On Christmas eve, I woke early, did a line of coke, and ran five miles in the cold, in shorts. I added to the 6 swirl canvas before setting it aside to focus on something more abstract.

I was sitting, once again, on the floor of my apartment, the only actual seating besides the ugly stuffed armchair that sat in the middle of what should be the living room space.

I didn't like people. Being around people meant I had to rely on someone. For conversation, for companionship, for something deep and emotional that meant I'd have to carve out a piece of my own heart when they left.

Because they'd leave. They always did. And losing people turned me into a Mira I hated. A Mira who wasn't inappropriately funny or cunning. A Mira that was absolutely insane with need, annoyingly so. She said pathetic things and groveled. The very idea of that Mira made me ill.

No, people needed to be ignored. Treated as simply as room decorations, something to add color or noise or light to a space. Nothing more.

That was why my studio had no seating apart from the one-cushioned, but broken, armchair, and it was more child-sized than adult-sized.

It screamed, “GO AWAY” with capital letters.

That chair couldn't have been more Mira if I'd stuffed my own self with cotton.

The chairs and the table that Six had bought for me a few months back hadn't lasted long. After I'd stared at them long enough, I'd found a new home for them.

In the dumpster.

He'd intended to provide for me a place to eat, a place to talk—eye to eye. I didn't want it, not in my space—the place that was mine. So, I'd thrown it away.

A knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts. I eyed the door, my brain running through who I was expecting. There were only three people who came to my door: the landlord (to inquire about the noise I was making), a neighbor right before complaining to the landlord, or ... more recently ... Six.

It was just before dinner. I'd had plans to do another line of coke and throw some paint on a canvas, but the thought was unappealing as I didn't have the kind of setup Six's mom had. The knock on my door would likely derail all my plans.

Scurrying to the door with bare feet padding on the wood, I called, “Who is it?” as unfriendly as possible, through the cheap metal door.

“Me.”

I opened the door just as something unsettling fluttered within me. Since when had Six become a “Me” and not “Six”? Since when had he only needed to say “Me” for me to know?

“Hi.” In his hands were bags and on his head was a black beanie, hiding the unruly dark hair I knew was underneath.

I stepped aside, letting him in. “Do you have a job for me?”

He set the bags on the floor and shrugged off his leather coat. My eyes took in the way his back muscles bunched under the leather, pushing against the cotton shirt, before my eyes shot up to his head.

He eyed me over his shoulder. “Actually, yes.”

I squinted, trying to remember if Six had told me about plans for another one of his clients. But as much as I prodded my brain for information, nothing came.

“What?” I closed the door and walked over to the bags, trying to peek in. His hands clamped on my upper arms, stopping me from peeking, and I looked back up at him. “What kind of job is it?”

“Do you have a screwdriver?”

I cocked my head to the side, feeling suspicion creep up my shoulders. “No,” I lied.

Six nodded at my words but ignored their meaning, walking past me into the kitchen and squatting under the sink, pulling open the cabinet and the small tool kit I kept within it. He seemed unfazed by my lie, apparently having been acquainted with my screwdriver on his previous visits to my apartment.

“You shouldn't lie,” he said, his voice calm and quiet. He crouched down on the floor and pulled boxes from the bags. “Especially not to me.” He looked at me briefly before whipping out a pocketknife and opening one box he'd brought.

“Why not to you?”

He slid the knife along the tape, opening it carefully. “Because I don't like liars.”

I licked my lips and crossed my arms over my chest. “But you don't like me, anyway.” It was a question, but my tone made it sound like a statement.

He glanced at me from under dark eyebrows, not saying anything, just staring—lips in a line and one eyebrow raised. When I said nothing else, he turned his attention back to the bag.

Methodically, he placed all the items out in a row, setting up to build what I'd gathered was a table made from a dozen pieces.

“I don’t like that you lie, because you're terrible at lying to me,” he said, again with that calm, quiet voice. Despite the low volume, I recognized a warning for what it was. And my entire skeleton itched to test it.

“You don't know me well enough to say that.”

He paused for a moment before lifting his bright green eyes to look at me. “I know that my presence here on Christmas Eve unnerves you. I know that you see this table and,”—he pointed to the bags he'd brought—“the chairs I'm going to build and they're not just wood to you. They're a threat. And I'll need to convince you not to throw these ones away.”

“Why'd you bring them if you're worried about me throwing them away?”

His green eyes went soft—mother fucker—and he said, “Because I'm hoping you'll trust me enough to keep them around.”

And I knew he wasn’t talking about the chairs then.

He focused back on the task at hand and, like a sullen child, I folded my legs beneath myself on the floor, watching him build the table in silence.

After he had two of the four legs to the table attached, I spoke. “What else did you bring?”

“Food.”

“Bacon and eggs?” I asked, slightly hopeful.

“Motherfucking bacon and eggs, actually,” he quoted back to me. “And some other shit.”

I chewed on my fingernail to keep from smiling. “Why?”

“Because it's Christmas Eve.” He waved a hand to the bags. “Make yourself useful and put some of that away.”

I scrambled up and picked up the bags, bringing them to the kitchen. I pulled out a carton of eggs and put them in the fridge, reaching back into the same bag to pull out the bacon. “You brought a lot of food.”

“You don't have any food.”

I shrugged. “Food costs money.”

“And so do drugs, but you seem to be able to afford those just fine.” I heard the clatter of wood hitting the floor and the slide of the metal as he changed to a different screwdriver. “Feed your fucking fish.”

Even though he was scolding me, I smiled. Annoyed Six was sexy.

I looked at Henry, who was looking a color that didn't exactly scream, VITALITY, and dumped in what was probably too much fish food, not missing the fact that Six had changed the subject from drug use in a very non-subtle way.

Six hadn’t spoken about my drug use to me since he told me he didn’t like it. I didn't exactly hide it from him, but no idiot bragged to non-users that they were getting high.

I worked these jobs for Six, but he didn't pay me in cash. He paid my rent, directly to my landlord. He'd paid for three months in advance, in fact. And then he'd paid my electric bill, and he'd brought groceries each time he came by. He was paying my living expenses, but not paying me.

I'd never objected. It was hard to tell him no when I was facing eviction. I may have had my pride, but I knew when to tell it to shut the fuck up.

And by acknowledging my drug habit, he'd confirmed my belief that he didn't want to give me cash, suspecting I'd snort half of it within a day or two.

After Six had built the table and chairs, he made us Christmas Eve bacon and eggs and I burned some toast. We sat on the chairs, across from one another, letting the sounds of the horns blaring and my neighbor's Christmas music be the opening track on the album of what I would later learn was the true beginning of us.

After clearing the plates from the table, Six grabbed two black trash bags he'd left by the door and brought them to me, holding one out for me to open.

“Nice wrap job,” I commented wryly, reaching in and touching something hard.

“My mom did it,” he said, but I knew it the minute I pulled the sun canvas from the trash bag.

My fingers traced the sun, the entire painting coated in a clear varnish that made it shiny and smooth in places, shiny and raised in the other places, where I'd applied the impasto with Elaine's guidance. It was truly stunning. I didn't deserve it.

I looked up at Six, my eyebrows drawn together.

Six shrugged. “She said she thought you should have it. You made it.”

I shook my head, but didn't argue with him, pulling the painting close to my chest, where a burn had started deep in my ribcage. I blinked hard, feeling moisture pricking my eyelids even as I swallowed, trying to assuage the burn.

“I shouldn't keep it,” I said, my eyes on his. “But I won't give it back now.”

“I can tell. You've got one of your tentacles wrapped around it.”

“A what?”

He didn't answer me, handing me the second bag.

I reached my hand into it, finding an assortment of stuff. “Can I dump this?” I asked, moving to sit on the floor.

“You can, if you're gentle.”

I laughed. Gentle wasn't in my vocabulary. Six's lips curved into a crooked smile, and he sat across from me on the floor.

I tipped the bag, letting its contents spill across the floor. Tubes plopped, jars rolled, brushes clinked against the glass. At the bottom of the bag was a small glass-covered palette board. Everything was new.

I looked at Six again, feeling the burn in my chest expand to my arms. What the fuck?

He shrugged, but kept his eyes focused on me warily. “You don't have the right supplies.”

In that single statement, he'd answered two questions for me. He'd told me that he had bought them for me. And that he'd paid attention to my meager painting arsenal.

We stared at one another sitting on the floor of my apartment. I was acutely aware of how still the room was, the only sound being the faint Christmas music coming through the thin walls. I opened my mouth to speak and he did too, but before we could say anything, we were interrupted by the flickering of the bulb overhead. I watched as Six looked up before standing straight and staring at it. He grabbed one of the chairs and stood on its seat, twisting the bulb into place, allowing the light to glow, strong and uninterrupted.

I grabbed the back of the chair as he climbed off it. “So, what are you? Santa Claus or something?”

“No.” He looked at me a minute, gauging my reaction, before he walked around the chair. I didn't back away this time, letting him into my space, into my air. He put one hand on my waist and the other on my neck. “I'm just Six.”

With his hands on my skin, his lips met mine, finally, fully, pressing heavily against mine, tongue parting the seam. At some point, he turned and propped me onto the table and kissed me deeply. Hands tugged my hair, hard enough to render me unable to think of anything but his lips on mine, his tongue exploring my mouth, and the smooth warm wood under my ass.

I'd had hundreds of kisses. Many instances of my lips meeting with another's, many times I'd tasted lips that had kissed me with intentions of something more intimate than a kiss. But Six held me still and only kissed me. He was giving more to me than I knew I could give him, so I took. I took and I took. It was as if I'd been starving for so long and finally I was getting a taste of something real, something solid and fulfilling.

That's all we did. Kiss on the table that Six built.

But unlike the first table he'd brought to my apartment, I couldn't bear to throw this one away.

* * *

Near midnight, Six began cleaning up the dishes, something that I seemed mostly incapable of doing. Not that he said that, but I still felt it. If my dish sat, empty, in front of me for too long, he itched to remove it. So I let him.

I poked at the paints he’d brought, reading the labels with fascination. The collection made the set my mom had bought me look like something you’d find in a preschool classroom.

I put my thumb in the hole of the palette and spun. Because the thumb was so far off the center, it didn’t give me that pleasingly balanced spin—more wobbly, more awkward. I set it down and picked up a brush, running my finger over the tip. It was so soft.

Glancing back at my current paint set, I took in the paint-caked brush and the dirty water I’d never emptied.

“You’re a regular ol’ Santa Claus,” I told him. I slid the brush down my arm, over the scars that painted my skin.

He said something in response to that, but my words sent me back to childhood. Had Santa ever visited me? I couldn’t tell. I didn’t blame the fat bastard, because it wasn’t his fault. When my mother managed to remember it was Christmas, the gifts she gave me were usually things from her closet, or things donated to her, to us. I hadn’t minded, because I hadn’t known better. Not until I was older, until I saw what other people had, that put what I didn’t have in such stark contrast.

“Mira?”

“Hmm?” I set the brush down, folded my hands, pushing thoughts of my mother from my mind.

“You okay?”

I barked a laugh. “What a nonsensical word that is. What does that even mean, you know?”

He turned his head sideways, wet up to his arms from washing the dishes. “I suppose its meaning depends on its usage. In this case, I’m asking if you are ‘okay’ in contrast to ‘bad.’”

Not for the first time, I wondered what the hell he saw in me. Why he’d subject himself to me, to the mess that was my life. “Why are you even here?”

He didn’t pause in doing the dishes, but he did sigh. “You like to push, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m here because I want to be here. With you. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Like when you kissed me.”

“I kissed you because I wanted to.”

“Everyone has ulterior motives.”

He laughed lightly. “It’s not like you to paint people with the same brush, Mira. You’re smarter than that.”

“How do you know how smart I am? Maybe I’m an idiot, and I’ve been conning you this whole time.” I wasn’t searching for compliments. I was searching for honesty. I needed it from him. Because we were becoming something I regularly ran away from. But here he was, in my apartment, feeding my fish and washing my dishes and giving me gifts I hadn’t asked for with my lips, but with my heart.

He blew out another breath. “You’re the most exhausting human on the face of the earth, do you know that?”

“Wow, you must be old as shit to have met everyone, to be able to say that unequivocally.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, Mira. Right there. You don’t let words bend you. You’re quick on your feet. And you always look like you’re assessing the potential damage of any encounter.”

“That last one isn’t very true. I am very impulsive.”

“Yes, you are, but when you met me, when we first began … this.” He waved a hand between us. “Tell me the truth—were you afraid?”

I didn’t like the direction this conversation was going. I picked up a tube of paint and spun the cap, squeezing at the same time so the moment the cap was removed, paint poured on my fingertips.

“You’re doing it now. Shutting down, protecting yourself. Why do you need protecting? You’re strong. You fight. But here you are, pretending what I’m saying is falling on deaf ears.”

“You’re an asshole,” I told him. “If you came here to dig into my brain, you can take your ass right out the door.” I’d had enough of that from people my mom had paid to dissect my thoughts, to figure out why I was such a fuck up as a daughter. I didn’t need it from the guy who I’d allowed into my life.

With no small amount of regret, I shoved the tubes of paints and brushes and other small things into the garbage bag he’d brought with him. “Here, take your shit.”

He left the kitchen and came toward me. This time, I backed up.

“Don’t run from me.” He crouched in front of me, and I imagined myself as a child, looking at another adult who had the ability to hurt me.

“Go.” I wanted to sound strong, but I sounded weak.

“No.”

“Asshole.”

“Mira. I’m not here to hurt you.” He gently reached out, hands clasping over my wrists, holding me still. It was as if he knew I could sense intention just by the touch of someone’s skin.

The voices were quiet, leaving me alone. For once. It was easier to listen to them, to follow their commands, when I felt as lost as I did then.

But what Six was saying seemed to be true. He didn’t have other intentions. At least, not at that moment. He was as honest as he’d always been, if maybe still secretive. Secrets I could tolerate, because I had an entire tome of my own.

Besides, what else could he get from me? He had my help on his jobs. He had my body when he wanted. I had nothing to give him, and he had everything to give me.

“What do you want, then?”

He adjusted so that he was sitting, cross-legged on the floor in front of me. Watching his looming, powerful body, move to a position that put us at equal eyelevel endeared me to him. The fear crept back to the back of my mind, and my breaths didn’t feel so shallow anymore.

“Like I said, I’m here because I want to be here.”

“You want me to be your girlfriend.” It sounded so childish, like he had passed me a note with ‘yes’ or ‘no’ above two boxes.

“I don’t want more from you than you can give.”

“I don’t have anything else to give.”

“I disagree.” His hands slid down my wrists to my hands. They were so cool, so steady, that I found myself wanting to rest my flesh against his like this for a while longer. “You’re not quite a friend, you’re more than that. I’m going to keep coming back here, not because of any other reason besides the fact that I want to. I like being around you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re invigorating. Because you’re exhausting.”

When I laughed, he turned my arms over so the undersides of my wrists were exposed. I pulled a little, to bring my arms back to myself. Before remembering how he’d always treated me—treated the scars. Not as if I was a freak.

“I’m not a psychologist, or a psychiatrist, or any other kind of physician or counselor who is more qualified to give you what you need. But I’ve seen demons before.” He didn’t move his fingers, but his eyes were on the angry lines that left shiny marks on my arms. “And demons need energy to thrive.”

I wasn’t following him.

“Can we try something?”

We.

I nodded, arrested by his gentle hold, his gentler words. “Can we try to work on this? The more restless energy you harbor, the more there is for the voices, as you call them, to use.”

“What do you suggest? A coma?”

“No. I suggest we work on harnessing your energy. Some exercise. Maybe some self-defense lessons—since you took to them so well before. Take advantage of what’s inside of you, for you; don’t give it all to the things that give you nothing in return.”

It wasn’t the worst idea. But still, I was skeptical. “You think going for a jog will tire the voices?”

“No, I think going for a jog will tire you—their host.”

“You make me sound like I’m inhabited by an alien.”

He shrugged. “Well.” But he didn’t finish the thought.

I raised an eyebrow, thinking of my last stay in a mental health facility. “I mean, I can’t deny your logic. But I admit to feeling apprehensive about this.”

“I’m not asking you to scale Mount Whitney.” He gave me a pointed look. “Humor me.”

I turned my head toward the window. “What, right now? Wanna go for a run in the dark?”

“Tomorrow morning.” He laced our fingers together. “We’ll go for a jog. I’ll take you out to breakfast.”

“Oh, like a date?” I curled my fingers against his hand.

“Yeah, since we’re boyfriend and girlfriend now.”

“I didn’t say we were.”

“You didn’t have to.” He leaned forward and kissed me, full on the lips. It wasn’t brief, but it wasn’t a prelude to something more either. “Merry Christmas, Mira.”

“You love Christmas, don’t you?” I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him before he could let me go.

“It’s my favorite holiday.”

“Is that why you got me an ass-load of gifts?”

“I got you the gifts because I wanted to.”

“’Because I want to,’” I mimicked him. “Is that your answer to everything?”

“It’s my answer when it’s what I believe.”

I rolled my eyes. He wasn’t evasive, but his answers were strangely simple. “I have to admit, I’m impressed that you nailed it.” I cocked my head toward the garbage bag of gifts. “I didn’t even have to sit on your lap and tell you what I wanted, Santa.”

He pushed my wild mane away from my face. “That option is still available, albeit belatedly.”

I pushed at his chest. “Come on. Was that an actual joke? Stoic Six has jokes?”

“I break them out only in emergencies.” He rubbed his finger down my jaw. “What’s this scar from?”

My body was riddled with them. Some accidental, most on purpose. But the one that stretched my skin just under my chin was my mother’s fault. “My mom drove her car off of a bridge once. I was … six.” I touched the scar in memory. “My head slammed, chin-first, onto the dashboard. Split the skin open.”

“She drove it off the bridge? On purpose?” He looked horrified—whatever that meant for usually stoic Six. But his eyes widened, and he looked off, over my shoulder, his eyes unfocused.

I nodded. “One of her many, ‘Why didn’t I get that abortion?’ moments. And to her, driving off the bridge would right that wrong.” At the look in his eyes, I unlooped my arms from around his neck. “Don’t feel sorry for me, okay? Just … don’t do that.”

“I’m sorry.” Even though I’d let go of him, he hadn’t let go of me. “Is that why you’re afraid of love, Mira?”

“I never said I was afraid of love. I’m afraid of beginnings.”

“Because every beginning has an end,” he said softly, repeating my words from weeks ago.

His eyes drifted down, lost in thought. “What are you thinking about?”

He lifted them, briefly. “A lemniscate.”

“You’ve lost me.”

He reached into the garbage bag at our feet and pulled out a tube of purple paint. With one hand, he pulled off his shirt. Instantly, my hand found his exposed flesh. His body was so beautiful. He had scars—fine, white ones. Against his olive skin, they looked opalescent when the lighting was just right. My thumb nail traced one of the scars before Six pushed the tube of paint into my hand.

“What?”

“Put a dollop of it on your finger.”

I cocked my head to the side, but looked at him, squeezing the paint onto my finger. “Is this some kind of kinky art project?” At his exasperated look, I continued. “Because I can get down with it, but you just don’t strike me as a messy guy.”

“Here.” His much larger hand closed over mine and traveled up until he was holding my finger firmly. He pressed my forefinger to his ribs and then, using the purple paint, guided me through the drawing on his chest.

When he let go, I sat back. “It’s an eight.” I tilted my head. “Sideways eight.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s this obsession with numbers, Six?”

“You’re a real pain in the ass sometimes, Mira.”

“Seven, remember? If you’re Six, I get to be Seven.”

“No, you’re not.” He shook his head. “Okay, well using that train of thought—if I’m Six and you’re deluded into believing you’re Seven—what comes after those is eight, right?”

“Sure.” But I knew my look was still confused.

He touched the purple eight on his ribs. “This is called a lemniscate. An infinity symbol. Look, it doesn’t have a beginning.”

I pressed a finger to the spot I’d started the sideways eight. “I started here.”

“Right, but you ended the loop here, obscuring its beginning point. I know this is a crude representation, but the trademark of the lemniscate—the infinity symbol—is that it doesn’t have a beginning or an end.”

“What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying that we don’t have to think of this as a beginning, because it’s not the thing itself—the ending—that scares you; it’s what precedes it. So, if we eliminate the beginning, we eliminate the ending.”

“I don’t think I’m drunk enough for this conversation.” It was making me itchy. Unconsciously, I itched at my wrists in reaction.

“I’m making you nervous.”

“Yeah, you are.” I snatched the pack of smokes and lit one fast. I didn’t look at him all the while. “You’re awfully chatty tonight. The more you talk, the more I think I need to run the hell away from you.”

“Good.” He gently slapped the side of my thigh and stood, capping the paint tube. “You can practice that tomorrow, when we go for our run.”