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I touch his shoulders, his face, his hair—anything I can get my hands on that will help me believe that he’s really here.
He’s really here.
Wes angles his head as he deepens our kiss, attacking me with a passion I haven’t felt since …
No. No, no, no.
The glitter switch turns back off.
The lights dim.
My heart sinks like a cinder block, pulling my thoughts down with it.
Breaking the seal of our mouths by no more than a quarter of an inch, Wes tells me what I already know is coming.
“I gotta go.”
“But … you just got here,” I whisper, feeling the long fingers of despair beginning to wrap around my throat.
“I’ll be right back. I promise.” Wes gives me a determined stare and one last peck on the lips, but I’m too stunned to return it. “If I’m gonna get Q’s shit while it’s still light out, I gotta go now.”
And, before I finish nodding, the best birthday present I ever got walks right back out the door.
Wes
“Of course it’s her fucking birthday. Why would the day I show up empty-handed after disappearing on a weeklong bender not be her fucking birthday? God, I’m such a fucking asshole.”
I stomp across the empty parking lot, talking to myself out loud and gesturing with my gun, not giving two shits who might see me. The only people who travel these streets anymore are Bonys and people too stupid or desperate to be afraid of them.
Looks like I just joined the second category.
The ground is wet from the storm last night, and the sky is still cloudy and gray. The wind blows my unbuttoned shirt around like a cape as I approach the intersection in front of the mall, and I like it. I like the electrical charge in the air. It feels like any-fucking-thing could happen. It feels like I could march right the fuck down this street into that pharmacy and take down anyone or anything that stands in my way.
It feels like I just kissed the shit out of Rainbow Williams.
I turn and take the sidewalk instead of going back behind the shopping center because, right now, I’m fucking invincible. Rain is still here. Nobody’s called the cops on her yet for saving Quint. And she’s not fucking Carter. I could tell the second that little bitch cleared his throat. If the two of them had hooked up, he would have come at me with his pop’s rifle, not some smartass comment and a side-eye.
The next thing I know, I’m standing directly in front of the shattered CVS door. No wild dogs. No bloated, dreadlocked corpses. No homicidal maniacs on motorcycles.
I look to the swirling sky and give a little salute.
I guess God likes me when I’m trying not to be a piece of shit.
I knock on the metal frame of the door with the barrel of my gun. I know there’s a chance some strung-out Bony is gonna blow my head off as soon as I peek inside, but I also know it’s possible that the place is open for business again. The mail is running—sort of. The power’s back on. Hell, Burger Palace never even fucking closed.
“Y’all open?” I call out, standing with my back against the bricks.
“Depends on how you’re payin’,” an apathetic adolescent voice replies.
I pull the door open and spot the Bony kid who saved my ass the last time I was here sitting behind the checkout stand, reading Gearhead Magazine. He’s wearing a black hoodie with neon-orange skeleton stripes spray-painted on it, but it doesn’t swallow him the way it did a week ago. He seems to fill it out a little better somehow, and the purple bruise around his eye has faded to a subtle greenish-yellow. I stop in the doorway when I notice that the .32 he used to blast his old man is sitting on the counter, aimed directly at me.
He lifts his eyes and does a double take as recognition wipes the apathy off his face.
“‘Sup, kid?” I lift my chin.
“‘Sup.” His tone and expression are guarded, but he hasn’t shot me yet, so that’s good.
“They got you mannin’ the place by yourself now?”
