I knew she’d be here. Just like I’d known she’d be at the club the other night, and at the café last week. I was fully aware that if I sat here long enough, she’d grow so bored with whatever moron was currently chatting her ear off, she’d let her gaze wander down to meet mine. Just because I was prepared for it, didn’t make it any easier, though. When you jump into a really cold body of water, there’s a moment when the breath is stolen from your lungs, when the icy waves close over your head like a liquid tomb. It’s bone-chilling. It hits you like a kick to the stomach. Like knives piercing your skin. You choke in a lungful of ocean, push your way to the surface, and assure yourself that you’ll adjust. That the shock will wear off and, eventually, your body will go numb enough that you don’t feel the frigid water lapping at every inch of you. Every time my eyes locked on Faith Morrissey’s, it was like jumping into the fucking Arctic Sea: instant shock to the system.
