AT THE END OF THE WORLD

A Tiny Red BIC®

"HEY, I KNOW IT'S BEEN AWHILE, but I... I just, with everything going on..." I spoke too softly, and I hated it. "...I just want to make sure you're okay." Casey stepped out, closed the door quietly, and looked up—a cigarette hanging from his lips. I jerked my chin. Hey. "Um, so... please, if you get this..." His nod. He knew. "...call me back, okay?"

I drew a ragged breath as I hung up.

I didn't know what was going on, but when I slid my iPhone back into my pocket, I only knew I was in Sarah's backyard, doused by a hazy dawn, safe in Ridgewood; I really did believe... because I'd managed to get a signal, it could've all been a fucking fluke.

Spoiler: I was so, so, so wrong.

"Got through?" Casey approached casually. "Voicemail?"

My lips pressed. "Yeah."

"Shit, Kir, I'm really sorry," he said, placing a hand to his heart, as if it hurt him, too—a gesture I'd found less mocking the more I saw him do it. Casey wasn't an asshole unless you warranted it: Casey came off kinda... genuine. "I'm sure Yoona's okay."

Hopefully.

"Um, Sarah—" I lifted an arm, pointing behind him wearily. "Sarah said's cool for us to crash a couple nights, as long as you don't start shit with John."

And Casey let out a little laugh, exhaustedly insulted, vaguely incredulous and annoyed. Fuck, I couldn't describe his mannerisms in a way that did them right, you know? It was such a petty laugh, I remember. He'd rub his jaw, shake his head, close his eyes, in mild bemusement, and I knew Casey Kelly was done.

I waited, but I didn't get a verbal agreement.

Instead, Case offered his cigarette, and I shrugged, grabbing it halfheartedly. He cursed, digging into his jacket pocket. His brows creased, etched with a flicker of clueless concern. "Shit, I think I..." he trailed off in a cough, and I winced for him. Never a good sign to be coughing, especially nowadays, but in a household of heavy smokers, I barely noticed anymore. "I think I stole your lighter."

Between us, a tiny red BIC®, being pressed into my numb palm.

"Is John inside?"

The hint of a forced smile. "Yeah."

Yikes.

"Remember when that asshole told you he was scared of you living with me?"

I grimaced. "Yeah."

"Like I'd hurt you," Casey scoffed.

Honestly, it had hurt his feelings more than anything to hear it, I think. It had hit me in so many wrong ways—being told by a practical stranger that I wasn't safe with another practical stranger. Like... fuck off, I can take care of myself. If I even remotely thought Casey would hurt me, I wouldn't waste my breath on him.

I lit my cigarette silently, passed the lighter to him, watched him light a second cigarette silently. It was all smoky instinct, softening into the burn, or the haze, or the moment of calm recollection, forgetting I was fucked, if only for a moment.

"Hey!"

Only a moment. Ugh.

Sarah poked out, an arm extended, beckoning us back. "Hey, check this out, guys." Casey shook his head, but dropped his cigarette and stubbed it, albeit excruciatingly slowly. "Guys."

It hung off the end in a hurry, rushed, panicked, and I felt my chest tighten, knots of tension only THC could untie. I wasn't high enough for this, and neither was Casey. Everything warped, I remember, in a frantic pulse of fear. Ground. Sky. Flipped. Dizziness, barely remembering to stub my own cigarette before I stepped inside, catching the blood-curdling scream of a news reporter on TV.