Bad Luck Katie

Fear

Jules gazed at his phone, frustrated by Katie's silence since the kiss. In a moment of annoyance, he considered deleting her phone number.

He hesitated as his finger hovered over the delete option. He couldn't bring himself to do it. In his heart, he felt that something had suddenly caused her to go no contact. It involved the person who had put those bruises on her face and broken her arm. He felt it in his gut.

When he saw her, he felt an indescribable need to protect her.

The moment it happened, he couldn't pinpoint, but he had fallen for her. No exaggeration. Never before had he experienced such intense emotions for someone else.

What frustrated him the most was Katie's inability to see her beauty.

The first time he laid eyes on her, she left him breathless. She bore a striking resemblance to Olivia Hussey from the 1968 version of Romeo and Juliet, especially with her long, flowing dark locks.

Her soulful eyes, with their long lashes, drew him in like a magnet.

He was in love.

He chewed on his bottom lip, troubled by his thoughts.

He suspected that Katie felt embarrassed about her living situation. After dropping her off at the corner, as she requested, he pretended to drive away but backed up to see her enter a beige building. The sign indicated that it was a women's crisis center.

Did she think he would look down on her for something like that?

Why couldn't she trust him with the truth and instead choose to hide?

He took a drag of his cigarette, a habit he started whenever he felt anxious.

Katie wasn't a delicate flower; he knew that. She had a spunk that attracted him to her. She didn't put on airs like most people do; she was real. Authentic.

He couldn't explain it. He instantly connected to her as if fate had brought them together. He didn't want to lose her.

What could he do to get her to talk to him? Any pressure could push her further away. He felt stumped.

"What are you doing?"

The authoritative voice broke the silence in the air.

Jules clenched his teeth. "Nothing," he answered.

"I smell cigarette smoke. What did I tell you about smoking indoors?" The voice rose in volume.

Jules extinguished his cigarette on the side of his soda can.

"I put it out," the boy yelled. "Go touch some grass or something."

The door swung open, startling the teenager. The angry man in uniform glared at the boy, his nostrils flaring. "What did you say?" he demanded as he stepped through the doorway.

"Nothing, sir," Jules said through gritted teeth.

The man approached the boy, his body language intimidating. "As long as you stay in my house, you will do what I say. Got that?"

"Yes," the boy mumbled.

"I can't hear you," the man said, gesturing to his ear.

"Yes, sir," the boy replied.

With a snort, the man walked away, leaving the door wide open.

The boy's eyes brimmed with tears as his eyebrows furrowed. He resented the man claiming to be his father, seeing him as nothing but a sperm donor.

His mother left because of his inflexibility. He didn't blame her for leaving but wondered why she didn't take him along.

Jules often heard the man crying in the middle of the night when he thought the boy was asleep. The abandonment was devastating, and Jules recognized it. However, instead of seeking counseling to cope with his feelings, the man lashed out at Jules; his pride wouldn't allow him to show his emotions openly.

Jules had finally reached his limit after enduring sixteen years of it.

He had intended to leave at eighteen, but the strict lifestyle imposed on him compelled him to depart sooner.

He could pack a few things and leave right away. What was stopping him from catching a Greyhound Bus and going?

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He couldn't leave until he spoke to Katie.

He exhaled.

He needed to keep busy to avoid overthinking, so he jumped up, grabbed his keys, and headed for the front door.

"Where are you going?" his father called from the kitchen.

"The store," Jules replied. It wasn't a lie. He was going to the store to grab a few things at a five-finger discount.

Saying nothing more, he pushed the door open, walked out, and let it close without glancing back.

Walking along the sidewalk, he felt the chill in the air and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. The first time he stole something was when his father made him re-make his bed twelve times because he hadn't tucked in the covers the military way. After smoking three cigarettes to gather courage, he stole a desktop radio. It felt therapeutic.

He eyed a store selling sneakers. Going in would be risky, but the thrill made it worthwhile.

A twisted grin formed on his lips. "This is better than Christmas," he thought.