Page 33 of Unruly

She holds my gaze for one more second, then she puts her helmet back on and swings a leg over her bike, starts the engine, and pulls out of the gravel lot without looking back.

I watch her go.

The pink bike disappears around the bend, the road goes quiet, and I’m alone again.

She can set all the boundaries she wants.

But she kissed me first. She wanted me—she still wants me. She’s scared and she’s been hurt and she’s got ten years of reasons to keep the door closed, not to mention, she delivered that speech with the steady voice of someone who has been talking herself into it for days.

I know what I saw on her face before she pulled back that night, though.

I know what I saw when the almost-smile came out twice just now, despite everything she was trying to say.

I’m not angry, I’m not frustrated, I’m not going to show up tomorrow and make her uncomfortable or push her somewhere she doesn’t want to go.

I’m just not leaving.

She said find a girl your own age. But there isn’t one. There’s just her. There’s only been just her since she looked up from behind that bar three months ago and called me “kid” like it was going to stick and went back to her limes.

It didn’t stick.

She’s going to figure that out.

I put my helmet on.

I’ll be at The Bar tomorrow.

HALLE

Iwipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, which only spreads the dust from the armoire everywhere.

This stupid fucking armoire.

I saw it at a garage sale this morning—a beautiful heavy oak piece that I scored for next to nothing. At the time, it looked manageable and with minimal girl math, it was going to fit through my front door. However, now that it’s been dropped off and my front door is clearly too narrow, the past twenty minutes feel frustrating.

My arms burn from pushing it, my back aches, and my T-shirt is drenched in sweat, clinging to me uncomfortably.

This shit is not going to get the best of me.

I step back, hands on my hips, assessing if there’s an angle I have yet to try, and willing it to shrink just enough to fit.

“Come the fuck on,” I mutter. “Just … fit.”

It doesn’t. I try to lift one side of it, but my grip slips from sweat and it thuds back down, almost smashing my foot in the process.

This is what I get for being impulsive. I wanted something vintage for my bedroom that could be my centerpiece—something that already has character. Now I’m sweaty, frustrated, and seriously considering making this thing firewood, just so I can set it on fire.

Before it comes to that, I pull out my phone and fire off a text to Colt. He’s always down to help, and I bet with the two of us, we’d get it in, in no time.

Me:

Hey, you off work yet? Bought an armoire at a garage sale and I need help.

Colt:

Got you. Bringing backup with me too.

I shove my phone back in my pocket, relieved. Colt’s always down to help, and it should be pretty painless of a move for him and Rhett.