Punk 57(49)

I stopped being able to talk to you. I stopped looking for a way to talk to you.

Guilt chips away at some of my anger. Annie loved him. She wouldn’t want him alone.

I look over at Dane and see him holding up the flashlight and reading the lyrics I wrote. His eyes move intently but slowly over the paper, and I can tell he’s reading every word.

He looks up and meets my eyes, nodding. “We’re ready to get back to work. You coming home?”

I don’t know. There were reasons I left, but now I worry that I have reasons to stay. And they’re not the reasons I came for. That’s the problem.

I should never have gotten this close to Ryen. It’s complicated now. Either leave and keep my friend or stay and lose her forever.

“I still need to get one more thing,” I tell him. “And then I’ll be home.”



Coming up on the house, I slow to a stop and check the clock on my dash. It’s after midnight, and the street is silent, all of the houses dark.

Except one.

I gaze out at the two-story brick home, a single light coming from the den and a figure moving inside. All the cars are in the driveway, Trey’s Camaro sitting in the middle.

What I need is in that house.

Something of mine—something of my family’s—and I’m getting it back. Fuckface has a baseball game Friday night, and the whole family will be there. I can do it then, and then I can get out of here.

The shadow passes in front of the large den window again, and I follow it with my eyes, the warm light from inside so inviting, making my chest ache. How nice to think your children are safe under your roof, warm and sleeping peacefully, surrounded with love in their perfect world.

That’s about to change.

I put the truck in gear and speed off, heading around the corner toward the school. Ryen’s house is on the way, and I want to see her all of a sudden.

I’ve wanted to talk to her for the past two days, but yeah… I’d just dig myself into a bigger hole, because that’s all I know how to do it seems. I want to crawl in through her window and just touch her and talk to her and see if she can make me see the end of this. Make me figure out how to rewind and start over, before I abandoned her all those months ago when I should’ve clung to her and let her know how much I need her.

But if I could go back—to before I met her in person—would I really want to?

No. I wouldn’t trade those minutes in the lab for anything. Or the ones in the back of my truck.

Eventually we all have to weigh what we want more: wanting back what we had or wanting what could be. To stay or to risk everything to move forward.

I pass her house. She has a temper, and I’m tired tonight.

Besides, I need a shower before I try to crawl into bed with her.

Parking on the other side of the street, in front of the school, I grab my duffel with a change of clean clothes and jog across the road, keeping an eye out for passersby. Not that it’s not dead as doornails at this hour, but you never know.

I run across the school parking lot, not seeing any cars, but I look around just in case. I heard they were going to start hiring security to do sweeps every so often, trying to catch the little vandal who’s decorating the walls, but I don’t see any security vehicles. And they’re still in the process of getting the cameras working, so for now, it’s safe.

Jumping the fence to the practice field, I hike up onto some old football equipment and lift up the loose screen leading into the men’s locker room. Raising the window, I hop up and plant my ass on the sill and swing my legs over. I throw my duffel on the floor and jump down, turning around to close the window again.

I’ve only risked this a few times in the past couple of weeks, but I’m tired of mooching off Dane for his shower, too. And plus, I could take all night here if I wanted. Even the couches in the library are more comfortable than the Cove.

I grab a towel and strip, stepping into a stall and turning on the water. The hot spray spreads chills down my body, and I damn near groan at the pleasure. This is definitely a perk of not living at the Cove. I miss my shower at home with my dry-erase marker I used to write on the wall and all the time alone I want.

I wash my hair and body, savoring the soothing temperature of the water probably longer than I should. As soon as I’m done, I dry off and dress in a clean pair of jeans and a black thermal, packing my dirty clothes back in my bag.

But suddenly I hear a beeping and then quick stutters of white noise. I freeze, training my ears.

“Yeah,” a male voice says. “I’ll sweep down here and meet you upstairs.”

“Shit!” I whisper. I stuff the rest of my clothes in the bag and jump behind a row of lockers just as the door opens.

Fuck. Okay, my car’s not in the school parking lot, I closed the window on the way in, I picked up all my shit, and … My eyes fall on the steam from my shower still floating around the ceiling.

Son of a bitch.

I peer around the corner, seeing the security guard flash his light into the shower. My f*cking heart pounds in my chest, and I shoot a glance to the window, knowing there’s no way I’m getting out that way. Darting my eyes to him once again, I see him check out the steam hovering high and then immediately shoot his light around, looking for me. He knows someone’s here.

I bolt. Twisting on my heel, I dart down the row of lockers and swing open the door, a huge creak filling the quiet.