Outrun

Quinn is on his fifth date with Yve Galante, but it's disrupted as he swears someone is following him through the labyrinthine Ladd's Addition.

It shouldn’t feel like this.

You steal a glance at Yve from the side of your eye. She’s still looking straight ahead, which you could have predicted. Occasionally she looks across the Halloween decorations with a bemused smirk, shaking her head and focusing back on the walk ahead. The decorations are the only source of light save occasional porchside windows, and the far-distant boulevard you took her out to just minutes prior.

It’s funny how one person can upend your mood.

You steal a glance behind you again.

The figure’s still there. Still just behind you. Still the same amount of distance. The light does nothing to him- he’s a shadow, only vaguely identifiable as human. You stop for a moment. He stops.

Goddamnit.

You turn back around so sharply you sling wind onto Yve, who of course notices. “Is something the matter?”

“Nah,” you say too easily, too cockily. “Just checking the decorations. Some gaudy s**t.”

She laughs, that classic Yve Galant laugh; short, husky chuckle that sounds just a touch amused with your best attempts to turn up the good old city slicker American charm. Taking the opportunity, you tease your arm around her back and place your fingers on her waist. Why not? You’ve gotten this far being charmingly brazen.

You walk a couple of steps before you feel a hand on yours. You feel Yve gently lift your hand off of her waist. You try not to show disappointment- not because you didn’t get a piece of that, more that you were trying to keep a pattern going to keep her into things and the bump in the road startles you. Still, she’s as classy and aloof as ever, moving your hand back to your side but still locking her fingers into yours.

You play it off. “Oops.”

“Don’t worry,” she says, almost apologetic. “I just prefer this.”

She lets the silence ruminate for a moment and looks at the Halloween decorations. A thought hits you in the nothingness, and you turn around again.

Still there.

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

You turn around again. To reassure yourself, you ask Yve “Is everything all right?”

She doesn’t look at you. “Is this about the hand thing?”

You shrug. “Nah. Just in general.”

She doesn’t respond, looking at the decorations some more, as if they matter to her. You’re starting to wonder if this is going to go downhill. If you can stop it.

------------

Halloween, to you, was never anything scary. The premise had been so watered down and Americanized that it just got an endeared eyeroll from you. You never really communicated it but you never really communicated a lot of things that would bury you further as the pretentious French immigrant. Honestly, it was a good thing these decorations were so harmless because the more you trekked into the unknown the less easy you felt.

He asked if everything was all right, and you still didn’t know how to answer. You want things to be alright. Quinn is enjoyable, he’s charming in a way just transparent enough to see the good intentions behind the silliness, and you have a feeling he may be worth your trust. You just wish it were enough.

Christ, this isn’t worth thinking about. You’ve already thrown caution to the wind.

“You called these decorations gaudy?” you ask.

“Might’ve slipped through,” he responds.

You elbow him with the arm that’s locked into his.

“Yeah it’s…” You watch him grin, and you swear it wipes out a trace of anxiety. “It’s hilarious. I mean, it’s for the kids, right?”

“That’s what I’m told,” you say, because one I.U.D. says you’ll never know.  

“Yeah, it’s basically been taken over by the Spongebob generation.” You laugh at that, because you have no clue where he pulls some of the things he says from. “I mean, Monster Mash planted the seeds and now they’ve grown. I mean, the decorations are to lure kids in and make it exciting.”

“Because children can’t be swayed by free candy.”

He laughs again. Things feel a little more serene. You almost want to take his hand and wrap it around your waist again- the idea of things being all right is all the more alluring… all the more frightening.

“But yeah,” he continues. “I mean this neighborhood is a trip. You ever been here?”

You shake your head. “I haven’t been here long enough. What’s up with it?”

“Wish my battery had charge,” he responds, “because if you could see a map of Ladd’s Addition you’d see the real beauty of it. But whichever acid dropper was designing roadmaps that day made this place perfectly symmetrical. It’s…” he thinks, and you look around- you remember you came from the North? Maybe? It was a diagonal left that took you here. “Like, two big diagonal cross-streets. And everything works around that. An octagon, feeder roads that mirror the eight main roads into the octagon. And there’s four little diamond roundabouts when the angles and streets meet up, all leading to this big-a*s rose garden in a giant roundabout.”

You mime writing it all down to get a laugh, and you succeed. “That’s interesting,” you say. “Have you been around here much?”

He grins. It’s a distraction but it’s something. “S**t, probably bussed half the kitchens in the eastside on my way to the white coat. I’ve careened off a lot of these roads, perfect or not. Could probably tell you a story for each one.”

You’re not sure if you believe him yet, but you smile that distant smile. Not too enticing, but receptive. “I’m quite sure you could.”

He turns around again as you say that. Every time he does, you notice it- he’s many things but subtle is none of them. You finally give into the temptation to lower your hood, getting a look on his face.

Apprehensive would be putting it nicely.

You ask this time. “Is everything all right?”

He swallows. Turns back to you.

“Do you see that guy?” he whispers through clenched teeth.

You go to turn around but he squeezes your hand to stop you.

“Don’t,” he says. “Let’s just take a right.”

You shake your head. “No, I think I’ll take a look.”

He clenches your hand so hard you almost shake loose, but that only strengthens your resolve. You turn back and only see one person- hard to make them out, but just a pedestrian following behind in the shadows. Not for nothing- you can’t help but feel the chill down your spine, but it’s not their fault, and you’re not going to look silly and helpless now.

“It looks like… nothing,” you say. It doesn’t come off as reassuring as you hoped- more blindingly condescending. He shakes his head, but doesn’t make anything more of it. He tries making small talk again, but you don’t catch on, because the look in his eye makes it clear.

That’s not nothing.

-------------

You try not to simmer in frustration. Goddamnit, you shouldn’t feel this way. It’s probably just some 9-to-5 worker trying to get home only to have some Latino in hipster clothes giving him the s**t-eye with his porcelain girlfriend trying to get him to chill the f**k out. But it’s not just bullshit. It’s not just in his head. It’s something in his gut making him wanna vomit out the food he went out of his way to buy.

You figure there’s not much left to lose because you figure you can’t keep a charade up forever.

“Let’s take a right here,” you plead quietly.

She doesn’t react with enthusiasm , but she complies. You try not to sprint going right onto another suburban street. This time, there’s no boulevard in sight before or behind you, but there are still some overly priced decorations to light your way.

“Are you okay now?” she asks.

You respond by looking behind you again. She tenses up, probably in as much disbelief as you. A few seconds go by. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. You think it’s over, but just as you go to turn around you see his form looking right back at you.

“Goddamnit,” you hiss.

“He’s still there,” she deadpans.

“Still f*****g there.”

A tense few more seconds go by. You want to look back again but you can’t. You know he’s there. And now you’re not sure you can shake him.

“Check your pockets,” she says.

“Why?”

“You might have lost something.”

You clearly don’t follow, judging by the dumbass look on your face.

“They might be returning something to you.”

The idea of it being a misunderstanding is already relieving. “S**t, good call babe.”

“I know.” Some mirth has returned to her voice, so you have that going for her. You reach into your back pocket and find your wallet is there. Your jacket pocket still has your phone. The other one has your keys.

“I think I have everything,” you say.

“Check your wallet. You could have dropped a card or token.”

“You’re good at this s**t,” you encourage her. “Remind me to find you if a zombie apocalypse hits.” She chuckles, but it doesn’t have the same bite this time, but you can’t figure out why besides the fact that you’re already ruining this date. Stealthily, you pull out your wallet, hoping the stalker can’t see it. You covertly sneak it over to your jacket pocket. When it’s there, you pull it out and survey the contents, hand still locked with hers.

You count the cash. Everything’s the same as it was when you left, although you might have overtipped- all your change is gone.

You check your cards. That’s all the same too. ID, credit card, a few library cards from here and there, passport, sponsor’s card. You linger on their card until you realize something.

All of your coins are gone, and some of them aren’t money.

“S**t, I think I…” You haven’t explained this facet of your winning personality to her yet. You stop, and she looks at you.

“Lost something?”

“Left it at the restaurant, yeah.”

She gestures to the figure. “Maybe he can help.”

“I hope,” you reply, but you’re not sure he can.

-----------

Finally, Quinn turns towards the figure to your relief. You don’t do well around tense people. You know too well how far a caught spring can leap.

“Excuse me,” you call out. Someone’s gotta wear the pants here. “Can we ask you something?”

No response. You loosen from him so he doesn’t have to worry about following. “I’m going to ask him,” you say.

“I’m right there with you,” he insists too eagerly. You suppose it’s charming, despite the circumstances. Reading others was never your strong suit but Quinn’s usually the type that fools you into thinking you’re good at it, until you’re not, and he becomes a scribbled padded room mess.

The two of you walk towards the figure, but relief at this strange chapter of your relationship being over dissipates quickly.

“The f**k is he going?” he hisses.

You don’t respond, because you don’t know. You step towards him and he backs up. You step forward. He steps backward.

“You can stop that,” you hiss at no one, heartrate shooting up. It’s another race but it’s one you can’t win.

Finally, you try stopping, because any way to get him out is a good one. You watch him. You wait. You motion for him to go. He doesn’t leave.

Quinn pulls at your arm, but you can’t move. You can’t understand this. It makes no sense. You try to analyze it at breakneck speed, but nothing makes sense. You wave your arm up in the air, but he stays still. Waiting. Always waiting.

All you know is that people with the worst intentions never mind waiting.

“Do something,” you call to him.

“Dear God Above, Yve,” Quinn replies. “Don’t egg him on.”

“If he’s not going to do anything I very well may lose my mind,” you respond, breath haggard. You feel Quinn pull at you again but you pull back.

“Stop that!” you shout. Immediately, you clasp your mouth, ashamed. You’re still panicking over nothing and now he knows. He knows that you’re becoming weak too, for a different set of reasons. Now your roots are dug so far down you don’t know if you could move if you tried.

The shadow reaches into his pocket. Before you can see what he’s doing, you know the way he’s turning isn’t right. He’s going for something big. Something strong. Something meaningful.

Quinn reacts before you do. “Run!” he shouts.

You snap back.

You pass Quinn up in no time.

------------

You watch her run ahead at breakneck speed. You don’t bother trying to catch her. You’re not doing that again. You’re never gonna ask someone to wait on you again. You just wish you knew where you were. You wish this wasn’t so f*****g familiar.

You want to look behind but you hear the second set of footsteps. You don’t wanna see him. You don’t wanna see it. You know. You just know. You pick up the pace before he can get you. Before you hear the shots. Before it all goes wrong again.

An arm grabs you and you scream. You don’t yell, you don’t bark, you scream. You nearly swing until the force pulls you off the sidewalk.

“Who the f**k-” you start to ask before you feel two fingers on your mouth. You give the person who snatched you a glare that could kill Goliath until you recognize her.

If you cared, you’d reckon the sixth date is out of the question.

“Shh,” she demands.

“Oh, thank f**k,” you whisper, looking her in the eyes. She looks exhausted. You reach out to hug her, pulling her close, needing her more than she’ll ever need you. She lets you for a moment but then pulls away desperately. You let go, remembering your wits.

“Sorry, sorry,” you repeat, shaking.

“Did you see him?” she asks coldly. You can tell something’s not right about that.

“I didn’t look back,” you admit.

“I saw him,” she replies. “He had his cellphone out.”

You shake your head. That makes no sense.

“What’s that all about?” she hisses, impatient- as if she’s offended that you scared her.

“There’s no way,” you say. “There’s just…” You remember the footsteps. You remember the gun. You remember the blood. You remember police reports, funerals, and condescending counselors. You remember “if only he wasn’t” and “he should have” and “it’s because he” and you remember how many years it took for you to stop telling that story, and suddenly you have your timelines mixed up.

“Look, he was chasing me,” you insist. “I heard the footsteps. I heard-”

She shushes you again and points to a wormhole in the fence behind you. You finally realize your surroundings- you’re hiding in someone’s backyard behind a chipped-up white picket fence. Romantic. “Look,” she says.

You do.

Nothing’s there.

You’re angry now. Not at anything in particular. At everything. At the figure, at himself, at her and how much she just doesn’t f*****g get it, at the past, present, and probable future when she never calls you back. It’s too much anger to communicate so you push away from the hole.

“You can’t see s**t from there,” you argue. “He could still be there.”

“Christ above,” she snaps. “Are you even sober, Quinn?”

“Jesus Christ.”

You knew somehow she had to know. She seems to know everything. She seems to beat you to the punch everywhere, apparently now on the self-distrust too.

“I most certainly f*****g am,” you reply. “And I don’t know what that has to do with anything. Sobriety and creepy stalkers aren’t mutually exclusive!”

She throws her hands up. “Quinn, are you seeing yourself now? You’re a mess. You’re worried over something that could be nothing! You’re acting a fool!”

You hunker down beneath the fence. Great. You can’t tell where you’d rather be- with the monster you don’t know but can predict, or the pretty lady you thought wouldn’t be just another condescending branch of half-support.

“If it’s nothing you go right the f**k ahead,” you bite back. “If he doesn’t take you home with him then maybe I’ll follow. But for now-”

Something you said resonates enough for her to slug you in the side of your ribs. You bite your tongue and bang against the fence, nearly knocking a picket off. “What the f**k is your problem?!”

“Try not to get yourself killed chasing down any dragons to slay,” she replies, shakier than you’re sure she intended. You look at her and see fire in her eyes.

You grab your head and growl to yourself, keeping all the vitriol stored up. You know your way around bottles- trading beer bottles for bottled up anger, spite, distrust for the world. You watch her go, staring her down as she turns her back to you.

What-the-f**k-ever, you reason to yourself. Maybe I don’t need her.

Then the figure appears again, running at top speed, and you decide that you do.

“Yve!”

--------------

You hear his voice before you notice that the ghost has returned. You fling yourself back around to see the figure again following you. You scream, not of fear (partially of fear) but of rage. There’s enough that follows you around, never letting go, and now this man does. You lock into place. You’re terrified to run. Running is all you do. Even when you’re not on a bike you’re outracing skeletons in your closet. If death wants you, you’ll put up a fight.

The figure stops again. Light adjustment has made you able to make out its loose form- masculine rectangular build, round face, wide figure, large trenchcoat, thick legs, and a rectangular object around its waist on the end of its arm you convinced yourself was a cellphone but now could be anything. A brick. A knife. A gun.

Danger.

You stare down where its head should be. “You gonna f*****g do something?” you dare it.

Nothing.

You stare at each other more. You try and hide the fear on your face. You try and block out Quinn’s final words at you. He will not get you. He will not take you. No one will take you. Not again.

“Do something,” you hiss. “Spineless coward.”

Finally, he moves. He winds his arm back.

“Run!” Quinn shouts.

You finally unfreeze, tearing through space at speeds you’re sure are faster than light. Behind you, you hear a crash and a window break. You gasp, and watch the shadow follow you. He’s no longer walking. He doesn’t care about pace. He’s running. He’s running, and he can’t outrun you now. But he will. It always takes time. You have to exhaust herself first.

Adrenaline kicks in and you run further away, into a roundabout. You start to map this out in your head. Ladd’s Addition, Quinn told you. You start imagining a map in your head. Ladd’s Addition is a maze. A puzzle. Two diagonal lines straight through, four cross streets, and connecting streets in all directions. A spider. A roundabout rose garden in the center. four diamond roundabouts to the sides of it. All lead to the center. The center. Then they’re back in the light.

In your thoughts you outpace him far enough that he’s a wisp in the distance. You dive into the nearest roundabout, to small to be the central one. You see a garden shriveled and distended from the winter. A tree is to your side, weeping leaves onto the ground where many are crushed beneath footsteps past, present, and future. You hide beneath it, not daring to sit, desperate for breath.

You think again. Two ways lead you deeper into the neighborhood. The path going back to the boulevard is blocked by him. The other path leads you to the big roundabout, the rose garden. You lost your internal compass a few pieces of sanity back- it’s a crapshoot, and you can’t hide forever.

You start scanning your memory for directions until you feel something brush against your neck, reaching too far down. As soon as it hits, you’re alert. You grab it and pull hard, growling to keep your scream back. Leaves from the branch you’re now fighting fall all over you, burying you in folly. You bite your tongue, but fear fills your veins. You know he’s here. You know he’s close. You know he can do the same to you.

You pull leaves off of your chest, rezip your jacket, sling the hood on, and run.

--------------

You can’t believe you’re following him. You know everyone you’ve ever met would tell you that’s a stupid-a*s move. That’s wrong, though. Everyone except one person. The one who needed you most. And that voice is all you hear.

The figure outpaces you, and you growl in frustration. You swear you can see time rewind before you eyes. Pristine labyrinthian neighborhoods become unsolvable slums. Ghosts in indescribable black become blood brothers with misunderstood blue hoodies. Death is still death. You run further, but stop short seeing the diamond in front of you.

You look up at the nearest street sign. Hazel Street. You’re on the Octagon. You fist-pump, because that means you’re close. You’re in the immediate layer.

Now what?

Your focus on the diamond jolts you back to life when you see a figure, a very familiar figure, run like the wind, jacket clinging to her wiry frame. You gasp, recognizing her. You want to chase after her, but you realize she’s going towards the rose garden.

“Good job, mama,” you say to yourself, hope heating your chilled skin. You turn towards the nearest diagonal street- Elliott. Perfect, dead center. You cheer to yourself. This is almost over.

You turn towards Elliott and run into him.

You scream.

He’s closer than ever. You try and figure him out. This close, he has to be human. He has to be something. He has to be real. But you still see nothing but black.

You run.

This time there’s no headstart. You feel him right on your tail. You hear his footsteps louder than your breath. You hear his breath louder than his footsteps. You feel your heartbeat harder than you feel the sidewalk beneath you. You’re starting to run out of energy, but you can’t force yourself to give up. You don’t even know if you’re gonna make it through the night but you can’t stop.

F**k. Maybe you did drink and you just don’t remember.

Either way, you’re all you’ve got.

You finally see the Rose Garden. The roundabout’s massive, taking up a city block each way. This is your goddamn fortress. You realize you’re crying when you cheer, but it doesn’t matter now. You’re safe.

You make it to the circle and your heart sinks.

Everything’s closed. The little cafe, the kiosk, the businesses nearby. You see a bus stop but you doubt it’s still running. All you can see lit up is the rose garden- faded buds and withered blooms, and lines of empty, hibernating hedges.

“Goddamnit!” you scream, energy draining away. You start to cross the street when you feel something knock you over.

You feel a tooth chip on the asphalt. You’re pinned down. The weight presses against you. You can’t breathe. You can’t feel. You’re dying. You know it. You can already feel it breaking.

Then you hear the sound of a car horn and suddenly it’s gone.

You feel the draft race by you, missing you by inches. You don’t hear a thud, but you don’t care. You’re free. You’re weak, you’re broken, but you’re free. You stumble across the street, not daring to look back.

You run for all of ten seconds before you collapse by a towering hedge.

Footsteps again. It’s not dead. It’s still running. You roll under the hedge.

It’s all you have left.

--------------

You see him fumble next to you, breaking your meditation. You can’t believe you’re under a godforsaken rose hedge, but this night has stripped your shame. Moreover, you can’t believe he found you.

“Quinn?” you whisper.

“Shh!” he responds, desperate. He rolls over, groaning in pain, to face you. Even hearing his name in your voice, he’s still stunned.

“Babe,” he gasps.

You don’t respond, just grabbing him to your chest. He rests his chin on your shoulder, shuddering into you. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he chokes out. You feel a sob ricochet against your breast.

You shush him, gently this time, trying to comfort him. You pull him closely and you hear him wince, so you loosen up a bit.

“Don’t let go,” he begs. “Babe, please don’t let go.”

“Keep an eye out,” you respond. You know you have to carry the team. You know you have to carry him. But somehow he trusts you enough to do it, and you’re still not sure you trust him.

He takes deep breaths into you, intimate beyond romance itself. The bush digs into your sides, poking away at both of you, dissecting you for weaknesses. All you can see before you is black.

“What do you see?” you ask him.

“Just… blackness.”

You dig your head into him, desperate for rest. Both sides are surrounded somehow. You don’t know if you’ll be free again.

You just know you have each other.

You need each other.

----------------

“I’m so sorry,” you mumble again. “I’m so sorry about everything.”

“Stop,” she insists. “It’s fine.”

“I didn’t mean to drag you into this,” you reply, with childlike emotional control. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. To yell at you. All that bullshit. This is my fault. I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Quinn, please don’t say that.”

He shakes his head. “I dunno. I just… I feel it.”

“I wish you didn’t.”

You check again. Still black. You can’t even see the other bush. You’re trapped together.

“Still black?” you ask her.

“Still black.”

You groan. “Goddamnit. I’m sorry.” You jolt, realizing your mistake. “I mean, I’m sorry for saying that. I’m just… so f*****g sorry.”

She holds your back closely. She presses you against her forcefully. Your ribs have stopped hurting, somehow, you don’t question miracles. You lean into her, letting her consume you. The more she shelters you, the less fear wracks your bones. Love, desperation, faith, lust, you don’t know. Just trust, just safety. That you know.

“Can I confess something?” she asks.

You nod, because you can already feel the ghosts leaving your being.

“For many reasons,” she begins. You can hear her swallow. “Any decision I make, anything I am involved in… even as foolish as this…”

You chuckle, running a hand along a back once so tense, now so free.

“I never want to ever be in a situation again…”

She swallows. The tears are daring to come about.

“Where the control of my fate wasn’t mine.”

-----------

You talk. You let go of your worst secret. You don’t know why other than you just had to. You needed to. He needed to know. You can already feel the pretense melt away. The cockiness, the coolness, both of you posing in a way that made your exterior your interior.

You don’t cry, you never do anymore, but he does. He tries not to apologize again, but he fails, and you let him, because you understand that it can’t be perfect yet.

Almost to compensate for your confession, he lets go of his too. He has so many. You want to give your secrets back to him as well but you only have the one, as wretched as it is. You hear the deaths, the addictions, the grief, the guilt, and you see what built the charming, endearing, eager-to-be-himself-around-others Quinn who seduced your heart almost immediately.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” you assure him.

“But there’s nothing I wanna keep to myself anymore,” he responds.

You hmm comfortably into his chest. Some roads you want to take your time on.

Eventually he falls asleep, somehow. You keep your eyes open, still facing the darkness, but you don’t dare look backward. It’s you against the darkness. You try and keep awake, but all you have is your racing thoughts. His tragedy. Your trauma. You try and think of things to say, words to comfort him, but your mind falls away. You hold onto him, trying to get into a happy place, but the memories keep flooding faster than you can block them.

You stare into the darkness, angry, miserable, on the brink of tears. You stare it down, dare it to crawl in and take you. He can’t see it but you still can. At times like this, darkness is all you see. You try and hold your stare but you can’t.

You close your eyes and begin to cry. Quiet tears, bitter tears. Tears you hated to waste on a filthy excuse of humanity before, but ones that claw their way out of you now. You don’t want to think of how you look, a self-sculpted beautiful European athlete porcelain goddess breaking her shell into twisted fragments far weaker than you would ever let on, trying to fight through the night she already spent too long fighting through like a dream that kept following her, but you don’t care, because strangely you never have felt stronger in your life.

You stare down the darkness some more, drying your eyes on your jacket sleeve, daring it to take you with it. You fall asleep before it does.

--------------

You wake up with a start. You nearly jump until you feel the tendons of the bush above you. “How the f**k…” you groan, but you’re not sure you wanna know the answer.

You feel a pair of legs around you, and see a smile in front of you. Not a tight-lipped, measured smile. Not a bemused, observant smile. A natural smile. An ecstatic smile. A true Yve Galant classic.

“Look,” she tells you.

Memories rush through your head, nearly knocking you out cold again, but you creak your neck again to see from beneath the bush. You remember the figure the second you see the world from down beneath the dirt.

You see another rose bush, lit up by orange light, and you smile too.

“We’re free.”

It doesn’t take you five seconds to untangle from each other and roll out from underneath the rosebush. Dawn starts to overpower the fluorescence from the strung bulbs. You look the area over but the shadow’s nowhere to be found. You look towards Yve, who looks as maddened as you feel, grinning through tear-stained cheeks as she clumsily gets her bearings, dirt and foliage nearly consuming her clothes and skin.

You kneel down, somehow all emotions at once. You grin so powerfully even Jack Nicholson would react, taking a deep breath to choke down more tears. Lord knows you don’t need any more of that s**t.

“Can I take you home?” you ask, playful smarm notched up to eleven.

She chuckles. Yve’s back. “After last night you could take me anywhere as long as it’s never here again.”

You already wonder how you’ll explain this moment to yourself even five minutes from now, but you blurt out “It’s a deal.”

You go to stand up when you feel something in your pocket. You don’t remember the last time you felt anything, but, sure, you’ll bite. You assume it’s a penny at first but decide it’s worth reaching in your pocket to make a totem, like from Inception or some s**t. You reach down for it, pulling it towards your eye.

“Oh my god.”

Your year-sobriety AA token looks back at you, looking worse for wear..

You swallow. This is not happening again. Not even necessarily… whatever the hell that was… the making an a*s of yourself again. With a tired sigh, you drop the coin as absently as you can. You’re even more confused as to what happened, and don’t want to give her a reason to question you- you gather trust doesn’t come easily to her.

Besides, it’s in the past now.

A lot of things should be in the past.

You reach out for Yve’s hand,but she says “We’ve crossed a few too many thresholds to play it cute now.” Instead, she wraps her arm around your waist- best to let her play by her standards.

Out of more eloquent phrases, you say “Christ, let’s get the hell out of here.” She nods and you leave the rose garden, brushing dirt off of your clothes. You look over the rose garden as you pass by it, trying to find the coin, but it’s already too far away to see.

You shake your head and look straight ahead, at the garish Halloween decorations with no light on them, no desire to look back now.