Fated

after a while, it just seemed easier to return.” She heads for the door, presses her palm flat against it—her new diamond ring catching the light, winking at me. “I’ve seen the way they look at you,” she says.
    “Who?” My eyes travel the length of her.
    “All of them—but mostly Cade and Dace. The brothers hate each other—or at least Cade hates Dace. I don’t think Dace is capable of hating anyone.” Her gaze grows soft, far away, probably remembering when Dace stopped Cade from berating her just a few hours earlier. “Anyway—” She shakes her head. “Watch yourself.”
    That last part spoken no louder than a whisper, prompting me to call, “Hey—what’s that supposed to mean?” My voice competing with the swoosh of the door closing behind her, leaving my question unanswered.

thirty-four
    I claim an empty stall, check the lock twice, flip the toilet lid down, settle myself on the seat, and dig through my purse in search of the jar with the tiny holes in the lid and the inch-long cockroach inside. Equally repulsed and excited by what I’m about to do, I loosen the lid, set the jar on the floor, and stare at the roach as hard as I can.
    Stare at him until everything dims but his three sets of legs, brownish-red shell of a back, extra long antennae, and the wings that enable him to flit, more than fly.
    His antennae twitching before him, discovering the lid is now gone, he moves forward—too fast. Scurrying out of the jar well before we’ve had a chance to properly blend.
    I watch, horrified, as he picks up speed, veers out of my stall and into the next, just as someone walks in and takes up residence.
    I slide my foot over, attempting to coax him back to my space, only to have the person beside me see my foot invading, and cry, “Excuse me, but do you mind? ”
    She kicks her foot against mine, using way more force than necessary, causing my boot to slam smack into the cockroach so hard I let out an audible gasp. Ignoring the tirade of hateful comments drifting from the next stall, I lift my foot carefully—terrified I’ve inadvertently crunched him, killed him, before I even had a chance to put him to work.
    But cockroaches are much tougher than that. There’s a reason they’re one of the oldest surviving groups of insects on earth. Other than having rolled onto its back, it appears in good shape. So I take a deep breath, focus on its frantically writhing body, the three sets of legs spinning in circles in a fight to right itself again—all too aware that the second I merge, I’ll be joining that struggle. But also knowing there’s no way I can risk turning him right side up until I’ve had a chance to join him.
    The girl in the next stall flushes and vacates, banging the door so hard, it makes the blue metal walls rumble and shake. Forcing me to bide my time while she visits the sink, the sound of the door closing behind her allowing me to focus on the cockroach, and it’s not long before I’m in.
    I’m alive.
    Surging with adrenaline.
    A primal fight for survival firing up all of my nerve endings. All I have to do—all we have to do—is right ourselves again.
    The longer we remain belly-up, the more this overwhelming feeling of panic kicks in. Knowing that’s only going to waste much needed energy, I drive into him harder—mixing my will to live with his primal fight to survive. Pushing his legs even faster—like a cockroach on steroids—until I manage to flip him over and land smack on the belly. The antennae twitching, scoping, until it locates the side of the jar, equates it with danger, and sprints for the opposite wall. Instinctively seeking the place where it’s darkest—and that’s when I remember that cockroaches are true creatures of the dark—they live in it, hunt in it, doing whatever it takes to shun the light and remain undetected.
    Paloma knew exactly what she was doing when she chose him for me to merge into.
    For something so reviled—so hated, abhorred, even feared—I’m amazed by how very powerful I feel now that I’ve joined him. I’m like a tiny, commanding tank, trekking my way across a vast expanse of gray-tiled bathroom floor that, from this perspective, seems to go on forever.
    I pick my way around a crumpled paper towel that fell short of the bin and pause in the corner, body still, antennae twitching, trying to determine if I can sneak under the door or if I have to wait for someone to open it. Determining it’s too close to the