Get Out If You Can

Hunter | Nothing Good

"Hey, Ali."

"Hunter, darling, what a pleasure," she drawls, her voice laced with — I don't know what, to be honest. I set my phone on the chest of drawers beside my bed, pulling off my greasy shoes. Today was one of those tough days at the garage — but Dad and I know it'll pay off. Work always pays off.

"What's wrong?" I ask. She doesn't answer. Okay, maybe I should've rephrased that question. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Better." She laughs. "Nothing, really. I called to ask you what happened. If anything did."

"Ah." I pull off my socks and stuff them in a corner I'll forget by the next morning. "You're asking about the vandalism?"

"Yes," she says. "It was on your garage, right? What did they write?"

"Nothing," I say. Chills run up my spine, remembering what I'd seen. The cops had taken the entire thing down, of course — they thought it'd be unwise to turn our little house into an overnight tourist attraction — and I quite agree. There'd already been six or seven groups of curious people who innocently passed our house for the very first time today.

"Nothing?"

"Yeah, nothing," I repeat, relishing her tone. I miss these conversations with her, but then — if I'd done anything, I'd done it for the best. Ali wasn't in a right state when we were together. She wasn't anything like what she is now — and, if I'm being honest, I'll say whatever's happened has been good for her. She's bright, snappy, smart and fierce; she knows how to carry herself, and I love it.

Sometimes I wonder if it's all just a fence though. Either way. I've lost the chance to know for real.

"Tell you what," I say, an idea creeping into my head, "you can come and see for yourself. I'll text you the directions to my house — if you don't —"

"That would be great, yeah," she replies. I'm only partially surprised. During all the time I'd spent with her, I've known her to be both remarkably unpredictable — and extremely dominant. I'm serious. There's no messing around with her.

"So I'll—"

She doesn't give me a chance to continue; she's cut the call.

Typical. But I've got to say I like it.

***

Since I really don't know what things build up to, I clean my room, just in case. Like, in more precise terms, I dump all the visible extras into spaces I — and anyone else — won't be able to see.

I look at myself in my mirror. It's cracked at the edges, and somewhere in the middle my reflection's messed up, but I've never bothered to change it. I'm not very much of a mirror fan. I don't usually—

She's here.

I slip on a black hoodie as the sound of bike tires on gravel draws closer. When I'm done, I rush to the door and throw it open.

"Hey," she says, glancing up at me for a brief second. She locks her bike to a reddish-brown iron bar of our gate. She's done in a moment.

"Hey," she repeats, walking towards me. She brushes strands of golden-brown hair behind her ears. "Where's the — well, the you-know-what?"

"This way." I gesture to the beaten path that leads to our garage. "There's not much," I continue, walking ahead of her through our moss-laden garden. If you'd even be kind enough to call it that. "The cops — I don't really know who, to be honest — came and took it down, but I've got pictures, plus you can see what they left behind."

"You honestly called me all the way here to see what they left behind?" She shakes her head, sunlight pouring through her hair.

"Well, I'm sorry I missed you," I say. That mightn't have been the wisest thing to say, but whatever. You've got to take your chances while you still have them.