Chapter 6;closed
1408 Words
The diner’s back lot smells like motor oil, burnt coffee, and March refusing to die.
I clocked out at 1:47AM. Pushed through the back door into the alley and saw her.
Stacy
Under the one busted floodlight that flickers every six seconds. Jacket too thin. Jeans. Converse with a hole starting at the toe. Hair tangled from wind. Arms wrapped around herself.
I don’t stop walking.
“Leave,” I say. Don’t look at her. Keys already in my hand. “Now.”
She flinches. “Xav—”
“That’s not your word to use.” My voice is flat. Dead. I keep moving toward my car. A ’04 Civic with 200k miles. “You don’t get to show up here. You don’t get to say my name. This isn’t yours.”
“Liv dropped me off.”
“I don’t care who dropped you off.” I hit the unlock button. The car beeps. Loud in the empty lot. “Get back in her car. Go home. We’re done.”
We weren’t even anything. But we’re done anyway.
She doesn’t move. “You look like hell.”
“You look like a problem.” I turn, finally. Let her see my face. No warmth in it. Haven’t slept. Haven’t shaved. Eyes probably bloodshot. Good. “You know what happens if your brother finds out you’re here?
“I didn’t tell David”
“I don’t care.” I step around her. Put the car between us. Metal and distance. “Three weeks ago you made a choice.That was the end. There’s no scene two.”
“You’re working two jobs.” Her voice is quiet. Not soft. Just quiet. Like she’s talking to a dog she thinks might bite. “David says you won’t cash the check. You sold your bike.
“How do you know that.”
“David.”
“Then tell David to mind his own damn business.” I open the car door. Don’t get in yet. “And tell yourself the same. I’m not a story, Stacy. I’m not something you fix because you’re bored.”
“I’m not trying to fix you.”
“Bullshit.” The word cracks out. “You show up at 2AM in a parking lot. You look at me like that. That’s exactly what you’re doing. Savior complex. Little sister of the year.”
She goes pale. The floodlight buzzes. On. Off. On. Six seconds.
“You think that’s what this is?”
“I think you’re 16,too young for what you’re thinking upstairs.” I grip the door frame. Knuckles white. “I think you’ve got a bed, a brother, and a future. I think I’ve got a cot, a record. I think you need to go home before you screw that up for both of us.”
The cat by the dumpster knocks over a can. Neither of us jumps.
“I’d pick you again,” she says.
I laugh. It’s not a nice sound. “See? That. That right there. That’s why you need to leave. Because you don’t get it. You pick me, you lose. That’s the math. Every time.”
“I don’t care about math.”
“I do.” I slide into the driver’s seat. Don’t close the door. “Because I’m the one who does the time. You go back to school. You go back to Liv. You go back to David.I go back to a cell if I’m stupid. I’m not gonna be stupid for you.”
She steps around the door. Now there’s nothing between us but air. “You were already leaving. Before David got home that day. You packed. You said it.”
“Yeah.” I look straight ahead. At the brick wall. Count the cracks. Seven. “I was. Because I’m not good at staying. Because I knew I’d wreck you if I did. So I made the choice before you could make it worse.”
“It’s not worse.”
“It is.” I finally look at her. Let her see the ice. “You think this is romantic? Me in a parking lot, telling you to get lost? This is what it looks like, Maya. Me choosing not to ruin you. This is the best you’re gonna get. Me walking away.”
She’s crying now. Not sobbing. No sound. Just tears that catch the floodlight every six seconds. She doesn’t wipe them.
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t do that. Don’t cry. Not for me. I’m not worth it.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do.” I start the car. The engine turns over, rough. “Because I’m the one who lives with it. You go home, you sleep in your bed, you forget about me in a month. I go back to my room and remember I almost touched you. I remember I almost said yes. That’s my punishment. Not yours.”
She grabs the door. Not me. The door. Like she can keep me here if she holds onto something metal.
“Please,” she says.
The word guts me.
And it pisses me off.
“Please what?” I snap. “Please stay? Please talk? Please what, Stacy? You want me to say it’s okay? It’s not. You want me to say I don’t want you here? I do. That’s the problem. I want you here so bad I can taste it. And I can’t have it. So I’m doing the only thing I can. I’m leaving. Again.”
Her fingers go white on the door.
“Let go,” I say. Quiet now. Dead again. “Before I drive off with you hanging on. Before I give your brother one more reason to hate me. Before I give myself one more reason to hate me.”
She lets go.
Like I burned her.
I close the door. Don’t roll down the window. Don’t look at her through the glass.
I put the car in reverse.
She’s still standing there. Under the floodlight. On. Off. On.
I don’t watch her disappear in the rearview. I keep my eyes forward.
---
*2:15AM. My room.*
8x10. Cot. Mini fridge that hums too loud. Hot plate I’m not supposed to have. Walls thin enough I can hear the guy next door coughing.
I sit on the cot. Don’t take off my boots. Don’t turn on the light.
My phone is on the crate I use as a nightstand. New number. Changed it last week. Only Roy from the shop.
She doesn’t.
David doesn’t.
That was the point.
I lean forward. Elbows on knees. Head in my hands.
I was cruel. I know I was. I meant every word.
_You look like a problem._
_I’m not your project._
_You’re dumber than I thought._
I said it so she’d leave. So she’d hate me enough to stay away.
Because _“I’d pick you again”_ in that parking lot nearly broke me.
Because if she’d stepped closer, I would’ve let her.
Because if she’d touched me, I wouldn’t have stopped at her wrist.
Because if she’d said _please_ one more time, I would’ve said _okay_.
And then what? She’s 16,I’m 23 with a record and a PO who already got an anonymous call about me _lurking at a high school_. Wasn’t David . Wasn’t Stacy. Some parent. Some teacher. Don’t know. Don’t care.
I’m one mistake from back inside.
She’s one mistake from having her life blown up by me.
So I did the math.
Her tears vs my cell.
Her future vs my record.
Her brother vs my nothing.
She loses. Every time.
I lie back on the cot. Stare at the ceiling. Count the water stains. Twelve.
My chest hurts. Not from work. From holding my breath for three weeks. From letting it out tonight in the worst way possible.
I can still see her. Under that light. On. Off. On.
I can still hear her. _I’d pick you again._
I was ice. I had to be.
Because if I’d been anything else, I would’ve told her to get in the car.
And then we’d both be done.
At 5:30AM, I get up. Shower in the shared bathroom down the hall. The water’s cold.
Go to the shop.
Roy asks why I look like I got hit by a truck.
Tell him I did.
Don’t explain.
Do it again.
- Writer
