The Thing About Stopping
1617 Words
Chapter 7: The Thing About Stopping
They stand there for a long time. Long enough that Maya's nose goes cold and her fingers start to numb. Long enough that the owl gives up and goes to find dinner somewhere else. Long enough that she forgets how to measure time in minutes instead of heartbeats.
Knox doesn't move. Doesn't rush her. Just stands with his hands in his pockets, breath fogging in the cold air, looking at the stars like they're the only things that make sense.
Finally, he says, "You should get some sleep."
"I know."
"You've got another shift tomorrow."
"I know that too."
But she doesn't move. And neither does he.
"You're going to freeze," he says.
"You're going to freeze too."
"I run hot."
Maya snorts. It's not a graceful sound. It's the kind of snort that happens when you're too tired to pretend. "Did you just make a biker joke about running hot?"
Knox's mouth twitches. "Maybe."
"That was terrible."
"You're still smiling."
She is. She hates that he noticed.
The back door creaks open. Jesse's head appears, haloed by the light from the kitchen. "You two planning on stargazing all night, or do you want to help me mop? Because the floor is not going to clean itself, and I have opinions about that."
Knox sighs. "Go inside, Jesse."
"Make me."
"Jesse."
"Fine, fine. But when you're both popsicles in the morning, I'm telling the paramedics you died doing something stupid." His head disappears. The door slams shut.
Maya laughs. It's a real laugh — rusty from disuse, but real. "He's a lot."
"He's a nightmare," Knox agrees. "But he's our nightmare."
She turns to face him. The moonlight catches his jaw, his throat, the curve of his ear. He's not looking at the stars anymore. He's looking at her.
"Knox."
"Yeah?"
"Why did you really take me in?"
He considers the question. She can see him turning it over in his mind, looking at it from different angles, deciding how much truth to give her.
"Because," he says slowly, "you reminded me of someone."
"Who?"
"Myself."
The word hangs in the air between them. Cold and warm at the same time.
Maya doesn't know what to say to that. So she doesn't say anything. She just nods. And finally — finally — she walks toward the back door. Pauses with her hand on the handle.
"Goodnight, Knox."
"Goodnight, Maya."
She goes inside. The bar is dark except for the kitchen light. Jesse is mopping in slow, lazy circles, humming something that might be a song or might be a death rattle. Ghost is gone — disappeared back into whatever shadows he lives in. Tank is probably in the shop, sleeping on the couch he pretends isn't there.
She climbs the stairs. The wood creaks under her weight. Her room is exactly as she left it: maybe-blue quilt, stuck dresser drawer, duct-taped window. But it feels different now. Smaller. Safer.
She doesn't turn on the light. Just lies down on the bed, still in her jeans and jacket, and stares at the ceiling. The water stain that looks like a bunny. The cracks that spider across the plaster.
She thinks about Derek. About the pancakes. About the way he used to hold her hand in public but never in private. About the slow realization that being someone's whole world actually meant being trapped in it.
She thinks about Knox. About his hands — rough and warm and careful. About the way he says her name like it means something. About the scar above his eyebrow and the ghosts behind his eyes.
She thinks about stopping. About staying. About the thin, terrifying line between running away and building something new.
Her phone buzzes. She forgot she even had it. The screen glows in the dark — a text from an unknown number.
I know where you are.
Maya's blood turns to ice.
She stares at the words. Reads them again. And again. Her thumb hovers over the screen. Block. Delete. Throw the phone across the room.
Instead, she types back: Who is this?
Three dots appear. Typing. Then nothing. The dots disappear.
No answer.
She waits five minutes. Ten. The phone stays dark.
I know where you are.
Derek. It has to be Derek. No one else would say it like that — like a promise, like a threat, like the first move in a game she didn't know she was playing.
She should tell Knox. She should march downstairs right now and shove the phone in his face and let him handle it. That's what he's here for. That's what he offered.
But she doesn't.
Because if she tells him, it becomes real. And if it becomes real, she can't pretend anymore. And pretending is the only thing holding her together.
So she turns off the phone. Sets it on the dresser. Lies back down.
The ceiling doesn't have any answers. Neither do the stars outside her duct-taped window.
She closes her eyes.
And doesn't sleep.
End of Chapter 7
- Writer
