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That boy will be your downfall.
They say history repeats itself more often than not. There’s poetry in nature. A symmetry. But I say that it won’t. History won’t repeat itself. Even though, we’re running away like his parents, David and Delilah, we won’t end up like my parents, Elizabeth and William, broken and toxic to each other.
Falling on my own knees in front of him, I say, “Yes. It’s always been a yes, you big idiot.”
I hug him and he fists my hair, pulls my neck back and stares down at me with ferocity. You’d think he’d devour my lips now, eat me up, drink me down. But no. His kiss is sweet and tender.
Still watching me, he produces a ring from his pocket. It’s small with a white band and a tiny diamond atop it. It’s not flashy or expensive but it’s mine and I’ll wear it till the day I die.
Abel puts the ring on my finger, kissing it. “You ready for an adventure, Pixie?”
“Yes.” I kiss the ring, too. “We’ll be our own gods. You be mine and I’ll be yours.”
“Fuck yeah.”
As we see the town in the rear-view mirror of the truck, I hear my dad’s words again. I twist the ring on my finger and promise myself that I will never let his words become true.
Abel Adams will never be my downfall.
The next day, we reach New York just as the sun is setting over the Empire State Building.
After leaving Prophetstown, we kept driving up I-80. Except for gas and some food, we didn’t stop anywhere. We were both paranoid, even though I knew Abel wanted to stop when he saw me falling asleep at an awkward angle.
But the risk was too much. What if they found us? What if they took me away? So, we kept running, kept driving away from the people that almost ripped us apart.
But now we’re here. In New York.
It’s exactly as Abel described. Tall buildings jutting up to the sky, crowds eating up the earth. The steam is rising from the potholes. The horns are blaring. The cars and buses are crawling over each other. And people. Dear God, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many people together in one place. Not even in church.
As soon as we enter the city, I know I love it. It’s nothing like the town I left less than twenty-four hours before. It’s wild and untamed. It’s a little intimidating and it might take me a little bit to get used to the largeness of it, but I feel in my bones that this is where I’m supposed to be. I have a feeling that New York City has a place for everyone: the runaways, the misunderstood, the lovers, the strugglers, the drifters, the successful.
In this city, our love will grow. This is our adventure now.
This particular pocket is filled with colors and I like it immediately. Buildings are red, orange, cream. The symbols on the road signs are both in English and what I’m guessing is Chinese. The very air rings with those exotic symbols spoken aloud and the smell of peanuts.
This is where Abel’s childhood friend Ethan lives. I’ve seen Ethan before in photographs on Abel’s phone. He has agreed to let us crash in his apartment for a few days, until we find something of our own.
Abel’s truck sort of dies when he throws it in park, like it was waiting to deliver us to this city before taking its last breath. I think he might miss it since he’s been driving it around for ages. He hops out on a narrow but busy street. Without waiting for him to open my door, I jump out myself. But I stumble on my feet, already dreading the nasty fall I’ll be taking. But I should’ve known.
I should’ve known that Abel will catch me.
He grips my biceps, steadying me and bringing me flush to his body. And then, I’m standing in Abel’s city.
“Hey, Pixie,” he rumbles, bringing his arms around my waist, the place he loves the most.
I clutch his cross. “Hey.”
“You okay?”
“Yes. Remember how you saved me that day on the bus? When I was about to fall on you?”
“Yeah.” He nods, smiling. “You were a victim of my charm, I know.”
“It was the bus. It moved and threw off my balance.”
He squints his eyes as if trying to look in the past, remember that day. “Nah, I’m pretty sure it was me.”
I chuckle. “You’re crazy.”
“Only for you.”
He says it so seriously, with such gravity that all my anger comes out in the form of tears. How could they not see how much we love each other? How could they even think of tearing us apart? How could my dad do this to him?
In the light of day, his injuries look worse. His face is a study of purple, yellow and blue splotches, and I run my fingers over the swollen hills. “Does it hurt?”
