Chapter 4: Cancer Sticks & Other Red Flags
1551 Words
"I hate you." I stumble off the back of his motorcycle on full Bambi legs, grabbing the side mirror just to stay upright.
My lungs are doing their whole oh we thought we were dying dramatics and I am breathing like I just sprinted a 5K.
"Feelings mutual, Muffin." Blake runs a hand through his hair — his perfectly intact, annoyingly good-looking hair — and has the nerve to chuckle.
"Don't. Call. Me. Muffin."
"Sure thing, Muffin." He winks and saunters into Rookie's Diner like he didn't just try to kill us both on I-20.
I lean against the bike, press my palm to my chest, and breathe. In. Out. In. I catch my reflection in the side mirror and actually wince. My hair has achieved full Chewbacca-after-a-hurricane energy. I drag my fingers through it exactly twice before giving up completely. This is why helmets exist. This is why speed limits exist. I specifically said no rash driving. Specifically.
Lesson learned: telling Blake Carter not to do something is basically a formal invitation to do it harder.
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The diner smells like coffee and bacon grease and I'm already in love with it. We drop into wooden chairs across from each other and I'm barely seated before Blake announces:
"I'm not paying for you."
"Obviously." I don't even flinch. "This isn't a date."
"Glad we agree."
"I wouldn't call this a date if you were the last guy in Atlanta and someone was offering me a gift card."
He tilts his head. "Are you ever just... quiet?"
"Are insults the only thing your face inspires? Because yes, actually." I open the menu. "Yes they are."
He almost smiles. Almost. Then our waitress materializes and every thought in the vicinity evaporates because this
girl — Hailey, according to her name tag — is looking at Blake like he's the entire entrée.
She doesn't even clock me. Her eyes go straight to him, pen hovering, lips parted slightly.
I clear my throat.
Nothing.
"I'd like a latte," I say brightly, smiling wide enough to be legally aggressive, "a cheeseburger — extra cheese — and
an apple pie. Thanks, Hailey."
She blinks at me like I materialized out of thin air. Shoots me a glare that could strip paint. Then rotates back to
Blake like I didn't just speak words with my human mouth.
"And what can I get you?" Her voice drops half an octave. I'm pretty sure she doesn't mean the food.
"Same." Blake gives her the smirk — the patented, million-dollar, absolutely-unfair smirk — and I hear her actual
sharp intake of breath. Like she inhaled her own soul back in.
She turns red from the collar up and speed-walks to the kitchen with her hips doing a whole separate performance.
I stare at the table. Breathe. "You know," I say pleasantly, "if I wasn't sitting here, you'd already be in the back corner
with her."
"Probably." He shrugs, drumming his fingers on the table in a rhythm that has no rhythm. Just chaotic little taps.
Over and over.
I watch his fingers. Try to ignore it. Try.
"Can you stop?"
He stops. One full second of silence. Then he looks me dead in the eye and drums faster.
I grip the edge of the table.
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Hailey comes back with our food, slides everything in front of Blake, then — and I need you to understand this
actually happened — pulls a folded tissue from inside her top and hands it to him with a smile that belongs in a deposition.
I stare.
My mouth opens.
I close it.
Blake takes the tissue, Hailey winks, and then she's gone in a cloud of perfume and audacity, and I am staring at
him because what just — how does — who even —
"You saved her number already." I point at the tissue. "That was fast."
He tears the tissue in half without looking at it. Pushes my tray toward me.
I blink. "You're not keeping it?"
"She's not my type."
"You have a type?" I pick up my burger. Genuinely curious. This feels like discovering a new species. "Since when?"
He's quiet for a second. Drumming stopped. He actually seems to consider it. "The kind that doesn't exist."
I chew slowly. Nod once.
The kind that doesn't exist.
I don't ask a follow-up. Something about the way he said it — flat and certain, like it's just a fact he's made peace
with — closes the door on the whole conversation. I look down at my food and stay there, in my own head, chewing
cheese and trying not to think too hard about what that means.
We eat in silence. It's not comfortable exactly, but it's not the usual warfare either. Just two people, food between
them, temporary truce.
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He puts his cash down when we're done. I put mine on top of it.
"No tip?" I ask.
He grabs a clean napkin, scribbles a number, leaves it on the table.
I do a double-take. "I thought she wasn't your type."
"She isn't." He heads for the door.
I follow, choosing not to comment further because the last thing I need is for Blake Carter to think I care what
numbers he leaves on tables for girls who smuggle tissues in their shirts. I absolutely do not care. This is not a
feeling in my stomach. This is hunger. Residual hunger.
Outside, a group of girls near the entrance clock Blake immediately — they always do, it's like a biological reflex —
and one of them stage-whispers, "Go talk to him, it's a dare."
I turn, smile sweetly at all of them. They go scarlet and spin around so fast I almost feel bad.
Almost.
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"Bike again," I say, eyeing the motorcycle with the enthusiasm of someone approaching a dental appointment.
"Thought you weren't scared."
"I'm not scared. I just prefer living." I swing on behind him, keeping my hands on his shoulders this time. Deliberate.
Controlled.
He glances back. "Don't hold so tight this time. Couldn't breathe."
My face goes hot. "You were driving like we were being chased. If you'd driven like a normal human being—"
"Admit you loved it."
"It felt like being glued to a fast-moving fire hazard."
He shakes his head, laughing low. "Hold on, Muffin."
He guns the engine. My arms drop to his waist immediately — traitors, both of them — and the Decatur streets blur
into a warm rush of wind and evening light. His hair whips back into my face and I get a mouthful of it and make the
most undignified noise of my life.
"Wear a helmet next time," I manage, spitting. "Your hair doesn't taste good."
"Hair's not supposed to be eaten."
"It flew into my mouth—"
"Want something else in your mouth?"
"Go find Hailey and ask her that." I close my eyes against the wind. The air is warm and it hits my face like a release
valve, and despite everything — the chaos and the banter and the fact that I'm currently wrapped around the most
infuriating person I've ever met — my whole chest opens up. Something loosens. I've always loved this. The speed, the wind, the way your brain just... empties. Just you and the road and the rush.
Feel the freedom. Race the wind. Let everything else go.
I keep my eyes closed until he slows.
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"We're back." He cuts the engine.
I climb off, smoothing my jeans, checking my hair in the mirror — yep, still a disaster — and something falls from the
bike as Blake gets up. I reach down automatically.
I freeze.
A box of cigarettes. Half empty. The surgeon general's warning staring up at me in bold black text like it's personally
offended.
"You actually smoke." It comes out quieter than I intend.
He takes one look at my face and shrugs. "Sometimes."
I turn the box over in my hand. Something cold settles in my stomach — not anger exactly, not surprise exactly.
More like... recognition. Like a door you weren't expecting, opening somewhere you didn't want to look.
People said he smoked. I'd never seen it. I think some part of me just decided not to believe it.
"Here." I set the box on the seat without throwing it, without lectures. His life. His call. "Your cancer sticks."
I grab my bag from inside, swing it over my shoulder, and give him the flattest smile I own. "Let me know when you want the next session. And whether you're actually showing up for the festival tomorrow." I walk to my car without
waiting for an answer.
I don't look back.
Except — once. Just at the very end of the driveway, I glance in the rearview mirror.
He's standing at the door exactly where I left him. Still holding the box. Expression unreadable. Eyes on my car.
I pull out and drive.
They will not be the reason for my heartache again.
I don't even know why that thought comes. I don't know who it's about.
I'm lying, though. I think I do.
- Writer
