Re: Brooklyn: Wren & Ryan
[The stone of the step bled cool through the cotton of the shirt and Ryan fixed on that good. Cold and it was an anchor in the sick waves of heat that strung from her hip, her knee and it kept her from passing out into black that threatened. Ry had fainted before. Class, too warm, too focused and she'd spun into that spiral of black until she couldn't spin out. She knew it, well enough to know it was there.
Wren was warmth across the gap between them, heat off a body that was warmer than the step. The cab company had told her fifteen and the face of the gold-backed phone said it had been ten. Ry didn't wanna think about upstairs with Marco, right. He wasn't nice. She knew that, he wasn't soft and he didn't think other people first but that was home. It was familiar and she hadn't been looking for generosity and someone who thought real well of her.]
Five more minutes. [Her voice was still scratchy, like a bad record. She leaned, into Wren and her skin was cool from that step and sitting out on it.]
Thanks, chica. Thanks a lot. Rescuing me, right. [Because she knew it. Wren had done the impossible and she owed her big, the woman she remembered from years back and from a week back, a dance class. Ry didn't like debts. Nobody did, debts left you open to somebody wanting something when you couldn't pay but she looked at cinnamon hair and a face that was prettier, older, in profile.]
This somethin to do with the doors? Getting young, getting put back the way you were with no way out? [She sounded tired, she sounded sick. Ryan thought about pain meds with the lust of an alcoholic thinking about whiskey.]