Page 46 of Dark Verse

RAVEN

I STEP out onto the curb, taking one last look at the stark white and red car rental office. With the car keys no longer digging into my back pocket, something unfamiliar settles in my chest—an unexpected lightness.

For the first time since my parents handed me the keys to a cute little blue four-door on my sixteenth birthday, I don’t have a car. Or all the responsibilities for maintaining it. First, it was the summer jobs I had to get to save up for gas money through the school year. Then it was the general upkeep. Then, the random repairs. Most were minor and routine, but some were major. Insurance, fighting traffic, driving people to the airport, looking for parking. Gas prices that only ever seem to be going up.

Honestly, it’s kind of a nightmare when I think about it.

I turn at the sound of wheels on pavement and see the attendant pull away from the building, likely taking the rental to be washed and vacuumed, ready for another person. I watch as she takes a left, turning on the indicator signal. For a moment I see a face in the car’s back end, the signal light winking at me in a final goodbye. I feel a little silly doing it, but I can’t help but wave back.

I take a deep breath.

No more circling endless lots for parking. No more worrying over the latest gas price increase or insurance promotional emails or the low-grade anxiety of freeway traffic. Just…a new kind of freedom.

Adjusting the strap of my bag so it sits more snugly against my back, I turn toward the bus stop across the street. It feels a little strange at first, choosing to walk toward public transit instead of defaulting to a driver’s seat, but it’s not wrong.

I’ve been searching for ways to declutter my life, and a car plus the rental fee that came with it seemed worth getting rid of. Plus it’s only temporary. My car is sitting safely in the garage of a coworker back in L.A. while I’m out here.

As my first bus approaches the stop, the route map I studied last night unfolds neatly in my mind. One bus switch to get to my main route, then grab the southbound 2125 to the 1777, and the 1777 to my final stop.

There’s a grocery store three blocks from my sublet apartment and a coffee shop two doors down from there. It’s got the perfect hole-in-the-wall vibe that had me claiming it as my own the moment I stepped in. Yeah. It’s going to be doable.

More than that, it feels wonderfully intentional.

I smile to myself as I board the bus, tapping my pass and choosing the seat right behind the driver. Pushing in one headphone so I’m still somewhat aware of my surroundings, I gaze out the window. The city passes by in distinct chunks rather than a single long blur. Like living vibrant murals I’ve never noticed. Or haven’t had the time to notice. An unexpected green space shoved between two tall buildings. A tiny pet shop wedged between a bakery and a laundromat. All against the backdrop of the mountains.

The 1777 passes by House Band Featuring to reach my stop one block away. I almost don’t believe my eyes as the bus passes by the lot and I see a familiar vehicle. I check my watch as I gather my items and step off.

When I gave the Nightshades and Heirs access to the building, I told them all that during off hours they were free to use it as a practice space. No one had yet taken me up on the offer, and I can only assume it’s because, until now, there was always something happening in there. Chairs being ripped out and replaced, inspectors doing detailed breakthroughs, workers shouting at each other.

But with the relaunch officially behind us and business now moving forward as planned, I expected a completely silent parking lot on a Monday morning. There is no way Knox Knight, of all people, beat me here.

But that’s exactly what I find when I step into the building. Knox sits on center stage at the piano, multiple sheets of paper spread out around him across the bench and the piano itself. He wears a different outfit from Saturday’s show, but he has the energy of a man who has been here since I saw him 36 hours ago. I watch as he makes a few marks on one of the pages, erasing something furiously, only to scribble some more.

“You’re here early,” I say to him.

He looks up and meets my gaze.

“Early is on time.”

Smirking, I say, “And on time is late.”

Knox takes a moment to gather the sheets of paper and stack them neatly. He stands from the bench, joining me on the main floor.

“So I’ve been thinking—”

“An endlessly dangerous endeavor,” I quip.

Knox smiles, that little gap between his teeth showing up.

“You need a night off.”

“Okay, now I know you’ve been talking to my family.”

He holds up his hands.

“No. But I thought about what you said the other night…”

Immediately apprehensive, I freeze in motion to listen to his words. Saturday night, I lowered my guard in ways I haven’t done with another person in a long time. The last several weeks have left me not only stressed but without my usual outlets to let off that steam. Knox being there, willing to listen to my unfiltered thoughts, it felt right. But some part of me has been regretting doing that. Hasn’t life shit-kicked me enough at this point to know better?