The Wright Way

Chapter 2

The coffee is gone—an unexpected blow. I search the empty cupboards until I find a forgotten tea packet. Not nearly enough caffeine, but it'll have to do. I slam the drawer closed.

I fill the kettle to the sounds of the small old television mounted above the door. It came with the apartment, just like the rest of the furniture, and that's the only reason why I haven't removed it. I'm still not sure if the convenience of watching the news during breakfast is worth the risk of the thing dropping on my head one day as I walk through the door.

I open the fridge and scan its scarce contents. There're still some vegetables, but the eggs are gone and so is the milk. Looks like the trip to the convenience store is unavoidable.

"Tough questions must be asked," says the TV, and I look up.

A local reporter, a young woman with a bob of brown hair that looks like a wig stands in front of a blackened house. I cringe at the sight of the damage in the background. It looks worse in the daylight. Even the lower floors look like they've been abandoned for decades.

"The efficiency of the fire department is once again under fire," she says, looking pleased with the pun. "Two fire engines arrived on the scene and still it took more than an hour to put out a relatively minor fire, and not until it has consumed two neighboring apartments on the top floor, as you can see." She gestures up and behind her.

I hum, annoyed. She's just another reporter in urgent need of a good story and with zero understanding of how fires work. To her, the moment a hose with water is on the scene, the fire must go out immediately—or else 'tough questions must be asked'.

"Two people have been hospitalized," she continues, looking worried, and then proceeds to interview one of the eyewitnesses. She doesn't mention any deaths, so the girl must be all right. That cheers me up a little. Pulling her from the fire has left me feeling somewhat responsible for her general wellbeing.

"Amelia Harper, from Nashwille Street," says the reporter, looking into the camera again. "Back to you, Marvin."

I reach up and press the 'off' button, the remote control having had been lost long before I've moved in. The TV goes black before Marvin can pass any more judgement on the firefighters' performance. I sigh, shaking my head. The way this day begins, I'm going to need coffee to survive it.

The street looks drab and grey, and so is the sky, but occasional glimpses of blue hint at the possibility of sunshine later. Still, it's chilly, and I push my hands deeper into the pockets of my jeans, regretting not having put on a hoodie. The spring is strange this year, each day either a recap of colder times or a preview of the summer to come.

I turn round the corner and enter the convenience store.

There's no one behind the register, but noises of what sounds like boxes being dragged around come from the back room. Quiet music is playing, a slow jazz melody, and a few customers wander along the aisles slowly, as if moving to the tune.

Passing the newspapers stand, I half expect to see the blackened building, but it clearly wasn't a big enough fire to make the front page. No causalities, too.

Then, a photo of Uncle Zachary catches my eye, and I hastily look away. He did make it to the front page—again.

I head to the fridge in the back of the shop and get myself a bottle of milk and a pack of eggs. I add some bread to the basket and move to the stand with different brands of coffee and stop in front of it, contemplating.

"Morning, Ethan," says Quannell, the shop owner, edging past me to the counter. His mop of curly black hair looks wilder than usual today, and he runs his fingers through it before flashing me a smile.

"A bad hair day," he says.

"Tell me about it." I add a jar of coffee to my basket, and then, after a brief hesitation, another one.

"Saved any lives lately?"

I glance up, confused as to how he could possibly have known about the girl, but then remember he'd asked that a few times before. Just a friendly banter with a customer he knows is a firefighter, nothing more.

"All the time," I say.

"Thought so." He grins again and then turns to another customer. "Want to pay?"

"Yes, please."

The soft, husky voice makes me glance up, and then I nearly drop my basket.

It's him. The familiar black coat, the long, equally black hair. I don't see the face—he's looking down, taking the items from his basket and placing them on the counter, but it's him, for sure. And the voice...it feels familiar, even though I've never heard him speak. I've never even seen him this close, and now here he is, literally at a hand's distance.

There's a moment of confusion as I'm taking all that in, and then panic rises in my throat, threatening to choke me.

"How much is this?" he says, showing something to Quannell. I don't see what that is, and I don't care, because he's beginning to turn, and I can tell that he's going to look my way in a moment, and then he'll see how I look at him, and he'll know what I think, and I can't let that happen.

I turn around and head to the far end of the aisle, where I nearly run into an old lady turning the corner.

"Everything all right?" calls Quannell, but I don't look back because I know that if Quannell is looking my way, then he is also looking my way. Somehow, as ridiculous as it seems, it feels extremely important that he doesn't know that I exist. I know I'm being irrational—not seeing him doesn't make him not see me—but this is happening too fast for rationality. I just didn't expect to meet him here.

I didn't expect to meet him, period.

"All's fine," I say, not looking back. "Just...forgot something. Sorry," I tell the old lady who looks at me suspiciously. I edge past her and turn the corner and only stop in the next aisle, safely out of everyone's sight.

I'm such an idiot. Instead of facing him and standing my ground, I run away. Uncle Zachary would have been ashamed of me. Yet this city is different, its rules strange, protecting the wicked instead of the righteous.

Why am I even reacting to him like this? He's just one of those weird character that walk the streets of this sin city. Perhaps it's his androgynous looks that draw my curiosity. There's just something so confusing about a man having a face that's so perfect, despite its guarded, borderline arrogant expression. Perhaps it's that exact expression that makes me want to get closer each time I spot him on the streets—the puzzling reaction of which I feel ashamed every single time.

Anyway, I better make sure I never see him again.