Page 152 of Run Away Home: Tempered

I reach across the center console and fling open the door with all my might. It hits into his knee. He rubs it, slowly, then he looks up at me. I turn my face toward the windshield. I refuse to look at him. I refuse to give him that.

“Th-Thank you.” He climbs into the car. He chugs down what’s left of his drink, drops the empty bottle accidentally, and picks it back up.

“Peter. This is the last time. I hope you realize that.” I start driving before he can close the door. I feel bad for him, but not bad enough. He finally gets a grip on the handle and shuts it quietly. Too quietly. I’m not sure if it is really closed. Maybe I should...

Nope. I will not. I keep driving.

“You’re r-right, it is last time...because...Sean let me go,” he says. “Just what I... Just what I...n-needed...”

I see him out of my peripheral vision. He’s looking at me, expecting a response. He expects pity or acknowledgment, but I’m enraged. I clench my jaw.

“I meant the last time you’ll be seeing me...ever.” I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, readjusting myself as if it will help me gain some sort of strength, but I don’t look directly at him.

“What do you mean?”

He continues to gawk at me. He knows fully what I mean.

I refuse to look at him. It’s the one bit of power I have left. I can’t fall for the “deer in headlights” look. I can’t do this to myself. I shouldn’t be looking at him, anyway. I have to keep my eyes on the road. I’m not getting into an accident because of this fool.

“I told you, if you wanted this to work, you would stop drinking. Here we are again, and this time... This time, you got fired for it! How did you expect I would react to this? You think I would forgive you, give you another chance? Unlimited chances?”

“And I told you I am not d-drunk! I’m sick, Kara. I—”

“Oh, stop it,” I interject. “You know what, you are sick. You’re an alcoholic, and you need help. You—”

“Mary, Mary, Jesus, and St. Joseph, I had nothing to drink, n-n-nothing! I need someone to...someone to believe me.”

“You smell like vomit, Peter. You look disgusting, you—”

“How would you know, for Christ’s sake, you won’t even... You won’t even l-l-look at me.”

His eyes are stuck on me, but I would look anywhere else other than at him right now. My eyes dart around the road, then I see it. We’re passing by the blue sign with the white “H” on Woodside Avenue.

Perfect opportunity. Perfect retort.

“If you’re sick, I’m taking you to the hospital.” I flash my blinker as we approach the turn for the medical center.

He moves his head in toward his lap and cradles it as if he is going to vomit. Finally, he’s not staring at me.

“Oh, hell n-n-no. I’m not going to no hospital. I have enough drama—”

“So, you’re willing to risk your life because of ‘drama?’ What fucking ‘drama?’ I don’t believe you. You’re drunk. Just admit it!”

“I d-don’t care anymore. Just take me home. I just—”

“You’re a liar, and you’re never going to change.” My eyes start to get watery. Why am I giving him the satisfaction of crying? “I don’t know why I put myself through this! I don’t—”

“TAKE ME THE FUCK HOME!” He sits up straight. I can still see him in my peripheral vision. He’s angry. I won’t take this crap. I don’t have to take this.

I slam on my brakes in the middle of Woodside Avenue. I don’t care. No one’s on the road. He nearly flies into the windshield. He protects his body with his hands as he hits into the dashboard. Oh well, should have put your seat belt on. I look right at him for the first time, with resentment.

“Why? So you can be with your BITCH? GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CAR!”

He laughs. He has the audacity to laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “So I can...go be with my b-bitch. Fuck you, Kara. Think you, you know all of...everything, but you don’t know s-s-shit.”

He opens the car door and nearly falls trying to get out. He somehow stands up straight and slams the door behind himself, stumbling down the road in front of me.

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