Page 30 of Glass Rose
Later. I’ll fall apart later.
Gavin hefts the bag of supplies over his shoulder, leading the way to the front door. I follow, pausing at the threshold for one last look at my childhood home. Golden sunlight drifts through the windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. So normal. So ordinary. As if the world hasn’t ended.
“I’m never coming back here,” I say aloud.
He doesn’t contradict me, doesn’t offer false hope that someday things will return to normal. “Take what you need to remember. The rest is just things.”
I touch the necklace, feeling the shape of the heart pendant beneath my fingertips. “I have what I need.”
We emerge into the morning sun, shutting the past behind us.
“Six-oh-five.” Gavin checks the watch on his wrist. Is it from the guard? “We have fifty-five minutes to get back.”
“Will Alex really leave without us?”
“Yes.” No hesitation in his answer. “He’s a survivor. Selfish, but smart.”
“We have history.”
“What kind of history?”
I touch the knife strapped to my thigh, still uncomfortable with its weight. “The kind where you know someone’s an asshole but fuck them anyway.”
“You fucked?”
“It wasn’t serious. Just… convenient.”
“Convenient.” A muscle twitches in his jaw. “Code?”
“1234.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s a cheap neighborhood, not a bad one.”
He punches in the code, and the door groans upward, revealing my dad’s pristine blue truck.
“You good to drive?” He tosses me the car keys.
I catch them, metal biting into my palm. “Yeah.”
The dashboard gleams with the care of a man who loved his vehicle, who washed it every Sunday after church, who planned to drive it for another decade at least.
“I’ll meet you at the store.” His hand remains on the door frame as I climb in. “If it’s compromised, there’s an old factory two blocks north. Brick building, blue door. I’ll look for you there. Don’t stop for anyone.”
“Not even you?”
“Especially not me.”
“That was contradictory.” I fight back the fear clawing up from my stomach. “Just so you know.”
“Yes.” His expression softens, and he reaches out, brushing his thumb across my cheek. The gesture is so unexpected, so gentle, so natural, that I forget to breathe. “It was.”
Then he’s gone, striding to the back door. My hand rises unconsciously to touch the spot on my cheek where his thumb left a trail of fire.
I’m going crazy. Aren’t I?
I shake my head, forcing my mind back to the task. The truck engine turns over on the first try. Of course, it does—my father maintained it meticulously. The thought brings fresh tears to my eyes, but I blink them away.
