Page 17 of Tips and Trysts

His pants are faded black with worn hems, like they’ve dragged on the floor under his heels. His shoes look well-loved but professional, like he wears them to work and on the weekends. The dirt on the soles tells me he might be in construction or gardening, and those shoes don’t match his belt, which sits on his hips, rather than his waist.

This isn’t a man who regularly dresses this way; this is a man who wants to pass as someone else.

The man doesn’t say anything when he takes another step along the path. Another step.

That next step ignites every warning signal I’ve developed over my twenty-four years.

“Can I help you?” Everett asks.

The man takes yet another step, and a wave of unease starts in my stomach and fans out to my chest and limbs.

“Everett,” I warn, willing him to stop being such a guy and realize something isn’t right, but he doesn’t look for warnings. He expects them to jump out with the grace of a jack in the box. He’ll readily call a man like Tyler a threat, but he’s fooled by things like a clean jacket and a recognizable shirt.

A woman knows. A woman is a seismometer detecting tremors before they quake. A woman knows when a situation is fundamentallywrong.

“Can youhelpme?” the man parrots, and his tone is jagged. He takes another step closer, compelling me to take two steps back toward Everett—toward the dead-end of Healy Hall’s stone walls behind us. “Tell your father what he did.”

Everett’s brow knots. “My father—”

“Tell him I’m going to lose my kids now,” the man spits, and with his next step forward, I see the rim of red around his irises from tears or exhaustion or drugs or…I don’t know…demon possession. No clue. Doesn’t matter. Regardless, we’re not safe here.

“Everett,” I urge, pulling on his arm. “Move.”

“Your father’s budget cuts are going to force me to choose between working and taking care of my goddamn family. Did he think about that?”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Everett replies, eyes on the man while he weaves his arm around my stomach and pulls me toward him.

I go. I go willingly.

The man takes yet another step, and he’s ten feet away, give or take. “Sorry?” His laugh is more like an abrupt bark. “Your apology doesn’t do shit for me.Fix it.That’s what I need.”

“I would,” Everett offers, furtively moving both of our bodies backwards. “There are resources to help families. Agencies—”

“What do you know about resources?” the man hisses. “Look at your suit. Your watch. The diamonds your mother wears in her ears. The anniversary party your parents held last summer with the fireworks. You don’t know shit about resources.”

And the man digs his hand into the pocket of his jacket.

On the two previous occasions when I’ve seen a gun in real life, I’ve been surprised by how small they are. This one is no exception. Guns come in all shapes and sizes, I know, but this particular gun is the size of a cell phone. It’s concealable and unassuming, much like the man standing in front of Everett and me.

And yet it could kill either of us.

Immediately, Everett shoves me behind him. Maybe he does it because of some latent chivalrous instinct, but maybe it’s because he’s still in denial about what I know: He’s the target.

“You’re all fucking oblivious,” the man goes on, emphasizing his words by jolting the gun with his outstretched arm. “But one day, someone is going to take what you love. When it happens, I hope I get to watch. I hope it breaks you.” He cocks the gun. “It’s the governor’s turn.”

The next few seconds feel longer than any I’ve ever lived. Everett faces me, expression urgent, and he pushes me away while hissing a single word I’ll never forget:

“Run.”

When I was seventeen and a freshman at Harvard, I took my first psychology class on adrenaline. The adrenal glands emit the hormone in an intrinsic, biological process without any prompting from logic, rationality, or conscious intent. More often than not, the body processes the reaction before awareness sinks in.

Tonight, I feel the gravity of this moment before I understand it.

The quickening of my heartbeat. The racing throb of my lungs forcing me to breathe faster. The sense of vigilance tingling in the goosebumps on my skin.

I don’t listen. I don’t run.

I throw myself in front of Everett while wrenching myself from his firm grip, covering his body with mine and sending both of us careening in the other direction. His alarmed shout fills my ears like a hurricane wind, swallowing me whole until a crack rings out.

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