Page 78 of Redline Communion
Interesting.
I tighten my grip on my bag. “So what happens if I say no?”
“I leave.”
“You’ll follow me?”
“No.”
“Drive past my apartment twelve times?”
His mouth almost moves. “Probably not twelve.”
“Ash.”
The humor leaves his face.
“No. I’ll leave.”
A part of me built entirely from spite and suspicion immediately wants to test him.
“No, then.”
He nods once, closes the passenger door, and gets behind the wheel.
I stand on the curb while the engine starts, waiting for him to sit there until I change my mind or make me feel guilty for refusing.
He doesn’t.
The car pulls away, and I watch his taillights disappear at the end of the lane.
Well.
That’s irritating.
I don’t know what to do with growth when it arrives without making a speech about itself.
My phone buzzes.
Ash: call if you need me
I stare at the message before typing back.
Me: that was almost normal
Three dots appear, disappear, then return.
Ash: don’t ruin it
I laugh despite myself, which annoys me too.
I end up taking the bus. It smells like wet fabric, somebody’s fries, and a personal choice several seats behind me that I’m trying not to identify. A toddler screams for seven consecutive stops because his mother won’t let him lick the window.
Honestly, relatable.
By the time I reach the house, the sky has gone purple above the gates, and I know something is wrong before I get inside.
This family rarely announces disaster at volume. It parks three identical black cars in the circular drive and expects everyone else to recognize the warning.
