Page 78 of Redline Communion

Interesting.

I tighten my grip on my bag. “So what happens if I say no?”

“I leave.”

“You’ll follow me?”

“No.”

“Drive past my apartment twelve times?”

His mouth almost moves. “Probably not twelve.”

“Ash.”

The humor leaves his face.

“No. I’ll leave.”

A part of me built entirely from spite and suspicion immediately wants to test him.

“No, then.”

He nods once, closes the passenger door, and gets behind the wheel.

I stand on the curb while the engine starts, waiting for him to sit there until I change my mind or make me feel guilty for refusing.

He doesn’t.

The car pulls away, and I watch his taillights disappear at the end of the lane.

Well.

That’s irritating.

I don’t know what to do with growth when it arrives without making a speech about itself.

My phone buzzes.

Ash: call if you need me

I stare at the message before typing back.

Me: that was almost normal

Three dots appear, disappear, then return.

Ash: don’t ruin it

I laugh despite myself, which annoys me too.

I end up taking the bus. It smells like wet fabric, somebody’s fries, and a personal choice several seats behind me that I’m trying not to identify. A toddler screams for seven consecutive stops because his mother won’t let him lick the window.

Honestly, relatable.

By the time I reach the house, the sky has gone purple above the gates, and I know something is wrong before I get inside.

This family rarely announces disaster at volume. It parks three identical black cars in the circular drive and expects everyone else to recognize the warning.