Page 42 of The Fake Divination Offense
“Seb,” I cut him off. “I gotta go.”
“Get your man, babe. Give it to him raw.” In the background, Thio makes a long, drawn-out moan, and Seb goes, “Because they met through rawball! Oh come on, it’s alittlefunny.”
But no. It’s suddenly not funny.
Not as I hang up and Alexo’s car twists down a few side streets lined with dilapidated houses and apartments surrounded by chain-link fences, the one-lane roads packed with old cars.
This neighborhood is one of the many we were warned off during freshman orientation in college so we wouldn’t get swept up in the crime and danger. As if it’s some sucking whirlpool that couldn’t be fixed with better funding and oversight.
Alexo’s car pulls into a gravel lot beside a two-story brick townhome. The engine cuts off, and I keep going, driving around the block until I find a spot to park. Most of the streetlights aren’t working, so illumination comes from light pollution, but my car is still very, very visible. It isn’t a sore thumb; it’s a whole hand waving for attention, and I’m pretty sure when I come back from whatever it is I’m going to do, I’ll find a few less parts on it.
I won’t be that long, though. I’m going to… fuck if I know at this point. Rationalizing went out the window the moment I left the stadium. That echoing, growling voice ofmine, mine, mineis overtaking me, obliterating the last feeble strangleholds I had on my self-control.
This is me at the point of no return, the parts I’m always fighting so hard to keep from showing. But instead of being disgusted with myself or horrified at what I’m doing, I feel…
Like I canbreathe.
I walk at a quick clip around the block, my shoes swishing on the cracked sidewalk, overgrown weeds on the pavement turned to ink-black tendrils in the night. This late, most people are locked up in their homes, but a few lights are on in rooms here and there.
Back at the townhouse, the parking lot is quiet, the street and buildings around it silent and empty.
They probably went into the townhouse, but it could be a few different apartments or one complete place, so I don’t—
A light comes on in the second-floor window, the one facing the street.
I tuck myself against a broken streetlight, leaning on the splintered wood pole, breath caught in my throat. The room looks like a kitchen; I see a sink from this angle, a vinyl chair.
That guycomes into view. He’s waving his arms, stabbing for emphasis, yelling. The window muffles the actual words, but I can hear his volume even all the way out here, down two floors and on the sidewalk.
I fold my arms over my chest. Watching.
Watching that guy yell, and yell, and then Alexo walks past the window, fiddling with the sink. He comes up with a glass of water and says something to it, eyes downcast. That guy pushes right up behind him, yelling, and spittle flies. Alexo curls over his water glass, small.
That’s it.
I shove off the streetlight and angle for the front door when the guy stomps away from Alexo. The curtain over the window moves in a gust of air—a door opened?
Sure enough, two seconds later, that guy’s racing out the main door and down the front stoop.
I sink back against the streetlight, holding myself in the shadows,but he doesn’t notice me. Doesn’t even scan the street for threats or do anything but mutter angrily to himself, march to his car, punch it on, and drive off.
Leaving Alexo upstairs, still bent over the sink, alone.
He puts down the glass and cups his hands over his face.
I’m in motion again, body hot and twisted anddesperate. I can’t leave him like this, alone, scared, upset, and that’s where the whole of my drive is focused, onhim.
I vault the front steps and open the main door. It isn’t locked, thankfully, but it itches down my spine that anyone could waltz right into his building.
Sickly yellow lights flicker over the lower floor, showing three numbered doors off a main hallway with a staircase that loops upward. I take the stairs two at a time and find an identical layout. But I know which apartment is his, so I approach, pace slowing, heart going rapid fire against my sternum to the point I can feel it in my throat.
I stop cold.
What am I doing.
I’m standing outside Alexo’s apartment. Ifollowed him home.
Oh my gods. Seb was right. Well, not Seb—Thiowas right. This was such a bad idea. I wanted to make sure he got home okay, and he did. That guy even left; maybe he won’t come back.
