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“God no. That’d be weird, wouldn’t it?” I laugh casually. He laughs tensely.
A palpable pause settles between us, and I just know Mustache Man is really regretting talking to the weird girl with the happy-go-lucky serial killer interest and who lives at the morgue. I bite my lips so I don’t blurt out the real reason I live there. Because I’m a broke student and my boss took pity on me so he rents it for dirt cheap until I can get on my feet.
Bless him and his soft heart.
Yeah. This is why I’m not good at parties. Or talking to people in general.
“Well, goodnight,” I say to break the silence and put us out of our misery already. If I never have to socialize ever again, it’ll be too soon. How do people do this every day?
“Hey, wait.” His hand slips around mine, and I hate how quickly I try to pull away from him. I hate how instantly the touch startles me. The imprint of his hand burns my own, and I want to yank it away, rub my skin raw against my skirt. It’s an impulse I try to shove down. This touch is normal. Normal people touch. I shouldn’t jump every fucking time someone’s skin brushes against mine. “If you’re not attached to any enormous, unhinged hockey players, can I get your number?”
The amusement on my lips is faint. I can’t even respond at first. A wave of emotions washes into me at once as I remember my boyfriend in high school. The feeling of normalcy and sweetness swirls in with the thought of it all. Until I broke up with him in the middle of the night. And he screamed at me that I’ll always be just as fucked up as my mother.
“Um. I–I don’t know. I don’t even know your name.”
“Simon.” He waits patiently.
I start walking the stairs slowly as I consider giving in to him and the urge to just be normal. It’s a wild thought, a wild dream, that I entertain for a moment.
I could do it. I could leave the comfort and safety of my apartment sometimes. I could date someone like Simon. Fall in love. Trust someone with that love. Live happily ever after...
On the days I’m not trying to visit my mom in a scream-filled, overly medicated hellhole, only to be turned away each fucking time.
It’s his patient demeanor and warm eyes that actually do me in, refusing to let my brief daydream completely shatter. I like to consider myself a good judge of character. I know when someone is shitty, and Simon here isn’t so bad. A little eager, persistent, but not in a bad way. Not the kind that will throw a temper tantrum if I reject him. At least, that’s the vibe I’m getting. Let’s be honest; nobody likes to see a grown-ass fucking man throw a hissy fit because he couldn’t get a girl’s number.
It gives... overgrown mama’s boy.
Not a good look.
“Yeah,” I finally murmur. As I walk the steps, I give him my number, and his smile grows larger and larger with each digit I whisper. He doesn’t get his phone or write it down at all though.
“You gonna just memorize it?” I ask, my back still turned to him as I watch him from over my shoulder.
“By heart,” he swears.
“We’ll see about that.”
“Yes, we will,” he says adamantly.
I’m practically skipping down the sidewalk like an idiot, all because a cute guy asked for my number. I’ve got to start going out more. I moved here for a change for the better. It really is better now.
I’m not the girl that people whisper about, the one with the mother who isunwell. Or the parentless girl who had to drop out of school and get a GED because my life is more screwed up than I allow anyone to ever know.
Daddy issues is an understatement for me.
But not anymore.
Life’s different now.
Better.
I let myself drift into my thoughts as I walk home, to how good life can be if I only gave it a chance. If I try to shake the trauma that clings to me like sticky shadows. The past is in the past. Why would I let it dictate my entire future? Surely it can’t be the foundation of my entire life, can it?
The hope-filled thoughts run through my mind, one after another...
And then all I feel is pain. Someone slams into me, throwing me into the hard wall of a dark alleyway. I scream, but a hand is shoved over my lips, rushing blood across my teeth while slamming my head into a brick wall. My book bag falls to the ground with a splatter of water hitting my legs. A desperate scream sounds behind my tightly pressed lips.
“Shut the fuck up.” His eyes shine through the opening of his black ski mask. “You pissed off the wrong people, sweetheart.” A gun jars into my jaw, pressing so hard into the skin, I swear I’ll choke on the metal long before he ever pulls the trigger.
