"How much d'you got?" Edmund asks, leaning back on the diner's creaky bench outside, balancing his chair on two legs like he's auditioning for the role of Most Likely to Crack His Skull Open.
"Not enough for a new car," I reply, kicking a loose stone into the pebbled path as we start walking toward the parking lot.
"Well, that's an old car, dude. It's not gonna make you millions," he says with a shrug. "Plus, it's wrecked—so what d'you expect? That someone's gonna buy it for sentimental value?"
"Maybe if they also love cars that smell like burnt toast and bad decisions," I mutter.
Edmund smirks. "You could always auction it online. Someone out there might be into that whole 'vintage death trap' aesthetic."
"Whatever," I sigh, brushing the thought away. "I have to visit Xianon today."
That familiar ache creeps into my chest again, swallowing my mood. I can't help but miss her. Even thinking about her pale face and the way she held my hand on the ride to the hospital makes me feel hollow inside.
"Ah, here we go again—Francis' daily Xia depression hour," Edmund says, waving his hand like he's introducing a talk show segment. "Tell me, are we gonna sit in silence while you stare out the window dramatically this time, or should I just hum sad violin music in the background?"
"Shut up," I say, though my voice comes out softer than I intended.
Truth is, I failed to visit her the day after she was confined—just like the nurse instructed—but not because I didn't want to. Between junking my car, dealing with paperwork, and sending a lame excuse letter to the school for skipping classes, I barely had the energy to breathe. This week alone, I've skipped three days.
"I just hope she's fine in there," I mumble.
"And I hope your GPA is fine too," Edmund says, raising an eyebrow. "But given your track record, I'm betting both are in critical condition."
I give him a look. "Last time you joked about her not being in the hospital anymore, I almost cried."
Edmund bursts out laughing, that obnoxious hyena sound echoing down the street. "Yeah, you were about to break down right there at the gas station. I almost called the news—'Local Teen Weeps Over Girl While Holding Slushie.'"
"You're a real piece of work, you know that?"
"And yet, you keep hanging out with me. Must be love." He winks.
"More like Stockholm Syndrome," I mutter, shoving my hands into my pockets.
Edmund laughs again, nudging my shoulder. "Look, man, I'm just saying—you better be prepared. Hospital visits aren't like in the movies where the girl wakes up, smiles, and suddenly wants to run away with you. She might tell you to get lost."
"She won't," I say firmly, though the uncertainty gnaws at me.
"Confident, huh?" He smirks. "Okay, Romeo, let's go see your Juliet before you write her another tragic diary entry."
*****
"Dude." Edmund approached me with an unreadable expression, lips pressed into a thin line like he was holding back a secret—or trying to remember if he left the stove on.
I squinted at him. "You look like you're about to tell me either someone died or you clogged the diner toilet again. Which is it?"
"I just got a message," he said flatly.
"A message? Like, something I should worry about?" I turned my head to the side, studying him. He just shook his head slowly, almost theatrically.
"Uhmm... for me, no. For you?" He took a deep breath. "Yeah. Big yes."
YOU ARE READING
In A Day Or Two
Short StoryThey say love is patient, love is kind. But what they don't tell you is that love can also be devastating, merciless, and painfully fleeting. Francis Brooks thought he knew the meaning of love-until Xianon Pearson walked into his life. In the short...
