Chapter 12
Lily
“Come on … you stupid piece of shit.” I kick the vending machine twice, my foot nearly getting stuck in the dispensing door. Two dollars and fifty cents for a freaking can of Diet Coke and it ate my money and didn’t spit out my soda.
It sounds melodramatic, but extra cash for a calorie-free beverage with zero nutritional value is a splurge. The few working hours I’ve held on to at the diner are slowly dwindling away in favor of Mitch’s extended family, who keep popping up for the approaching holiday season.
Thanksgiving is less than three weeks away, and to be fair, Mitch has kept me employed when he probably doesn’t need to, but my situation has gotten worse than it was at the chili cook-off. At this point, I don’t even have enough extra cash to get out of town to find another job. Money for gas is nonexistent, and what’s shocking—my cell phone still works. I haven’t paid that this month either.
Regardless, I don’t have the money to spend on a wildly overpriced vending machine Coke, but it’s that time of the month and I just spent the last on my debit card to fill up my gas tank a quarter of the way. Not to mention, I’ll most likely burn through said gas tonight to keep warm in my car.
The vending machine stared at me after I’d depleted my bank funds, as I sat stunned in my car afterward, and I figured … screw it. What’s another two bucks?
I’ve never had this kind of destitution in my other stopovers. The nomadic life always suited me. Granted, I focused on heading south for the winters and north in the summers, but Pinebrook wasn’t supposed to have an aggressive cold. Apparently, this year is different. I overheard a meteorologist on the radio say this year was “one for the books”—which, by the way, what books? I hate that saying.
Figures. Of all the years I’ve been on the move, this would be the one that did me in. Briefly, for the tiniest millisecond while I kick the vending machine one last time, I wonder if I should pack it up and head home. My mother would just love that, wouldn’t she?
She used to email me monthly, once I finally checked in after ditching Mississippi in my rearview, to convince me to come home. After that didn’t work, her emails became more about dumping the latest news for the month at my digital doorstep. When she realized I wasn’t coming home, her emails grew more infrequent. That was until six months ago when she emailed me, telling me I needed to come meet Liam’s new wife, Fleur. Honestly, I was shocked my introverted oldest brother had got himself hitched. I’d always assumed it’d be Adam who landed the dream girl.
It was that last email that had those chilling words at the bottom.You can’t stay away forever, and someday you’re going to look up and be sorry you tried.
The logical part of me knew there was some truth to what she’d typed. I miss my family. My brothers. Somewhere in the years of traveling, I convinced myself that life in Ruin was hard, that my mother didn’t understand me, and that my brothers were too preoccupied with their own lives to worry about me.But I don’t need a therapist to tell me I was coping, justifying staying away.
There’s no way to know ifhemoved on or even keeps tabs on Ruin anymore. It was so long ago he’s probably forgotten me, and in a twisted and convoluted way, I hope Ineverforget him. Forget how small he made me feel, how terrified, how ashamed—I fist the necklace around my neck—I’ll never feel that way again, at least in that context.
The gas station sits under a flickering canopy light, casting the faintest of glows. The vending machine’s fluorescent bulbs buzz and the foggy light illuminates my face enough to see my reflection in the barred gas station window. My nose is red, probably from the cold air.
I debate going into the station to complain but decide to flick off the machine instead as I backpedal to my car.
A few vehicles whiz past, their headlights blinding, but I’m the only car parked at the pumps in this remote station. The building is mostly dark, and if I wasn’t so desperate for gas, I probably would’ve just assumed it was closed as I drove by. After a day hiking Yosemite though, my fingers were numb and the notion I could run out of gas in the middle of the night tempted me enough to turn around.
Inside, a clerk sits behind a counter, barely visible, and I drag in a lungful of gasoline and the subtle scent of woodsmoke, perhaps from some nearby campers or something? The place feels nearly deserted, save for the rustle of dry leaves skittering across the torn-up pavement and footsteps?
With a hand on my door, ready to climb inside and head to the gym parking lot, a chill skirts up my spine. The creeping sensation slides down, as if cold fingers, orhisfingers, trace my vertebrae one by one.
I don’t move, the night lead-like, as it presses closer with each shadow. My breath catches, quick and shallow, and goosebumps prick up along my arms underneath my gray crewneck sweater.
It’s your mind playing tricks on you,I chide. I’ve been on edge ever since the chili cook-off and the alleyway that housed some ominous shadows.
I talk myself down and yank open the door, but not before the pungent aroma strikes me like a blow to the face. It’s a heavy and cloying scent of cologne that reeks of overripe fruit, but I know it.
I remember it vividly, just as I remember the damp cushion of pine needles underneath me, and the way all the noises in the woods that night zapped out of existence, only to exacerbate his grunts.
My body involuntarily shakes as I will myself to retreat into my car. The smell clings to the air, inescapable, and I gag as the sweetness I used to find dangerously alluring roils in my gut.
No …
It can’t be.
It must be someone else. Other men wear cologne, right? This cologne?
I block out the six years I’ve been traveling the country, but not once have I smelled the oppressive, almost tangible odor.
There’s the crunch of gravel behind me again, and I suck in a breath ready to turn around.I have to know. I count to three, thinking it may help to work up to physically confronting whatever is rustling behind me.
By the time I make it to two, I don’t hear anything anymore. The disturbing whiff of fragrance is gone, replaced by the crisp night air polluted by something more metallic and ashy.
When my brain finally settles on three, instead of turning to peer behind me, my pulse quickens as a truck comes rolling into the pump next to mine. At first, I think it’s a police truck, but then I catch the familiar green strip along the truck’s bed, thewords National Park Service and Law Enforcement detailed in obvious letters.
