Page 133 of Redline Baby

Which is fucking stupid.

I work here.

Actually work here.

My name is on the board. I have jobs assigned to me. Soren pays me every other Friday, and after our argument about my starting rate, he pays me exactly what he’d pay another mechanic with my experience.

I live with him.

Not sort of.

Not one drawer.

My clothes are upstairs. My boxes are unpacked. Pretty sits on the dresser with Milkshake and Duffy. I no longer have another apartment waiting somewhere else for me to retreat to.

Soren told me he loves me.

None of it matters to the part of my brain doing the math.

Bike done equals nothing left to fix.

Nothing left to fix equals nothing left that needs me here.

“Cool,” I say.

I try not to sound like this. I fail.

My eyes move toward the shop door. The glass is smudged at handle height, somebody’s palm print pressed into it. Probably mine from last week.

Soren turns back toward the counter. He says something else.

I don’t hear it.

“Did you get the gasket issue sorted?” I ask automatically.

He answers. I don’t hear that either. His mouth moves. Words come out. I nod at what I assume is an appropriate interval while my jaw locks tighter and tighter until I can feel the pressure in my temples.

The cage is there today.

I’ve barely noticed it for hours, but suddenly I’m aware of every point of contact. I shift my weight. The pressure changes.

Nothing improves.

I have an emergency key.

I could unlock it.

The thought arrives ugly and impulsive, less because I actually want the cage off than because some primitive part of me suddenly wants to reject everything that proves I belong to someone.

I notice the impulse. But I don’t obey every thought anymore. Soren sets his rag on the counter.

“I need something from the back.”

I nod. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click. I’m alone in the middle of the shop.

And suddenly I’m not here anymore.

Charles didn’t say anything the last time. That’s the part that comes back hardest—not the fight, not even the boxes. The quiet afterward. I sat on the floor of our bedroom with my back against the closet door. His side was already half-empty. Hangers clicked against each other every time the air conditioning kicked on. I remember thinking, very clearly, in a voice that didn’t sound like mine: nobody is coming.