Page 12 of Violent Skies

“Oh,” she exhales a deep breath and avoids looking at me. “I missed him,” she confesses in a heartbreaking tone. “He wasn’t here, no matter how much I looked for him in the pictures and in his scent. He was gone. He—” she clears her throat. “I’m only here because of him and I couldn’t find him in these walls anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” I choke out.

“I can feel him at the garage, being around cars, I stole his room in the house. I can see him in the corners of that rust bucket shop. I just needed to be somewhere close, I’m sorry I left you.” Birdie apologizes and I can’t help but forgive her because she’s just a kid that lost the only person she considered a father.

“Let’s get you that book,” I say, ignoring the deep pang of sadness that lingers. “If Murphy is as good as you say, maybe he can decipher what it all means.”

“Oh, Murphy is good with code, but Rafe is all about the numbers.” Birdie laughs. “Which, I know, is shocking, but it’s some fucked up mind trick voodoo, I swear. It’s like he sees something the rest of us don’t and the numbers just shift around on the page for him. He doesn’t even have to ask nicely,” she winks.

“I have a lot of catching up to do,” I sigh.

Work goes as well as expected that afternoon. Once Birdie and I sifted through what we could and got out of there, she dropped me off at the hospital and after cleaning up my face in the staff room, I went about my shift. The only person to question how much makeup I wore was Greta, the charge nurse, but I just told her I didn’t sleep well and it was covering the bags under my eyes and not the massive bruise.

I know full well she didn’t believe me.

By the time I’m done I’m dead on my feet and have forgotten that Birdie dropped me off that afternoon. I contemplate taking the bus until I see a black sedan parked in the ambulance bay where it shouldn’t be. I don’t recognize the man in the front seat but something about it rubs me the wrong way. I whip out my phone and text her quickly.

CRESS

Can you pick me up?

BIRDIE

I’m covered in paint, I’ll send Rafe.

Twenty minutes later, and after a coffee I didn’t need to drink at ten p.m., Rafe pulls up on his motorcycle. It’s a noisy death trap built from chrome and expensive parts. I know this because it’s all Koa and Riggs complained about when they built it for him before graduation.

“You could have brought an actual car,” I say tightly as he pulls his helmet off and the hospital lights catch in his big blue eyes as he flashes that sharp smile at me.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks, extending the helmet in his hand in my direction. He’s in a linen shirt and jeans that definitely aren’t appropriate for riding his motorcycle but scolding him feels weird at the moment.

“Where’s yours?” I ask when he doesn’t move to grab a spare. Rafe cocks his head to the side and gives me a look that screams don’t ask silly questions. So I shut my mouth and climb on the back.

He makes sure I’m hanging on tightly before he rips the bike from the curb. He’s going too fast for my liking as he weaves in and out of traffic. I have to close my eyes to enjoy it, the wind whipping around us and his body shifting slightly to allow for the motion and the corners.

It’s been a long while since I’ve been on a motorcycle and it’s exactly how I remember it. Freeing. The garage is dark when we arrive, only the dim lights of the kitchen pour from the house onto the driveway.

“Murphy made roast,” Rafe tells me as he cuts the engine, “I’ll be in soon.”

I stare up at the house, terrified to even go in as Rafe walks the bike inside and leaves me alone. The last time I was in that house it ended up with broken dishes and me not speaking to Riggs.

“You can do it,” his voice grumbles from behind me.

“I didn’t know you were out here, lurking around in the dark.” I roll my eyes.

“I’m not the one lurking,” he says and does a circle around me as he cleans his hands from grease. “You can stay out here, I don’t really care. But let Rafe know and I’ll have him run out food.”

“I’m not a coward.” I snap at him.

“Could have fooled me.” Is the last thing he says to me before climbing the back steps and wandering inside. I look around, my eyes landing on the open garage door and I contemplate going inside but something stubborn in me won’t let him win so I climb the stairs and step into the kitchen.

It’s exactly how I remember it. It hasn't been touched since the house was built, except for a few appliance upgrades. The cream walls and green cupboards mixed with the wooden countertops and a farmhouse sink.. The kitchen table still doesn’t have a single matching chair and the island was starting to crack across the edges and corners from over use.

Birdie was sitting shoveling cereal into her mouth beside Murphy who was on his computer eating slow bites of potatoes. Neither look up from what they’re doing but Riggs slides a plate across the island at me and sets a can of pop beside it.

I take it without saying a word and find a spot at the table. The cracked salt and pepper shakers in the shapes of cows are still in the middle of the table with the placemat that Murphy knitted for Riggs’s birthday in the fourth grade. It’s ugly and lopsided but it’s always been there.

The first bite is shocking. “This is incredible,” I say with my mouth still full as I look up at him. “You made this.”