way of being she was never really meant for, even if she is who she is and who she is happens to be a fucking mess— there's no real way to deal with it right now.

She yawns into her fist and looks to the ceiling like she'll find God in the bulb. All she finds is a course of action that she announces to Kepler as soon as it comes to her. "So. First order: I have to see what I can do to make an EMF reader like I said I would. It'll be a challenge. Fifteen minutes, tops."

Knowing exactly what she's thinking of, Kepler scurries to the duffel bag at the foot of the bed and pats a portable radio under the flipped cover. That's the issue with letting Tiff pack for herself in less than five minutes: she'll bring seven different potential projects and one spare set of clothes for what could shape up to be a week-long trip, if it goes wrong.

She leans over to take it out. "Right. So I'll spend a few minutes re-wiring this to change the kind of signal it's picking up on, and then— baths."

Kepler hisses in a way he hasn't in months. He runs away from her to shut the bathroom door and post himself in front of it, standing guard to keep her away.

Tiff sighs. Her hand migrates to the bridge of her nose in the way her aunt's does. "Listen— We both smell like dead person."

A pause. He clearly doesn't think so.

"No, no— Don't think I didn't see you rolling around in corpse juice while I was talking to Fred Winter about gay marriage. We're both bathing. You first, then me."

A pause; a look.

"No. I'm not bathing with you. You keep trying to electrocute me."

It's a joke that he doesn't seem to appreciate. His petulance doesn't do anything to deter her on this.

"Kepler. Listen. I know. But you smell like rot, and not in a fun way."

He upends the topsheet crumpled at the foot of the bed. It hits the dresser.