Tourmaline

Chapter Six

The morning after my little adventure, I woke up to find my room perfectly in place. That is, containing everything but my cell phone.

I sat up, my blood-red curls sprawled over my head. Had I left it at the Green Room? Laurie's car?

And then it hit me.

I had left it in Brent's car. The surreal last-nameless Zorro who had saved me and Laurie from an inevitable mugging. 

I changed from my vodka-stained dress to a pair of dark wash jeans and a turquoise tank top, pulling my unruly curls into a messy bun atop my head. I then gingerly took out my contacts and replaced them with a pair of black, thick-framed glasses.

I need to stop sleeping with my contact lenses in. One of these days they're going to fuse to my eyes.

The visual send a shudder up my spine. I checked the black Kit-Kat wall clock beside me, its small, feeble hands ticking melodically.

It was almost time for work. I had a job at my local book store, which, fortunately, gave me some, though little, reason to enjoy the holiday season. Though there were a few months left before any kind of Christmas rush would occur.

I grabbed my bag from off my desk and tugged on a pair of tan suede Oxfords, struggling to fit them over my long, narrow feet.

I hopped down the stairs two-by-two until I reached the bottom, my familiar living room greeting me.

"I'm heading off to work." Not that there was anyone to tell. Since my cutting school my parents had memorized my work schedule up until the end of my grounding period.

I grabbed a sweatshirt from my rusty old coat rack and headed outside. Brent stood before me, and I clutched my chest.

Brent leaned against his pickup truck, my phone in his hand.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"You left your flip phone in Sharlene last night. Seriously, didn't they stop making these back in 2004?"

"It's cheap," I said, pacing down the icy walkway of my house. "And functional."

"Yes. And ugly."

I slipped my phone gently out of his hand, tucking it into my bag. "Thanks."

"You seem to be saying that a lot lately."

"Don't get too used to it." I raised my eyebrow at him, my breath freezing in front of me. His expression was dark and unreadable.

"You always look like you've just been kicked, like some sort of chastised puppy," I told him, immediately feeling like a jerk.

He drives a half-hour to return your phone and you compare him to a kicked puppy.

Once again, Brent was unaffected. He simply shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm not gonna alter my face for you."

I looked back at him, my eyes narrowed. "Thank you for my phone, but I can tell you, without a doubt, your nonsense is not wanted."

"Maybe it would be if you'd bother to let me finish."

"No thanks. Really."

"Why did you keep talking to me?"

"What?"

"On the beach, you kept talking to me. I obviously didn't want to talk."

"I suppose I did."

He glanced down at his feet. "About what?" he said gruffly.

I gently closed the door and leaned against my car. "I'm not sure."

"And you thought I was the best person to discuss anything with?"

"Why not? You didn't seem to have a lot of things going on."

"What do you think I do in my spare time, tax audits? I have places to go and people to see."

"I don't doubt that," I said, attempting to defuse the time bomb that was his temper. I hopped inside my car, closing the door behind me.

Brent walked up to my door and knocked on the window lightly. I rolled it down a few inches. "Yes?"

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Work. I work at a book store."

"Sounds like an interesting job," he said. I scanned his face for any kind of sarcasm.

"It has its perks," I said slowly. "I'm leaving now," I told him, rolling up my window.

"Sure."

"I am."

"You'll be back."

"I wouldn't count on it."

He put his hand in my window at the last minute, leaving it open a few inches. 

"Wait," he said, holding up his hand. He ran to his truck and rummaged through a few things, soon jogging back with a sticky note and a chewed-on Bic pen. He carelessly scribbled a number on the note and popped it through the crack in the window.

"Don't get too excited," he told me. "It's for emergencies only."

"Whose number is this?" I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear the words from his mouth.

"Mine. If you ever get stranded with your drunken friend again, call me. Only then."

"And why would you do that?" 

"I may not like you, but I don't want you dead," he said, picking gently at his lip ring.

"You're awfully sentimental."

"Emergencies only." He then began walking backwards toward his truck, eyes on mine. I leaned my head out of the window and gave a small salute before heading off to work.

I glanced at the sticky note on the seat next to me, its uneven, almost unreadable handwriting burning a hole through the seat.

***

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-Sequoia