Urban God of Rebate: Infinite Returns Of Women And Powers

”What kind of opinions,” said Sean.

”Favorable,” said Makima. ”With notes about the bookshelf.”

Sean almost smiled.

They finished the dishes in the quiet that had become its own language between them, the specific comfortable nothing of two people who didn’t need to fill the space.

Afterward they sat on her small couch and Makima put her head against his shoulder and they stayed like that for a while, the building settled around them, the city doing its Monday evening things outside.

”The restaurant tomorrow,” said Makima. ”What time should I be ready.”

”James is picking up Amara at the hospital at six,” said Sean. ”We’ll come to you after. Six forty-five.”

”I’ll be ready at six thirty,” said Makima. ”In case.”

”That’s very Makima of you,” said Sean.

”I take punctuality seriously,” said Makima. ”Unlike some people.”

”I was ready at six twenty-eight at the showcase venue,” said Sean.

”Kwon beat you by two minutes,” said Makima. ”He told me.”

Sean looked at her. ”Kwon told you.”

”Kwon texted me after the contract signing,” said Makima. ”To say that Paris had gone well and that you had been.” She paused. ”His exact words were: a sharp piece of work in the room and a worthwhile presence outside of it.” She looked at him with the expression she had when something had landed somewhere she hadn’t expected. ”I didn’t know Kwon knew who I was.”

”Kwon knows everything about the people around Olivia,” said Sean.

”Apparently,” said Makima. ”He said you’d told him about the building and about me.” She was quiet for a moment. ”You talk about me.”

”I talk about the people who matter,” said Sean.

She looked at him for a moment. Then she settled back against his shoulder and said nothing else about it, which was its own kind of answer.

—-----------------------

Tuesday

James picked Amara up from Eastgate Medical Center at six oh four.

Sean knew the time because James texted it with the specific professional precision of someone who understood that exact information was more useful than approximate information.

Departing Eastgate. Ms. Osei in good spirits. She has a bag. The bag appears heavy.

Sean texted back. What’s in the bag.

She declined to specify, James replied. She said it was research materials.

Sean looked at that for a moment. Fourteen items on a discharge list and research materials in a heavy bag.

He texted Makima. James just picked her up. On our way in fifteen.

Makima: Already ready. Danny texted to ask how Amara is doing. I didn’t tell him about any of it. Is that right.

Sean: For now yes. Tell him she’s someone worth knowing.

Makima: I already did. He said he’d need to assess that himself. I told him that was very on brand for him.

Sean smiled at the phone.

He went downstairs at six thirty-eight.

Makima was already in the lobby, which surprised him and then didn’t. She was wearing something dark and simple with the effortless consideration she brought to her appearance when something actually warranted it, and she looked at him when he came off the elevator with the expression that existed when she was happy without a particular reason she could point to.

”You’re early,” he said.

”I told you six thirty,” she said.

”I told you six forty-five,” said Sean.

”I decided six thirty was better,” said Makima.

The Rolls Royce was outside.

They got in.

—------

Amara was in the back when they arrived at the pickup point outside the hospital, Max beside her, and when James opened the door and Sean saw her properly for the first time out of the hospital context he understood immediately what two weeks of recovery and the specific anticipation of tonight had done.

She looked like herself.

Not the hospital version, not the carefully managed energy of someone conserving resources. Just herself, entirely, sitting in the back of a Rolls Royce in clothes that were clearly the first non-hospital-gown clothes she’d worn in weeks and looking at everything with the particular quality of someone experiencing the ordinary world as something that had been withheld long enough to become remarkable.

She looked at Sean.

”You’re late,” she said.

”I’m exactly on time,” said Sean.

”I’ve been here since six twelve,” said Amara.

”That’s not my fault,” said Sean.

”It feels like your fault,” said Amara.

Max, beside her, had the expression of someone who had been in this specific dynamic for twenty-four years and had reached complete peace with it.

Makima was looking at Amara with the expression she had when she encountered someone she recognized something specific in.

Amara was looking at Makima with the direct evaluating attention she gave everything.

”Makima,” said Amara.

”Amara,” said Makima.

”I have a section,” said Amara.

”Max told me,” said Makima.

”Everything in it is accurate,” said Amara.

”I assumed,” said Makima.

Sean looked at Max. Max looked at Sean. They had a brief silent exchange that communicated something along the lines of this is going to be either wonderful or completely destabilizing and there’s no way to know which yet.

James closed the door and got back behind the wheel.

”Twelve blocks,” said James.

”Drive slowly,” said Amara. ”I want to see the city.”

James drove slowly.

Amara looked out the window at the city moving past with the expression Sean had seen in her section about wanting the ordinary world to feel like something when she finally got back to it. She didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Just looked.

Max watched her look.

Makima noticed Max watching Amara and said nothing, which was the correct response.

Sean looked at all of them in the car and felt something that didn’t have a precise name. The specific warmth of people in a small space who were there because of a chain of choices that had started with four thousand dollars and a system he still didn’t fully understand and a building on a street that was still standing permanently.

”The restaurant,” said Amara, still looking out the window. ”It has a cheese course.”