2.1 | renegade effect (on hold until 2024)

08 | lacuna

l a c u n a : in which there is a missing piece

***

WHEN THE SUN RISES, SCOUT TAYLOR REACHES THE CONCLUSION THAT SHE IS EXHAUSTED.

She isn't surprised. There's still an ache throbbing on the left side of her chest—just above her heart, beating in time with the same unfamiliar emotion from last night. Scout's freezing, dewdrops dripping down the slope of her neck, and she shifts her weight back and forth and back with a muted sigh. The rubber of her soles squeaks too loudly against worn pavement. Outside is bright, sunshine dipped in cherry syrup and dripping in equal parts of liquor and honey, a softness to it that wraps around both of her wrists. Scout thinks that it reminds her of the ocean, and, perhaps, the fluidity of the waves, or the way they purposefully rise and lower and clash. But this makes sense, because she has always been drawn to vast, dangerous things: a glorious glimmer of nature.

Monday mornings are her least favorite. People are unforgiving on Mondays. Shitty things happen on Mondays, like when Scout lost the keys to her apartment after leaving them in her lecture hall and had to change her locks the day after. It brings thoughts of: I'll be okay, I'll be fine, it's only five days and then it's the weekend again, don't stress. She hates those thoughts the most. Despises them.

But still, they come.

(When will they leave? Maybe never. Maybe they'll stay with her forever.)

This time, though, Scout is exhausted from the four hours of restless sleep she'd managed to strangle down on the couch. Her eyes droop precariously, edges of her lips twisted in an uncomfortable grimace as city air ruffles strands of tangled hair. The route to Butter Up is so short that most of the time, she doesn't bother to waste money on gas, preferring to walk instead. She turns the corner slowly, and, when Scout is close enough to see the warm glow of the industrial ovens through a barrier of translucent glass, smells soft sugar and toasted caramel and vanilla froth. Smells the coldness of the weather bite at her throat, a little harsh and a lot soft, a familiar frost spreading all the way down to the pads of her fingers.

Scout Taylors is a simple person. She likes when it's sunny outside—but not too sunny, because she gets hot easily and hates the feeling of sweat sticking to her skin—and likes watching movies underneath a blanket, board games scattered on top of her dining table as Jiera and Clarence bring boxes of pizza and bottles of cheap wine. Those are the best nights, she thinks, and she almost gets lost in the thick of it: I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay.

She volunteers at the hospital because not enough people in this world do, and there are too many children sitting in lonely beds in the pediatrics section with no one to take their hands. On Thursday evenings, Scout holds weekly study groups for confused freshmen and helps them review the careless mistakes on initial quizzes, marks the letters in purple and spends hours highlighting review guides. Schedules have grown to be a comfort, because at least then, Scout will go from one thing to another with a set beginning and end, a boundary that even time itself refuses to break. At least then, she doesn't have the luxury to think about waking up alone and eating alone and falling asleep alone and doing it all over again the day after. Tired, tired, tired. She's tired.

But this morning—this morning is different. This morning is wrapped in sterling silver and velvet and those peach-filled tarts she loves so much, candied lemons bursting on the top of her tongue and going sour, sugared, sweet. There is someone waiting for her at home, likely still curled up into a ball underneath the duvet, all sharp angles and soft fingertips peeking out just above the sheets.

She trembles.

The wind picks up and bites again at where her collarbones kiss. Scout slips her hand into her jacket pocket, feeling the loose change and spearmint gum wrappers from a week ago. She bites her bottom lip. Wonders if he knew what he sounded like last night, those horrible, horrible noises bordering on whimpers and breaths of I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't go, don't make me—don't make me do this, please, please, please.