Gun Shy(21)



“How’s your brother?” I ask between mouthfuls.

“Rich and annoying,” Jennifer says, waving her hand dismissively. “He married Shelly, you know. They’ve got three daughters and she’s pregnant again. They keep saying they want to keep it a surprise, but everyone knows they’re just going to keep going until they have a boy. Which means this next baby has to be a girl.”

Speaking to a teenage girl after eight years of male conversation, peppered with the occasional yard chat with a female prison guard, is jarring. I can practically see the cogs moving in her brain, but they’re whirring too fast for me to focus on. I’ve forgotten how much girls like to talk.

“They might have a boy,” I say, pushing my nachos away and sipping on my coffee. It’s strong and incredibly bitter.

Jennifer raises her perfectly manicured eyebrows. “If you want something that much, you’re never going to get it,” she says, sliding back out of the booth and grabbing her coffee pot, her mug forgotten. “It’s just the way the world works.” She tips her chin toward the rucksack on the seat next to me, all of my worldly possessions from prison and a hundred dollars from the gate. “How are you getting home?” she asks. “Pike picking you up?”

“Pike lives in Vegas now,” I reply. “Or maybe it’s Reno.”

“Huh,” Jennifer says. “He’s got that side bangs thing going on, right?” She grabs a section of her bangs and imitates the extreme hairstyle my brother has had since our senior year. He visited me in Lovelock like, three months ago, and he still had the fucking thing. Jennifer pretends to flick hair out of her eyes with an exaggerated head toss, and I laugh. “Yeah, that’s my brother.”

She nods. “He was here this afternoon, getting coffee to go. He’s got those extenders in his ears. His earlobes are like, basically touching his shoulders or whatever. He looks like a homeless Criss Angel.”

“He’s in town?” I didn’t tell him I was coming home. He must be visiting Mom. What a good son.

Jennifer shrugs. “Yeah. You need a lift home? I get off at ten.”

I look at the clock on the wall above her head. It’s nine-forty-five. “That’s nice, but—”

“Leo. I drive right past your house. I won’t even stop the car if it makes you feel better. I’ll just open the door and you can jump out while I’m rolling.”

I open my mouth to protest, but — it looks fucking cold outside.

“A ride would be nice,” I say, with difficulty. “Thank you.”

I catch sight of a trucker glaring at me from across the diner. I know him. Lou Potts. Owns all the transport rigs around these parts. I’ve fixed his trucks countless times. Well, I used to. Something about the way he’s trying to kill me with his eyes tells me that he won’t be hiring me again anytime soon.

Jennifer follows my gaze, looking over her shoulder at Lou. “What’s his problem?” she whispers, turning back to me.

“Me,” I say, draining my coffee and letting her fill it again. “His problem is me.”

“Why?” Jennifer asks. “What did you do?”

She’s too young to hate me for the accident and too pubescent to care about anything else except lip gloss and shopping at the mall with her friends. Or whatever the fuck it is sixteen-year-old girls do. As I recall, Cassie enjoyed outdoor sex and baking when she was sixteen, but she was always different than other girls. Kind of why I loved her so much.

Love her so much. Still. Even though I haven’t seen her in eight years.

At ten on the dot, Jennifer comes back to my table. “It’s on me. Keep your money,” she says, picking up the folded note I’ve left under the salt shaker. I grab her wrist as she’s stuffing the crumpled twenty into my pocket.

“Jennifer, you’re in high school. Keep your money. Save up for spring break or something.”

“I drive an eighty-thousand-dollar Range Rover, Leo,” she replies, sticking up her perfectly polished middle finger at me. “And my manicure cost more than your nachos.”

I thank her for the meal and for the three extra doggy bags full of cherry pie that she hands me on our way out. I doubt my mom would have stocked the fridge — she doesn’t even know I’m coming home — so I stop arguing and take the favor. I know she feels sorry for me. But at least she doesn’t want to rip my fucking throat out like Lou who stares at us as we leave the diner, as I slide into the Range Rover’s electronically-warmed passenger seat, and as we drive off down the highway.

I almost expect to feel something when we cross the bridge. I see the shiny section where they replaced the guardrail that I busted through on my way down. The creek below is flanked by shadows, far too dark to make it out, but I know it’ll be frozen over. It was frozen over when I crashed.

I don’t remember getting in the car, or going off the bridge, but I do remember the freezing cold water as it seeped into my car. I remember the flames on my arm. I remember Teresa King’s face as she screamed. As she burned.

“Are you excited?” Jennifer asks, piercing my garish daydream.

“Excited?”

“About going home. About seeing your family.”

I laugh under my breath. “Sure. I guess.”

“Did you forget how to have a conversation in prison?” Jennifer asks pointedly. Shit. Guilt slams into me, shame. This girl who hasn’t seen me since she was in grade school gave me food, a ride home, and no judgment and I’m not even making polite conversation with her.

Lili St. Germain's Books