In the Lion's Teeth: Second Edition

Chapter Nineteen

It takes you a few minutes to compose yourself once you get behind the wheel, to steady your staggered breathing and trembling hands, but when you finally do, you grit your teeth and shove the key into the ignition and turn.

The engine turns, but doesn't start.

"No," you groan, pulled out long and low in a pathetic whine, but it still doesn't start the second time, the third, the fourth. Finally, you give up, pulling your keys out sharply and banging your head against the steering wheel with a cried, "Fucking hell!"

The wheel smacks your forehead hard, knocking you back and leaving you momentarily disoriented. You rub hard at your face, heels pressed deep against your eyes.

"Fuck," you whisper again.

You can't get a cab; you need that money for whatever the hell the problem with your car is. And the bus is not and never has been an option. There are too many people, too many noises, too much risk for accidental contact and all the fucking screaming.

It's a fifteen minute drive. How long a walk would that be?

You sigh and thrash out at the passenger's seat with your fist, smacking the headrest a few times before getting out of the car and locking it behind you. You kick the hubcap to remind your car how much you hate it, pocket your keys, and start walking.

The traffic is loud and busy and disorienting, and you jump every time somebody honks or breaks too fast and you've only been walking for about ten minutes before your eyes are foggy with tears, but at least you aren't crying. Your hands are shoved deep into the pockets of your hoodie, zipped halfway up, a little too warm in the spring air.

Until the sidewalk darkens, and you look up. Heavy, grey clouds cover the sun and the air starts growing thick and cloying as you walk, and just as you throw your hood up, it begins to rain.

Ten more minutes and you're soaked through to the skin.

You don't know how long it takes to get there. You don't know what time it is or how long it's been raining. Maybe Dona will be willing to let you dry off and give you a ride back, but after what you did, you wouldn't deserve it. You'd deserve to walk home in the rain, with the static and the screaming and the asshole drivers who purposely come too close in an attempt to splash you as punishment for walking.

For a long time, you just stand in front of his door, staring. Number 369. All multiples of three. You vacantly stare at it for a while, wondering if he did that on purpose or if it was chance.

Finally, you wipe the tears and rain and mucked dust away from your face, and you knock.

He's on the phone when he opens the door, glancing to the side, but when his eyes fall on you, he quiets.

'I'll have to call you back," he says, and he hangs up.

You're pathetic. A stupid, lost puppy wandering around in the rain who can't even take care of himself on a basic level. Dona just stares at you for a while, and finally, when you speak, it tumbles out, half French and half English, too quick, scared, ashamed.

"I left my phone here," you start. "I... I think. I don't have it with my stuff. And, and I don't have your number memorized so I couldn't call you, and my car wouldn't start so I had to walk and —"

"You walked here?" he asks softly.

You nod and pull your hood back.

"Can I come in for just... a minute or two? To try to at least dry off my hoodie? And my hair?"

His mouth is tight and his green eyes are wary, afraid.

"Will you stay and talk?"

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You close it again.