She pauses, looking taken aback. I hold the strap of my duffel hanging on my shoulder and stare at her, waiting for her to leave.
She eventually gives a little eye roll and walks off, leaving us alone.
No doubt to tattle to Lyla.
I dig in the pocket of my bag, pulling out the locket and handing it to him.
He takes the necklace, almost gently, and stares at it for a moment before stuffing it into his pocket. He raises his eyes to me, and something gives. For a split-second I see something different. Like he’s…disappointed or something.
“Now give me the book,” I demand.
“Sorry,” he says, holding my eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t have it.”
“Don’t piss me off,” I growl in a hushed tone. “I got what you wanted.”
“What I want…” He laughs quietly to himself as if there’s something I don’t understand.
He opens the driver’s side door and climbs into his truck. But before he can close the door, I reach out and grab it.
“We had a deal.”
He nods. “We did. But right now I’d love nothing better than to piss you off.” And he yanks the door out of my hand, slamming it shut.
Starting it up, he steps on the gas, and I run my hand through my hair, despair curling its way through me. But I hesitate only a moment before I drop my bag and race up to him, jumping up on the cab step.
“You asshole,” I bite out, and he slams on the brakes and glares at me.
I’m probably attracting attention, but I’m not taking any more of his shit.
“Get off the truck.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know who you are or where you come from,” I snarl, “but I don’t get pushed around. In case you haven’t heard.”
He jerks his chin, indicating something behind me as he smiles. “I guess we’ll see.”
I turn and see Lyla and Katelyn sitting on the ledge at the top of the steps, watching us. Great. How am I going to explain this?
“Watch out. You’re being judged,” Masen taunts. “Don’t choke.”
I step down from the cab, and he puts the truck in gear again. But before he can take off, I call out, “You’re living in an abandoned theme park.”
He stops the car again and lifts his chin. I stroll up to his window, feeling a bit of my power return as I give him a small smile.
“I’d only be doing the compassionate thing,” I tell him, “letting a responsible adult know about your homeless situation.”
He stills at my threat, and I offer a sympathetic sigh. “Social services would come in, find out where you come from and if anyone’s looking for you…” I go on, putting my finger on my chin in mock contemplation. “I wonder if Masen Laurent has a criminal record. Maybe that’s why you’re hiding out? You definitely want to stay invisible. I’d bet money on that.”
His scowl is hot, and I can see his jaw flex. Yeah, he might be eighteen and perfectly able to squat wherever he likes, but that doesn’t mean he’s up for any attention, either. Maybe his parents are looking for him. Maybe a foster family.
Maybe the police.
Not many kids transfer schools six weeks before the end of their senior year, after all. He’s running from something.
He shifts the gears again and finally speaks. “I’ll bring it tonight.”
“You’ll bring it now.”
He turns to look at me. “If you have me picked up, you’ll never get it back,” he points out. “I got shit to do. I’ll see you tonight.”
Dear Ryen,
I hold the pen over the paper, frozen, the millions of things I want to say to her every day lost once I sit down to write. What did she always tell me? Just start. Don’t worry about what I’m going to say. Just start, and everything will open up.
I couldn’t write lyrics before Ryen. And now, since that night three months ago, I can’t write anything.
I stare out into the empty warehouse, black soot from past bonfires coating the walls and the warm breeze whipping through the broken windows and hitting my back.
A chain hanging somewhere in the vast space above me blows in the gust and bangs against a rafter while a shiver creeps up my spine.
It feels different here. At night this place is packed, but during the day it’s quiet and empty. My favorite place to come when I need just that.
I stare down at her name, trying to remember how easy it was to always open up to her.
I hate this, I tell her. Everything fucking hurts. They weren’t supposed to bury her. I shouldn’t have let him. She saw a movie when she was a kid, about a woman buried alive, and it scared the shit out of her. She didn’t want to go underground, but my father said we needed a place to visit her as if her wishes weren’t the most important thing.
I close my eyes, wetness coating the rims of my lids. Anger churns inside me, and it flows down my arms as I carve the words into the paper.
I can’t write you. And when I can, I can’t send the goddamn letters. I want to hurt you. I don’t know why. Probably because you’re the only person I have left to hurt. Every letter you send that I don’t answer is the only thing that makes me feel good anymore. You want the truth? That’s it. It feels good to play with you like this. It gives me pleasure, knowing you’re thinking about me but wondering if I’m thinking about you.
I’m not. I never do.
I keep writing, letting every ugly thing spill out, because she loves me, she wants me to be happy, and she wants me to smile and do mundane shit like talk about Star Wars and music and what I’m doing for college. Who the hell is she to assume there aren’t more important things than her going on in the world?