“Well you have my number if you need anything at all.”
“Thank you,” I say, as if I could afford him.
We make our way back to the front door and he looks at the boxes again.
“Can I give you a lift anywhere?”
“No thanks, I’ve got a taxi coming.” Another lie. “But, um, please can you help me get my boxes to the end of the drive?”
It doesn’t take us long to empty the house, then I lock it for the final time before handing him the keys. I’ve never not had keys before, it’s weird, I feel almost naked without them. Phone, purse—no keys. I wonder what happened to my parents’ keys, were they given to me with their belongings? Sorting through everything is a blur, but surely I’d have remembered seeing their keys.
Both of them had matching key chains that I made them in school, I remember drawing a picture of the three of us and it getting printed, before the teacher helped us fit them in a plastic case we’d decorated—my parents bought two.
“Beth?” Mr. Moore places a hand on my shoulder, bringing my attention back to him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I nod. There’s no point worrying about where their keys are now, none of us need them anymore.
He holds out his hand and we shake awkwardly, saying goodbye before he leaves. Standing at the end of the drive, I ponder my next move. Where to go and what to do…
I have no ideas, but I do know that I need to keep moving forward. I don’t have time to mourn the loss of my parents; and even if I did, the feeling of betrayal consumes me more than grief. No, I need to make a plan and move forward. And so what if I don’t have anyone to help me, fuck it. If the universe is going to make it so that I’m completely alone, then that’s what I’ll be. I don’t need anyone else; I can do this by myself.
Three years later…
Chapter 1
Elizabeth
“Ican’tbelievewegot away with that,” I say, nudging my best friend Donovan in his side.
“Do you think it’s because we look so young and innocent?” He nudges me back and we laugh, jostling each other.
“Oh please, I look young and innocent, I’m not sure how you got away with a young person’s bus pass, you definitely don’t look innocent.” I link my arm in his and lean in. “I reckon it’s because the bus driver was checking you out.”
“I wouldn’t complain,” he says, “he was fucking hot!”
We continue to walk towards the large metal gates that loom ahead, and Donovan’s smile soon vanishes.
“Anyway, enough jokes like that,” he says, “I want to actually leave this place alive so I can go on this semester exchange and get the hell out of this town.”
I squeeze his hand, hating that he has to hide such a big part of himself from everyone but me. When he first told me he was gay, but that no one knew, my immediate response was that he should just tell his family. If they had a problem with his sexuality, then they could go fuck themselves. But I quickly had to check my privilege, I’d soon learned that it isn’talways that simple for people. It’s easy enough for me to say that to him, but I’m not the one who might lose my family, or worse, my life.
My heart broke when he told me that his father, Frank, is serving time in prison for murder. He was the leader and one of the founding members of a motorcycle club, Lobos Aulladores. They used to be heavily involved in illegal shit; having one of their members go away for murder was not a rare occurrence for them. His older brother, Diablo, is still a member, but things are different now. They call themselves a legit club, meaning that all of their money comes from legitimate businesses they run.
Donovan describes them as ‘old-school’ though, meaning they have lots of archaic rules, one of which is that gay people aren’t allowed in the club. Personally, I think the term ‘old-school’ is too good for them, ‘bigoted assholes’ is more appropriate. But Donovan loves his brother more than anything, and he has friends in the club too, so if he’s cool with it, I guess I’ll have to be okay with spending time with them too.
Initially I came to the club to be a buffer of sorts, so that Donovan could be seen with a girl and throw them off the scent. But it became habit, and now we often hang out at the clubhouse after class, using the time to study, and now that we’re both twenty-one, enjoying a beer or two with the guys and having a laugh.
That’s if I don’t need to rush off to my graveyard diner shift which I work Monday to Thursday—9 p.m. till 3 a.m. is a killer, but it’s the only job that fits around college, and it’s often quiet enough that I can at least get on with some of the reading for my literature modules or try and sneak in some writing of my own between customers.
We reach the gate to the clubhouse and Donovan knocks on the corrugated metal. A gruff voice sounds through it, “¿Quién es? Who is it?”
“It’s Donovan! Let us in, Walrus.”
There’s a rusty screech of a lock shifting before a small section of the gate opens, just big enough for us to step through.
“Hey, Walrus,” I say.
He always mans the gate as he’s in charge of club security; it’s obvious why, considering he stands over us at around six foot five and is wider than both of us combined. He’s got a bald head with a long beard and mustache, hence his nickname, and both are graying at the tips showing his age. His voice is rough from too many cigarettes, and he’s a man of few words.
