Page 22 of The Truths We Burn

Contrasting our outer appearance to a vicious extreme, my voice is deadly.

Cold.

Ruthless.

Lacking any emotion aside from resentment.

My smile grows wider as his arms retract, falling at his sides as he heeds my warning.

Which I think is the smartest thing he’s done this entire evening.

“Sage, I’m sorry,” he breathes, not because he means it, but because he knows I’m not bluffing. Not even a little.

Moving my face towards him, I peck his cheek quickly, chaste and straight to the point. The period at the end of this conversation.

Although my father has yet to reply to my text, I still back away. “Text you later, babe!”

I need out of here. Away from him. Away from the presumptions.

Despite the fact my house is several miles from Main Street, I look forward to the walk.

The fresh air, the quiet, the solitude.

Weaving my way through town, I wave to those who make eye contact and look at what’s left of the celebration, the fallen decorations and trash that will be gone by morning.

In times like these, if you catch Main Street at the right time, it almost feels like an abandoned location after an apocalyptic war.

Empty. Secluded. Forgotten.

Decades ago, this town stopped being a home, becoming less and less, until it turned into what it is now.

A ghost.

Lonely and heartbroken.

A ghost of everything that could have been and what never was.

The worst part is, it doesn’t haunt us like most people would argue.

It does not hide in the dark beneath your bed or draw messages on your foggy mirror.

It’s present, it’s alive, because we refuse to let go of it. Move on from it. Forget it.

My ears ring as they’re flocked with the sound of a lawnmower, or what sounds like a one.

The buzzing grows louder and louder before my curiosity makes me turn just in time to watch the gray motorcycle whiz past me, the rider turning his head from the road with reckless abandon to look over at me as I stand on the shoulder.

His matte helmet prevents me from seeing his eyes, but I know whose face lies beneath.

I refrain from flipping him the bird just in time for his brake lights to glow deep red.

I’ve never truly conformed to any one organized religion, although I attend Sunday mass each week, but in this very second, I would have been willing to convert to just about anything if it meant Rook Van Doren would keep driving.

Unfortunately, whatever god or gods are among us didn’t do an express lane to mercy or grace.

“Heard about your boyfriend’s car,” he says arrogantly as he removes the helmet from his head, pieces of straight brown hair falling down in front of his face, “A shame, really. No one should mess with a man’s ride.”

The grin that appears on his face makes me ill with irritational anger. Annoyance, like a fly that keeps hovering over your nicely planned picnic.

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