Aftermath(31)

I’ve been asked on dates since I left Riverside. And I’ve refused. Never been out with a boy, never kissed one, and I know those two things don’t need to go together but for me, they do. I’ve told myself I’m just too busy. Too preoccupied. I’m only sixteen. Plenty of time for that later.

The truth is that none of those boys measured up to Jesse.

To think that he could be stalking me? Sending horrific videos of the shooting? Breaking into my home? Trapping me in a fire?

That hurts in a way nothing has since the day of the shooting, when I ran to my mother and said, “Tell me it isn’t true,” and she collapsed, sobbing.

I can’t confront Jesse. If I do, I’ll be the one collapsing in tears. Everything that’s happened will come to a head. I’ll break down, and he’ll know he’s won. I have no idea what the game is, but he will have won.

I watch Jesse, my hands shaking as I clutch my phone. I’m waiting for a chance to dart the other way, to the coffee shop. When he takes out his phone, I freeze.

Don’t wait to see what he sends next. Just go. While he’s distracted.

I tug up my hood and push the door. Brakes squeal. It’s a pickup truck, but it’s heading the other way, passing Jesse, who’s still busy on his phone. The truck idles in front of the condo until someone drives up behind it and taps the horn. That makes Jesse look, but the truck pulls away, tires spinning.

I duck out in the opposite direction and head for the coffee shop.

Skye

Jesse doesn’t send me anything else. I’ve got my phone in hand, fingers wrapped tightly around it, waiting for the vibration. I’m checking the cell signal when brakes squeak. I look up to see that same pickup in front of me, having turned around and come back. It’s idling again. Three guys sit in the front seat. A RivCol football sticker decorates the window.

I’m reasonably sure they didn’t spot me earlier. If they stopped for anyone, it seemed to be Jesse. But he only glanced up, no sign that he knew the occupants.

The truck takes off with another chirp of the tires. It turns down a road two intersections away and disappears from sight.

Hello, paranoia.

I still exhale in relief when I spot the coffee shop sign. Then I see the FOR LEASE one. Figures. Oh well, I know there’s another cafe around the next corner, which may be why this one went out of business.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text. I jump. When I lift it, my hand is shaking.

It’s just Mae.

Her: Home yet?

I type stopped 4 and add a coffee emoji.

The pause tells me she’s deciphering. I resend in full verbiage and add: That okay?

Her: np! Can I pick you up in an hour? We’ll go out for dinner.

I don’t want to go out for dinner, but if I say that, it’ll seem like I’m being difficult. I start to reply, asking her to pick me up at the coffee shop. Then I take a deep breath and reply: Just text before you leave & I’ll wait at condo.

I pocket my phone. When I look up, I see that truck. It stopped after turning the corner. It’s idling. Again.

Because they’re looking for a place and pulled over to Google-check their destination. Just chill. Seriously.

Still, I pick up my pace as I make the next right and look for the coffee shop sign, which is… farther than I expected.

Again, chill. It’s not midnight. It’s not ten miles away. Stop freaking out.

When I hear a car turn the corner behind me, I don’t look back. I will not be paranoid. Will not.

The pickup whips past and veers into a lane I’m just about to cross. The door swings open, and I see the ginger-haired guy who checked me out at the track meet.

Great. I eye-rolled his once-over yesterday, and now he’s spotted me and had his buddies drive back so he can let me know exactly how big an opportunity I missed.

I start to give a sarcastic “Can I help you?” before realizing all the ways that can be answered. Instead, I fix Ginger Dude with a cool “Yes?”

“Skye, right? Skye Gilchrist?”

The driver’s door opens. It shuts with a slam. A big guy in a football jacket saunters around the front of the truck.

I glance toward the back bumper. That’s all I do – glance. But Ginger Dude sidesteps that way, as if I’m making a break for it. The passenger door opens again. A third guy moves into the opening but stays on the seat, sideways, his legs dangling, the door wide.

“RivCol Raiders, huh?” I say, nodding at the big guy’s jacket. “What do you play?”

“Wide receiver,” he says, and he puffs up, as if waiting for me to… I don’t know, ask for an autograph?

“How’s the team doing this season?” I say, as if I’m some grown-up trying to make polite conversation with the local kids. His eyes narrow, like maybe I’m insinuating something about the team.

“I heard they were city champs last year,” I say. “I’ll look forward to seeing you guys play this season.”

That look stays fixed on his face, waiting for the insult, because this is just too civilized a conversation. Ginger Dude’s eyes gleam in anticipation. He’s hoping I’ll insult his football-playing friend, which will give him an excuse to get up in my face.

“Good luck with next week’s game,” I say. “And enjoy your Saturday night. You’re going to…” I follow the lane they’ve pulled into. “The Lion and Lamb. Hope you’ve got your ID ready. I hear they can be jerks about it.”