I adjusted in my seat, unable to get comfortable.

“Sore?” Six asked.

I was sore. I was tired. But Six hadn’t been wrong. While things weren’t dramatically improved, the consistent running over the last few days cleared the fog that seemed to persistently hang over my head. It wasn’t as if I’d never gone for runs before, but the difference was that I was running with purpose—not just to get some vitamin D or run away from a dealer. “Yeah. My ass feels like it absorbed brand new muscles the last few days.”

“Good.” He smiled a little, proud of himself I was sure. “The running’s good for you.”

I saluted him. “Thanks, Doc.”

Ignoring my comment, he continued. “What you really need is a dog.”

“A fucking what?”

“A dog. To keep you busy when I’m not here. Sometimes, I have to travel for business. If you had a dog, you’d have something to rely on. Something that needed those walks.”

“You’re out of your goddamn mind.” I watched as he poured champagne into two glasses. “Henry is on his last legs, and you want me to get something needier than a goldfish?” I laughed. “Come on, Six. There’s only room for one crazy in this relationship, and I’m afraid I was here first.”

He moved to the table and nestled the bottle in a bucket of ice. “A dog would be a great companion. Certain breeds function well as emotional support animals.”

“And, what, you think a dog is going to make my head less of a mess? Having something relying on me to keep it alive is going to make me”—I snapped my fingers—“cured. Just like that?”

“You’re excellent at taking my words and running a marathon with them, Mira.” He sighed, setting the glasses down in front of our empty plates. “I think company would be good for you. We’ve just begun the running, but some kind of consistency—I think would be good for you.”

“Okay, so I’ll set an alarm. I do not need a dog.”

But he didn’t reply to that, he just looked at his watch. “We have ten minutes until the new year begins.”

I raised my glass to my lips, but Six’s hand stopped me.

“To you,” Six said as he lifted his champagne flute.

“To me?” I lifted an eyebrow. “Why?” I set my glass down, holding it by the stem while it rested on the table.

Six leaned forward, still holding up his champagne. The wooden table creaked under the weight of his elbows and his face came further into the candlelight, illuminating his dark eyebrows, thick lashes, prominent nose, full lips.

“Because it's New Years,” he said simply.

“So, toast to the year, then.”

“No.”

I leaned back in my chair, raising an eyebrow. “No?” I mimicked. “That's it? No speech?”

To his credit, Six still held the flute in the air. “I'm not a man of a thousand words. I don't speak to fill the gaps when silence suffices. I want to toast to you, so I will.”

“You just do what you want, then?”

He inclined his head toward me. “I do.”

“Well, while we're doing what we want, I want to drink that whole bottle,” I said, gesturing toward the ice bucket.

“And you likely will, except”—he held up the glass in his hands—”the small bit I hold in my hands, toasting to you.”

“Is this because you proclaimed me to be your girlfriend?”

In that moment, I saw some of Six's patience lift. “Mira, I want to toast to you. If you want a reason...” He reached across the table and picked up my hand. “Because you're challenging.”

I lifted my glass and clinked it with his. “I sure am.” I drained it and reached over for the bottle. “But it's never been said as a compliment.” I poured the glass full to the brim before setting the bottle back into the bucket.

Six sipped his own and leaned back, pulling his face from the candlelight. “You don't think very highly of yourself, do you?”

Six had no idea what I thought of myself. I lifted my flute and took in a large sip. “Have you ever gone to a thrift store?” He didn't answer, but my question didn't require one. “Look at all the dolls and stuffed animals on the shelves. Some of them are missing eyes, their stitching is coming undone, they've lost their stuffing, or maybe their limbs. They're stained, they're beyond repair. They are unlovable.” I finished the champagne before continuing. “No little boy or little girl is going to ask their mommy for them and even if they did, their mommy will say no – terrified of what lives in those unlovables. They'll sit on those shelves until they rot, or until they're thrown in some wasteland.” I gestured in a circle around my face. “I'm one of those dolls. But the difference between me and those dolls is that I'm not going to sit around and wait until someone wants me. I've accepted who I am, who I'll always be.”

This time, Six poured me another round. “Have you ever thought of what those toys went through? How many people loved them?”

I sipped it again, welcoming the dry bite. “You talk about love like it's a gift, as if it doesn't rot your heart or pollute your brain.”

Six placed a hand on the table, drummed his fingers once. “When I see a stuffed animal that is worn, I see its history. The person who loved it never let it go, touching it with dirty fingers, maybe, because he loved it so deeply that it didn't matter how clean his hands were.”

I finished the champagne, and the alcohol had started to hit me, but it wasn't enough.

I stood abruptly, bumping against the table as I escaped into the kitchen. This was too heavy; I needed more alcohol for this. Now was the perfect time to finish off the vodka in the freezer. “Do you want something to eat?”

“You actually have food?”

I rolled my eyes and opened the refrigerator. “I have salsa and I have chips. Do you want some or not?”

With my head in the fridge, I didn't see Six get up from the table until I felt his presence over the door.

“Salsa sounds good.”

“Great,” I said, snatching the jar and slamming the door with my hip, bottles rattling their discontent inside. I opened the cabinet and pulled down a bowl. After seeing my struggle to open the jar, Six stepped closer and closed his hands over mine.

“Let me help you.” His voice was warm, his hands even warmer. I felt a squeeze and passed it to him. His words seemed to have a deeper meaning than just the salsa.

I opened the cabinet and manhandled the bag of tortilla chips I'd bought at the seedy corner store.

“Tell me who hurt you.”

My back was to him. “No.” I opened the bag, whipped the freezer door open to grab the vodka. After slamming it closed, I walked past him to the table. Sliding into the seat, I munched on a chip, waiting for him to join me.

“I know you're afraid,” he began, before I interrupted him.

“I'm not afraid.” I popped another into my mouth and nervously crunched it, masticating every last bit. “But you should be.”

“So you've said.” He set the bowl on the table and said nothing else as he loaded a chip with salsa before popping it in his mouth. His gaze steadied on me again, as usual. Even when he wasn't speaking, his attention was focused, louder than anything he could have said.

I unscrewed the cap off the vodka and took a pull from it, cringing only a little at the burn as it tore down my throat. Alcohol simmered in my belly as I wiped a hand across my mouth. “My mother had bipolar disorder.” It spilled from my lips before I could stop it.

Six loaded up another chip and chewed thoughtfully. “Had?”

I shook my head. “Has. I guess. I don't speak with her if I can help it.” My fingertips slid on the bottle's condensation. “She doesn't know how to love me.” I dragged the cap over the scar on my jaw. “The bridge, remember?”

Six walked into the kitchen, coming back a minute later with whiskey and a glass. I nearly giggled then, seeing him drink from a glass while I drank from the bottle. “I don't think a lot of people know how to love,” he said, pouring two fingers of amber liquid.

“A mother should. Yours does.”

Nodding, he agreed, “You're right. Let's toast to her.” He lifted his glass and I lifted my bottle, clinking them together before we both took a sip.

“My mom made a lot of promises every new year. 'This is our year, Mira,' she'd say while we watched the ball drop from New York City. It never was our year, just another manic resolution she'd forget soon enough, often as soon as the following morning when the hangover hit.” I took another swig, feeling the burn less and less.

“Did you leave her, or did she leave you?”

I laughed. “She left me one hundred times before I left her for good.” I thought about waking up from a nightmare, padding down the hallway to her room only to find her bed empty. I'd crawl into it and wait for her to return, which usually wasn't until the following morning. I stared into his eyes. “I don't like needing people, Six. I don't want to rely on anyone.”

“Everyone needs somebody.”

“Not me,” I said, taking a long, hard pull of the vodka. I closed my eyes and let the alcohol flood my throat until Six pulled it from my lips.

“Why are you trying to get wasted?”

My eyes were closed, and my lips were curved into a smile. “Because tonight, I want to forget her.”

“As long as you don't forget me.”

I blinked, even as the alcohol clouded the sides of my vision. Had he really just said that? He was so good at holding a lid on his emotions, but hearing him say that, in that moment, hinted a little bit at his own vulnerability.

I had a moment of clarity where I realized that Six would probably leave me, the way she left me so many times. I couldn't let it hurt me. “I'll try not to,” I said coolly and hating myself for it.

* * *

I felt as if I’d filled my belly with gasoline and then swallowed a lit match. Everything burned, from my lips to my stomach. I tried to open my eyes, but when the light pierced my corneas I closed them and rolled to my side, moaning all the while.

My hands reached for the blankets to cover my head, but instead I hit warm flesh.

“Six?”

“Did you expect someone else in your bed?” It wasn't said with jealously, but with humor.

“Ugh,” I moaned again. “Where's a fucking pillow?”

“Under your head,” he said, tugging the end of the pillowcase. I felt the bed shift and knew he was getting up. “Do you want anything?”

“An Advil the size of my head,” I mumbled, rolling my face into the pillow.

“How about an Advil the size of a normal Advil?” I heard him pull on his pants and zip them.

“Oh fuck, did we have sex last night?”

“No.” His feet shuffled across the floor, the floorboards creaking with each step. “If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm not that kind of guy.”

He didn't sound offended by my question. He was unshakeable, just going through the motions.

“I'm making you something greasy for breakfast, so get your ass out of bed in ten.”

My hands curled into the sheets before letting go. I'd need to get up eventually, and better to do it on my own than to have Six kick my ass out of the bed.

Rolling away from the window, I groaned. I slowly sat up and held my head between my hands. I hadn't had a hangover this bad in so long, and I knew it was because I hadn't had many opportunities to get drunk since I started working for Six.

My limbs felt heavy with regret and residual alcohol, but I somehow made it to the bathroom.

After drinking straight from the faucet and brushing my teeth, I slumped into a kitchen chair, immediately grabbing and holding my head steady.

“Here,” Six said, setting a glass down and holding out three Advil for me, along with a banana. “The banana will help.”

“I feel like shit,” I croaked and popped the pills before I started on the banana.

“Good.”

I eyed him sharply before clutching my forehead. After several minutes, my head started to feel marginally better. I opened my eyes and watched Six crack eggs into a skillet.

“Why are you still here?” I finally asked.

Without looking at me, Six said, “Because I want to be here.”

There was something terrifying and relieving about that.

“Why me?”

“I told you; because you challenge me.”

“Why would you want someone who makes you work so hard?”

This time he looked at me. “Why wouldn't you want someone like that?” After replacing my empty glass with cold water, he leaned down and kissed the top of my head as if it was completely natural. As if I was meant to be kissed like that all the time.

“Stop being nice to me.” I wasn't used to it, used to someone treating me with kindness I hadn't earned.

He settled in the seat across from me. “Stop telling me what to do.” His hand reached across the table, held mine. I hadn't realized how nice this could be, even when it was completely terrifying, this kind of intimacy. “I'm not being anything but myself. That's all I want from you in return.”

I examined his words. He didn't expect anything from me. He wanted me.

No one had ever wanted me.