The Girl in Seat 23 {l.r.h.}

twenty-six.

I can almost say I'd rather have stayed in my cell. The people in Georgia would stare at me, spit at me, cross to the other side of the street. So I went to jail fighting for freedom. So what? My dad was more upset that I stole a car and left it in D.C. And that I couldn't pay it back. Luke? I was the root of his panic attack. He wouldn't have been there, among the crowds, in front of the violence, if it wasn't for me. He never even wrote back.

Coming home was rough. For me. For my family. For Luke. I hadn't seen him and it was a week since I'd left the slammer.

I wrapped my fingers around the phone, twisting the cord around my free hand and reading the number off the faded piece of paper.

584-3944.

After a few rings, a familiar low voice drifted through the speaker. "Hello?"

I dug my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from crying just at the sound of his voice. "Luke?"

"Who is this?"

"It's... It's Rosi. Please don't hang up," I rushed to say.

He sighed. "What do you want?"

"What?"

"Why are you calling me?"

"Because I love you." I sniffled softly, trying to hide the sound of my tears. "Did you know that? I love you. And you hate me. And my dad hates me. And the people in town hate me. And I hate me. Did you know that?"

I wiped my eyes. "I love you," I whispered. "Don't you get it?"

He was silent for a moment before saying firmly, "I'm coming over."