Abolition

Chapter Nine

Finley is a little more subdued today when she greets me, like Oliver hasn't told her that things are okay and she thinks that I'm still going to get mad at her. She's waiting for something bad to happen at the same time that I'm waiting for something bad to happen, which makes us two very nervous individuals. It also makes initial conversation awkward as hell.

"Hi, Kirk."

"Hey."

"You alright?"

"I think so. You?"

"Rough night last night, but I'm okay."

Finley shuffles her weight from foot to foot, and I can't look her in the eye.

"Want to go?" I ask.

She exhales loudly, shoulders relaxing. "Please."

I lead the way this time, the route to our regular coffee shop comforting in its familiarity. Finley is staring at the sidewalk so hard I'm worried she'll crack the pavement. The tension between us is almost as bad as it was when Finley first approached me on our first day of work, and I can't stand it at all.

"What I don't get," I say, stepping closer to her so that I can keep my voice low, "is why you didn't know what color your line is if Oliver can see them."

It shocks a laugh out of Finley, and she wraps her arms around her chest. "He's always refused to tell me."

"How did you know he was telling the truth?"

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" she counters, voice rising, but she speaks more quietly again after I elbow her lightly in the side. "We met when we were in school. He was in Tier 6, too, but he's a year older than me. He told me that they were real after we became friends because I like the theories and stuff, you know, but I didn't really believe him. Then, one day, he caught me when I fell."

"That's it?"

"He was walking in front of me," Finley says. "When we turned a corner in a hallway he saw whatever it is you guys see when a collision is going to happen and he slowed up so that he was walking beside me." Her expression turns serious for a moment, lost to the memory. "If he hadn't caught me, I would've fallen down the stairs."

"Holy shit."

"Yeah."

The coffee shop is warm and welcoming in the face of the bite of the cool spring wind outside. We have to wait five minutes in line before we even get to the counter to place our order, but at least we're inside in the warmth. We get all of thirty seconds of our barista's attention and it's short, sweet, and to the point. Finley and I both reach for our wallets at the same time.

"I got it," I say, and Finley nods but doesn't put her wallet away. "Finley, I got it. It's okay."

"I know," she says. "I'm getting the tip."

"I was going to get the tip."

"Doesn't mean that I can't tip, too."

"That kind of defeats the purpose of me paying."

"You'll live."

We move down the counter as slowly as we had gotten to the counter in the first place. The people ahead of us start grumbling at the wait, and it's tempting to join in, but before I can Finley says, "I forgive you."

My brow furrows. "What did I do?"

"Apart from the times you lied about your...condition—"

She means for it to be lighthearted, but it strikes a sore spot that still hasn't healed. "I promised I wouldn't tell."