With my head still angled down, I open my eyes, and something about the sight in front of me makes me smile. There is a bowl on the table filled with small bottles of bubbles. Although it’s amongst a hodgepodge of items, it’s such a welcome sight nonetheless because it brings up memories of Rylee and me growing up. Her theory at eight years old that blowing bubbles makes everything better because you can’t say the word bubble without smiling. How when the bullies in third grade picked on her when I was home sick from school one day, I brought out a bottle of bubbles to where she sat sniffling on the swings in the backyard and made her blow bubbles until she smiled. And then of course I went to school the next day and earned some detention for persuading them with my fists to not pick on my little sister again.
Or how, years later, after her eighth grade formal when she came home upset that no one had asked her to dance, I brought out a bottle of bubbles, again to the swings that hadn’t been used in years, and made her blow them until she laughed.
With a huge smile on my face, I immediately know that even though Beaux doesn’t know the significance of bubbles to me, she’d love them and the small piece of normality that they represent.
Besides, who doesn’t love bubbles?
With the bubbles and a colorful tote bag stuffed into my backpack so Beaux won’t see them, I leave the shop, the weight of grief a little lighter in my heart for the first time since Stella’s death. Glancing at my watch, I realize I need to get my ass back to the hotel before Beaux wakes up and discovers that I snuck out.
Just as I’m crossing the street, my phone alerts a text, and I cringe in fear that I’ve been caught. My mind is already scrambling for the excuses I’d prepared, but suddenly my feet falter as I look at the name lighting up my screen. It’s Omid with a text: They are here. Many in my village. I think the meet happened today. Sorry. Did not know.
My heart sinks as soon as I read his message. Mostly because I didn’t come through for Sarge and the good guys but also for the lost opportunity of reporting on a meet that no one else knew was happening. Fuck. That single word sums up how I feel and then some so much that it bears repeating. Fuck.
I stop in my tracks on the sidewalk and type out a text as fast as I can: When? How many? Where? Meet me. I could go on endlessly with the questions, but the language barrier would make it impossible to persuade him to give me any further information. I need to see Omid face-to-face; I need to have Beaux there to translate if there’s any hope of having this situation not be so damn fucked.
“Answer, Omid,” I groan into the night as I stare at my screen with the hope fading that the harder I stare, the quicker he will respond. After a few minutes I realize that standing here is not going to help anything, so I start hurrying back to the hotel when at last I get his reply.
Not now. Dangerous. Trust gone like I said last week. No more.
My mind races as I try to figure out the text. Last week? Did he text me last week and I didn’t get it? Trust is gone? From Beaux taking a picture? Yes, but what I don’t get is I didn’t speak to him last week. What the fuck? I growl out in frustration. Fucking cell phones and their limited service in this godforsaken land. What did he text me that I didn’t get?
And no more? No more what? I want to yell. No more people there? No more information? No more being a source? What?
I’m frustrated and disappointed and just disheartened at the missed opportunities all around. Defeated, I look at my screen one more time before picking it up and dialing a number. The phone rings several times, and just as I’m about to hang up, he answers.
“Hello?”
“Sarge. Here’s what I’ve got…” And I tell him what I know.
Chapter 18
“T
ell me again why we use your room for reports?” I ask Beaux as I look over to her and laugh when she shifts on the bed and the springs squeak.
“Location, location, location,” she says, and I join in on the last repeat of the word with her. And really she is right. At this time of day, the early evening’s natural light through the windows is soft enough that I can file a live report and not look like I’m cordoned off in some darkened cell like I would if I were in my room.
“I’ll give you location, all right,” I tease as I turn my computer off and hold my hand out to her. “Come with me.” I love the little surprised tilt of her head.
She stands cautiously, squinting her eyes as she tries to figure out just what I’m doing. And it’s nothing really, nothing except realizing Beaux deserves a little something special, something girlie in this land where we’re faced with so much harshness.
The rooftop door sticks like usual until I thrust with my shoulder on the right-hand edge to get it to fling back. Beaux laughs as I play up my demonstration of strength by pointing out the dent in the metal that’s always been there. With fingers crossed that all of my preparation and bribes have worked perfectly, I put my hand on the small of her back and usher her over the threshold first.
She walks from habit around the one rooftop vent that blocks the view of my spot, and the minute she clears it – the moment I hear her sharp intake of air, my name in a surprised tone on her lips followed by a hand flying up to her mouth – I know the past week’s preparation has paid off. Beaux turns to face me, tears welling in her eyes before looking back to the scene before us as she walks slowly toward the mattress.
When I can force myself to look away from her, I’m filled with relief to see the scene set to perfection by some of the hotel staff that I had paid on the side. A small canopy made with local fabrics from the closest market has been rigged to hang above the mattress. Scattered across the ground are glass votive candles that create a soft light against the skyline. The mattress itself has a new cover; the colorful tote I bought sits on top of it.