Blood and Lavender

Mira’s POV The rain started exactly when the bus pulled away from the bus stop without me. I stood there like an i***t, my grocery bag already soaked as I watched the red taillights disappear around the corner. The driver must have seen me. I'd been running, waving my free arm like a crazy person, my sneakers slapping against wet pavement. He'd looked right at me in his big side mirror. And then he'd just... driven away. Great. Just great. First day in this miserable little town and I already missed the last bus home. If you could call Aunt Carol's creaky old house "home." I shifted the bag against my chest. The paper was already starting to tear. I'd bought the cheap kind, the kind that gives out if you look at it wrong. Through the plastic wrapping I could see the sad little frozen dinner I'd picked up at the corner store, the one with the peas that always taste like cardboard no matter what brand you buy, and the mashed potatoes that come out watery, and the mystery meat in brown gravy that you try not to think too hard about. My phone said 11:47 PM. No more buses until morning. I should have stayed in Portland. The thought came unbidden, sharp and familiar. I pushed it away. Portland wasn't an option anymore. Not after everything. Not after the eviction notice taped to our apartment door like some kind of sick joke. Not after selling Mom's jewelry to pay for the bus ticket here. Not after standing in the rain at her grave, promising her I'd be okay, even though I wasn't sure I knew how to be okay anymore. Rain dripped down my neck, finding that one gap between my collar and the cheap scarf I'd grabbed from the clearance bin last winter. I shivered. The street was empty except for a single flickering streetlight and the dark windows of closed shops. Fletcher's Grove wasn't exactly what you'd call a nightlife destination. From what I'd seen on the bus ride in, there was one diner that closed at nine, a library that closed at six, a hardware store that probably closed at five, and approximately seventeen thousand pine trees stretching in every direction. And apparently no taxis. I'd already checked. My phone had shown zero available rides in the area. Not "no drivers nearby", just flat-out "service unavailable in this location." Like the app had looked at Fletcher's Grove and decided it wasn't worth the trouble. I started walking. What else was I supposed to do? Stand there until I turn into a human puddle? or a bag of salt like Lot’s wife in the Bible. Aunt Carol's house was maybe four miles away. I could do four miles. I'd done worse. Keep telling yourself that. The truth was, I had never walked four miles in my life. Not all at once. I grew up in Portland, where you could catch a bus or a MAX train anytime, anywhere. Walking was something you did between stops, not as the main event. But Portland was behind me now, along with everything and people I have known. The road curved away from the little downtown strip and into the woods. Of course it did. Because this whole town was basically just woods with a few buildings scattered around like an afterthought. The streetlights ended after about half a mile and then it was just me and the rain and the dark. And my thoughts. Which were not great company. I tried not to think about Mom's face when I told her I was leaving. Well, not leaving, she was already gone by then. But I'd stood by her hospital bed, holding her cold hand, and promised I'd be okay. Promised I'd go stay with Aunt Carol like she wanted. Promised I would finish my degree someday, even though I'd dropped out of community college when she got really sick. "You're so smart, Mira-belle," she'd said, using the nickname she knew I hated. "Don't waste that brain of yours." I'd promised. And then I'd walked out of that hospital room and fallen apart in the hallway where no one could see. The memory made my chest ache. I tried to push it away too, but grief doesn't work like that. It comes when it wants. Stays as long as it wants. Leaves you hollowed out and raw and then comes back again when you least expect it. You're doing it anyway. Thinking about it. My sneakers squelched. The bag was definitely going to give out soon. I could feel the paper getting softer, wetter, ready to split right down the middle and dump my sad little meal all over the dark asphalt. Maybe that would be fitting. My whole life felt like that lately, like everything was about to split open and spill out everywhere. Then I heard it. An engine. Low and smooth, not the rattling wheeze of Aunt Carol's ancient Honda that she'd described in her letters. This sounded expensive. Powerful. The kind of car that had no business being on this back road in the middle of nowhere at almost midnight. My heart did a little skip. Not the good kind. I kept walking. Maybe they'd just drive past. Maybe they were lost. Maybe they were a normal person heading home from a late shift somewhere. Fletcher's Grove had to have some night jobs, right? A hospital? A twenty-four-hour gas station? The car didn't pass. It pulled up beside me, slowing to match my pace. The car was dark, Black or deep blue, hard to tell in the rain. The shape was sleek and expensive-looking, the kind of car that costs more than my mom made in a year. The window rolled down with a soft electronic hum that sounded out of place in the wet, empty night. And I forgot how to breathe. The man inside was beautiful in a way that didn't make sense. Not handsome like a movie star or a model. Beautiful like something from another world. Pale skin that seemed to catch what little light existed and hold onto it, almost glowing against the dark interior of the car. His hair was dark which fell across his forehead in a careless waves, like he'd run his fingers through it and left it wherever it landed. Features so sharp and perfect they looked carved from marble rather than born from flesh and bone. And his eye, his eyes were something else entirely. Dark gold. Like honey held up to candlelight. Like autumn leaves caught in afternoon sun. Like nothing I'd ever seen on a human face before. They should have scared me. But they didn't. You're out late." His voice was smooth. Warm. It slid under my skin and settled there, and my stomach started to act as if there was a butterfly in there, which was completely inappropriate for a dark road with a strange man. I realized I was staring and hadn't answered him. My mouth was slightly open. My grocery bag must have looked like soaked tissue paper. With everything put together, I know I looked like a drowned rat with social anxiety.