On The Bound

016. I am sick of the chase but I'm hungry for blood

"I've kept this. . . since I wrote it. You should read it, I think it still holds up now." Lottie murmurs, her voice the hush of an owl's wing through the trees. The love letters the two have exchanged were still planted in Lottie's room back home, strategically placed in a picture frame of them both. In the photo, they were covered in bits of paint, smiling ear to ear. Outside, an owl calls—low and mournful. The sound stretches the silence between them, makes it thin, frail.

Her eyelids blinks. Slurring, heavy, taut as a tripwire. The weight in her chest is leaden, pressing, something like grief but hungrier, something that gnaws at the marrow. She presses her nails deeper into her palms, the half-moons of blood deepening, blooming. Sade's throat hurts, her breath lost.

The loss of trust is worse.

She doesn't know what her. . . teammate values anymore.

She wants to refuse the gross, muddy tea. She definitely doesn't want the old letter. She wants to disappear into the beams and dust, wants the attic to fold her into its bones. Sade imagines Lottie can see the outline of sadness in her gaze, feral and lost.

"You didn't go," Lottie hums, not unkindly, just full of fact. Tilting her head, as if these emotions are something worth studying, dissecting. "But you're still here. You're still holding onto something. And yet. . ."

Sade's jaw clenches. "And yet."

And yet, after isolating and throwing the blonde to the cold winds of the storm, they fucking ate Jackie. And yet, Lottie remains beside Shauna in the way she stands with Sade, taking their pain for herself. And yet, despite it all, Lottie is still here, too.

Lottie doesn't respond. She leans in, the dark sweep of her hair shadowing her face, the scent of cinnamon and something medicinal curling off her like fog over a frozen lake. She only grips cup's curved handle, brings it to Sade's lips, and waits.

"Would you have done it to me?" Sade's breath mingles with the steam of the now lukewarm drink.

"No."

"And Javi's alive?"

"You already know that." Internally, she does know.

"Natalie lied?" The chapped lips trembles above the cup, ghosting the rim of the cerulean mug.

"To protect you and Travis. She's tired. We all are. It's been hard."

Lottie does not flinch at the questions. She's used to Sade's mirage of anxieties. Nights of relentless speculation about their relationship—Do you still love me, Do you need to talk, Are we okay—is mer small talk compared to now. It's been hard is an understatement. Her patience is trained, an animal that doesn't scare easy.

"And Shipman?" Sade couldn't stop her radioactive jealousy from spilling over, she internally cringes.

"The girls are preparing for a baby shower for her downstairs."

"Baby shower?" Sade's laugh is quiet and bitter, like the leftover dregs of coffee left too long in the pot. "Weird day to celebrate life, if you ask me."

Lottie huffs a little laugh, eyes flitting to the cup again in silent ask. Sade finally takes a barely noticeable sip, but the former is happy to guide the liquid down her mouth. She swallows, the liquid settling in her stomach like a stone dropped into deep water. The taste—earthy, bitter, bloody like decay and a promise—spreads across her tongue. She lets it linger. Lets it take up space in her mouth the way Lottie's voice takes up space in her head. Swishing around in her molars. The denials and confirmations.

No. Yes. Yes. Maybe.

Winds are high and desperate, pushing against the walls like a child denied entry. The cabin is too cool, motion clamoring downstairs. Lottie misses sharing fancy French imported cigarettes with Sade and sneaking in church confessionals. Lottie Matthews, with her dark, all-knowing gaze, her shoulders sloped like the branches of an old willow. Always watching her, always waiting for her to come home.