Chapter 9

I don’t do the dishes. I don’t even finish the spaghetti. The noodles sit sad and sticky and untouched in the strainer for the next few hours while I stare at the fridge.

He came back. He kissed me. And then he left.

He always leaves, that part shouldn’t be a surprise. It still doesn’t feel right. A part of me wishes he could abandon whatever is tying him to his Olympic duties. I know that’s selfish. I told him I didn’t want to be alone. And now I’m sitting here. Alone. So maybe I should’ve said nothing.

That’s what this is. Loneliness. The kind that makes my bones heavy. The kind that makes me stare at the fridge for hours and wonder if this is all in my head.

I spend the rest of the day on the couch, watching old reruns of Jersey Shore. Something about watching drunk women stumbling around the beach brings me just enough joy to distract from the what ifs dancing around the back of my head.

My phone sits, face down, on the coffee table. Scooping it up, I check the time. It’s nearly eight. I should probably just go to bed. I have work in the morning and that means I have to deal with normalcy in the morning.

It’s fine. It’s not like anything’s changed. It was just a kiss. A kiss that doesn’t have to mean anything if I don’t want it to.

…It’s fine.

The couch still has some of the lingering almost-rain smell, and all it does is make it harder to not think about how I was just tonguing it in the kitchen with a god.

So, I resign to my bedroom for the first time in what feels like weeks. The box of clothes is still open and spilling out from when I first forced Hermes into normal clothes. What an idiot. I guess that was the first boundary I crossed without even thinking about it. He never even fought me on any of it. Maybe that’s his thing. Maybe he can’t fight back about it.

Oh god, what if all of this is some romanticized delusion? I don’t actually know anything about him or what his role is or what he’s supposed to be. What if I’ve just been unknowingly forcing him along with me on all these things and he can’t find the words to tell me he doesn’t even want to?

What if I—

Stop, Alira.

Take a big fat deep breath of normal person air.

It was just a kiss. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

I repeat that to myself as I change into some extra comfortable pajamas and curl up in bed. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

In the darkness of my bedroom, I scrub at my tired eyes and try to settle into sleep. All my hopes of finding rest are shattered when I pull my hand away.

My finger still glows gold where the ichor was smeared. No, not a glow. It’s like there’s a lamp inside my hand, providing just enough light to see outlines in the dark.

Kind of terrifying. Kind of cool. Like my own little light source.

Hermes said the ichor should’ve burnt me. It didn’t. But, the skin around it feels too warm. Like the light is trying to reach something beneath it. I don’t know what that means, and I’m not sure I want to. Maybe I’ll ask him when he comes back tomorrow.

The night doesn’t treat me with the same kindness as the evening. There’s no television in my room. Just me, my thoughts, and the glowing finger. I don’t sleep much.

By the time my alarm goes off, I’m just exhausted enough to regret not calling off or quitting my job entirely. My life is weird enough as it is, why not add homelessness to the mix?

Alas, duty calls. I peel myself out of bed and change into my usual jeans and button up. Monday is my favorite day of the week. It was, at least, before a certain winged man entered my life.

Everyone else hates Mondays, which means no one tries to talk to me or invite me to things they don’t really want me there for. It means I can just do my job and leave.

The office feels like it always has. Sad and boring and blue-beige enough that it could be mistaken for a millennial mom’s take on a nursery. Sophia doesn’t try to talk to me, I drink the actually caffeinated coffee, and I’m not asked to stay over.

In summary, work is as close to perfect as it can get.

I stop at the gas station on the way home and put ten bucks in, then it’s time to head home.

My stomach is churning with nerves by the time I park—nearly a block away, of course. I haven’t had a first-kiss with someone in five years. Since I met Josh. Even then, it was not romantic. We bumped noses and he accidentally bit me.

Not that the Hermes kiss was romantic. It was…not not romantic, but it wasn’t romantic. It just happened, and it’s fine that it happened, but it doesn’t mean we’re suddenly a thing.

As I slam the car door behind me, I realize just how little I really know about him. He could totally be married or have kids I don’t know about, right? All the gods are married, aren’t they? Oh shit, am I becoming a divine homewrecker?

Do I even count as a homewrecker? It’s not like we’re sleeping together. I don’t even know if gods…do that.

Ew, okay Alira. Head in the game. I have something specific I need to ask and it has nothing to do with his sexual habits. It has everything to do with the glowing finger and why I didn’t boil upon touching the ichor.

My apartment still smells like an almost-rain when I step inside. When the door slams behind me, it’s still eerily silent. Not pitter patter of ugly sandals or questionably sardonic quips about my home’s filth.

There’s just a loud as hell nothing.

Maybe he’s just running late. I’m sure gods work overtime sometimes, too, right? Just to make sure, I check all the usual places: The kitchen, laundry room, even my bedroom and bathroom.

Nothing. No passive aggressive notes from my neighbor signaling that he decided to step outside again.

It’s probably fine. No reason to freak out.

Instead, I clean up the sad spaghetti. He’d probably lose it if he comes back and there’s even more spaghetti dishes to clean.

On that thought, I really need to eat. I still haven’t eaten since breakfast two days ago. I’ve tried at least once but got distracted by god lips.

My fridge has a disappointingly small variety of foods for me to choose from. I can’t believe it had the audacity to not restock itself after yesterday. There’s always the day old steamed broccoli still in the microwave.

I don’t think I’m that desperate yet. I dig through the bottom drawers of my fridge and find a head of lettuce. A little browned but mostly fine under the top layer.

I make a salad consisting of lettuce, the two croutons I graciously left for myself at the bottom of the bag, and the remnants of the possibly-spoiled honey mustard in the door.

My dining table is pretty much just decoration at this point in my life, so I resign to the couch and pull out my phone to do some doom scrolling. Nothing’s actually interesting. A few cute cats, some military coming home videos, the occasional The World is Ending Tomorrow article.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

What I really need is an article titled Why the God of Messages Can’t Let You Know When He’s Not Going to Show Up.

It’s not a betrayal, but it feels a little like it is. It’s not like we ever agreed to meet every day, it just happened. It shouldn’t be a big deal that he’s not here. Any other day, it wouldn’t be.

But, I kissed him. He kissed me back. And now he’s missing our daily hangout and it feels like being broken up with over text.

I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. I’ll just wait until tomorrow and, if he doesn’t show up then, I can freak out a little.

The next day starts like the last. I wake up to my alarm, throw on some socially acceptable clothes, go to work, don’t talk to anyone, hide my glowing finger when my boss comes by for a progress report, fill up on gas, then go home.

Still no wings or misplaced feathers or stupid sandals or bedsheet tunics.

I hope he’s not in any sort of trouble. He mentioned that the other gods weren’t very happy with him. Because of me. They wouldn’t like…punish him, would they?

The stories he told flash through my mind. Hephaestus thrown off a cliff by his own mother, Dionysus’s mom bursting into flames, Eris starting a war just for fun.

That sounds like cruelty if I’ve ever heard of it. Not mercy or forgiveness. They wouldn’t hurt him. He’s still doing things; he’s just taking time off every day. That’s gotta be normal, right? It’s not like I’m tied to the office every day just because I’m an accountant.

My phone is in my hand before I can think better of it. Google is sure to have some information on all that not-mythology.

example of greek gods being mean

The first thing that pops up is a Reddit post asking about sadistic Greek gods, to which people seem to agree on Phobos and Deimos, fear and terror respectively. They sound lovely.

The next is asking if there are any LGBT gods, to which the answer is a resounding yes, listing Apollo, Artemis, Dionysus, and Hermes himself as the most realistic examples. Apparently, Apollo scared someone into turning into a tree. Sucks.

Finally, a Wikipedia article pops up talking about Prometheus. He defied the gods by giving humanity fire. And civilization, in general, but I’m not totally sure what that means anyway.

Zeus was cosmically pissed off at the insurgence and bound him to a boulder, where an Eagle would come by and eat his liver every day. And it would regrow every night, making sure he would have an eternity of torment to look forward to every day.

Suddenly, I want to vomit.

They wouldn’t do that to Hermes, right?

He hasn’t done anything wrong. Not that I know of, at least. It’s not like he’s been defying the gods. He didn’t do anything like grant me with the ability to fly or steal some godly artifact for me.

The ichor.

Oh god, what if I fucked something up by touching it? What if the gods know and they know it’s me and they’re going to do something awful to him for letting me touch it? Will they come after me, too? Can they even come here? If Hermes can, what’s stopping them?

I wish I could call him or text him or summon him somehow just to know he’s not being eating by an eagle every day, or something worse. They wouldn’t kill him, right? Is it even possible for him to die?

Holy shit this is bad.

I haven’t even noticed I’m pacing, my hands pushing through my hair every few seconds as my mind spirals. Stopping by the window, I pull the curtain aside and peek out. No insane Alira shaped storm clouds coming to lightning-smite me. No wings or stupid sandals, either.

If I summoned him once, I can do it again, right? If I pray, he’ll show up. That’s what happened the first time.

Stopping my pacing, I sit on the edge of the couch and fold my hands in my lap. I bow my head and close my eyes like my dad used to, just in case that increases my odds of being heard.

“Hey,” I start, suddenly feeling like an idiot for all of this. “I don’t know if you can hear this or not. I still don’t really know if this is how I’m supposed to do this, but—” I clear my throat, adjusting my posture. This is stupid. I’m praying to something I only half-believe in—again— even when it’s standing in my kitchen.

My eyes open just long enough for the golden glow of my finger to catch my eye. This isn’t stupid, is it? This is real, with real consequences. I can’t be the reason he’s hurt. “I just need to know that you’re okay. If I pissed you off or crossed a line or something, I… I just need to know that you’re not dead or hurt.”

My hands fall down to my sides and my eyes peel open before I realize I never Amen-ed or whatever I’m supposed to do to close off a prayer. My hands snap together and my head bows again. “Sorry. Get back to me when you can, I guess. Preferably sooner rather than later. Uh… Thanks. Bye.”

I’m pretty sure I just left the most confusing mental voicemail ever. But, he said he hears all of the prayers. That means he has to hear mine, right? I don’t think he would just leave me hanging. He’ll have to come back even if it’s just to tell me he’s not dead. I’d be fine with that. If he doesn’t…

I can’t think about what that could mean.

The rest of my day is spent pacing around my house like an overactive puppy. By the time the sun dips below the horizon, I’m so wired sleep feels like a fever dream I’ll never reach. I try anyway and fail spectacularly. I end up spending most of the night staring at the glowing smear on my finger and debating whether or not it’s desperate to pray twice without a response.

The little sleep I do get is plagued with an awful dream.

When my alarm goes off and I startle out of a partial slumber, I can barely remember the nightmare that has me coated in a layer of sweat. Something about darkness or night and my mom. It’s probably my brain coming to terms with the fact that I can’t pull my mom out of her self-induced drug spiral.

It’s fine. It doesn’t affect me. Work is totally normal after that. I definitely don’t snap at Sophie when she asks if I colored on myself with highlighter.

But, it’s fine.

It’s even more fine when Hermes still isn’t there when I get home.

Everything is fine.

Thursday and Friday pass like molasses. Like toxic molasses mixed with molten steel. Slowly eating away at whatever dignity I have left and dragging everything out in a way that’s nearly painful.

I binge watch three full seasons of Jersey Shore in my time off work. I feel like a less aesthetically pleasing version of Bella Swan waiting for Edward to come back and suck the life out of her. At least she got a goodbye.

At work, I stay late on purpose. Being bored is better than being nothing. I almost call my mom Friday night. Just so I have someone to cry to besides my phone.

I don’t call her. But I want to. I really want to.

I don’t have anyone anymore.

Saturday morning crashes into me like a glass of ice-water to the face.

It’s been an entire week, and he hasn’t reached out. Hasn’t sent me any sign that he can hear me. Any sign that he’s not getting his liver eaten by a god eagle every day.

Or maybe, he’s just not interested anymore.

That would really suck.

I can’t even bring myself to get upset about it. Well, that’s not true. I’m definitely upset about it. Upset enough to grab the feather off the windowsill and bring it all the way out to the dumpster and toss it in, regret it, try to climb in after it, realize I’m unable to find it, then collapse next to the dumpster and cry for a few hours.

It’s not like this thing we had going was ever going to work out, anyway. He’s not from here, I can’t go wherever he goes, and a few hours per day doesn’t exactly mean stability.

Maybe that’s what I need. Stability.

What is stability? A steady full-time job? A stable home? I already have those things. I don’t need a boyfriend, especially not one that can’t be bothered to metaphorically text me back after a week of ghosting me.

This all probably wouldn’t suck so much if I had a job I actually liked. Or had friends. Or a mom that liked me. Or a house that I kept clean.

Is this all my fault? Did I just set myself up for failure? If I was a god, I probably wouldn’t want to spend my life with some chick who can’t be bothered to take care of herself.

Or maybe he can’t be bothered because I’m not enough to be what he needs. I can’t go to Olympus. I can’t air-portal myself around. I don’t have wings or stupid sandals or golden eyes or god blood.

He probably just found someone who is enough. I can’t fault him for wanting someone who can keep up with him. Sitting around and watching bad historical remakes is probably not his version of a good time. He probably has a god girlfriend with pretty wings and a prettier smile that can do all the things he does.

I hurt my own feelings with that one.

Am I really not enough? Was my mom right? Did my dad really leave because of me? Am I the one driving everyone away?

I can’t hold back the self-wallowing tears anymore. Curling into a ball on my bed, I finally let myself fall apart. I’ve held it in for an entire week. Probably longer.

I don’t think this is just about Hermes. It’s about everything.

I just keep pushing everyone away and I don’t know how to stop. My mom, my dad, my twin sister. She was my everything once. I haven’t even spoken to her in years. Lydia probably doesn’t even think about me anymore, I’m always a bitch to Sophie, and now Hermes.

I don’t know how to stop being what I am.

Crack!

The sound echoes from somewhere like the kitchen.

I can’t be…

A loud thump follows, then an, “Ah, shit!”

I’d know that voice anywhere.

I’m shoving away from my bed before I can think to still be angry. My bedroom door swings open just in time to see him standing from a kneeled position, my six day old bowl of withered salad spilled at his feet.

I pause in the doorway as he brushes the remnants of lettuce off his calves and rights himself.

He looks like death.

His eyes are framed in darkness, bloodshot and so tired. He looks more frail than I remember, like he hasn’t eaten all week.

I don’t wait for him to notice me.

Gathering whatever courage I have left, I stride straight to him. His gaze meets mine as I pass the dining table and he looks like he wants to fold in on himself.

I have an angry speech prepared, ready to chew into him for letting me think he was dead, but as soon as I’m within arm reach, he stumbles forward.

“Hermes?” I grunt out as he collapses against me. His arms wrap around my shoulders as his weight drags me downward. His heart beats rapidly against my own, his breath barely there as it fans against my throat.

There’s lettuce squished under my knees but I couldn’t care less right now. I want to scream at him for making me believe he was dead. But I can’t.

He’s here.

He’s alive.

I tighten my arms around his back as he inhales shakily.

“I spent all week waiting to come back to you,” he whispers against my pulse. When he lets the breath out, it’s long and drawn out. Like it hurts to admit.