Oh no.
My hand flies to my mouth as the six of us audibly gasp in unison. I glance all around the street. There’s no parking lot for the restaurant, just street parking, and less than fifty feet away is an all-black Tesla, the same one that used to pick me up for dates two summers ago. Marco wasn’t here to witness the fire because he was in it.
“I need to walk away for a minute,” I tell my friends before heading in the direction of his car. I take deep breaths with my hands on top of my head as the shock of the fire starts to wear off and my hangover sets in. As I get closer to Marco’s car I notice the folded white piece of paper under his windshield wiper. It can’t be. Please, don’t be, I think to myself as I take the paper from the windshield. When I unfold it, my fear is confirmed. It’s another scanned copy of my journal entry, the one about Marco.
Today we are here to mourn the loss of not just Marco St. James but also the girl I was before I met him. Gone is the naive, sun-kissed girl lost in summer romance. That version of me was laid to rest with Marco, both suffocated by long, humid nights and lies. He was the type of guy mothers warn their daughters about. He was the monster under your bed—or rather, in it. Or on the couch. Or on the bar. You get the picture. But hisdeath was not for nothing, no. For if he didn’t take my old self down with him, I may have fallen for another just like him. And that is a fate worse than death.
Arrivederci, you motherf—
“Sloane?” I hear Dani say, walking up behind me.
With shaking hands, I crumple it up and shove it into my coat pocket. I frantically look all around me to see if there’s someone out there watching, waiting for me to find it. Was this even meant for me to find? What thefuckis going on? My breathing is ragged now, with my hands shaking uncontrollably.
“Are you okay?” she says.
“Yep, yes.” I let out an unsteady breath.
“I know you didn’t really like him but... what a horrible way to go.”
“Yes,” I whisper, looking back over at the billowing smoke. “Horrible.”
“We should get out of here,” she says.
We all walk to Dalton’s apartment parking lot, where my car is, after saying goodbye and getting our belongings from his apartment. The group is quiet as we all pile back into my car. I sit frozen at the wheel. We’re all thinking it but no one is saying it. This is my third ex to die in less than two months.
“Do you... need one of us to drive?” Charlie asks from the back seat.
I almost feel like I’m imagining it as a white Jeep Wrangler, the same car Miles Holland drives, speeds past the lot.
“What?” I ask, distracted, but Asher is already at the driver’s side telling me to get in the back.
The fifteen minutes to my house drag on forever as music plays low in the background. I stare out the window completely zoned out, with my hand on the printed eulogy in my pocket. The slickness of my sweating palms starts to dampen the page. Asher parks the car and everyone starts to walk toward the house. I go around to my trunk to look for a pair of slippers or slides, realizing I only brought the heeled boots that I’ve been wearing since we got here yesterday. When I open my trunk my heart stops. A red gasoline container sits in the center of all the clothes, shoes, and other miscellaneous items that I’ve tossed back here over the years. I look around to see if anyone else caught a glimpse of what’s in my trunk, but my friends have now congregated by the garage door, likely waiting for me before entering the house. I can only stare at the container. I know I didn’t put this in here. I’ve never once kept a gasoline container in my trunk.
“Sloane, are you coming?” Annica asks. “We’re waiting on you.”
“Y-yeah,” I stammer out, closing the trunk without grabbing the shoes.
I lie down in my old bed, staring up at the purple-painted ceiling. Jonah, Ryan, and now Marco. I repeat their names in my head like a grocery list. Jonah, Ryan, Marco, Jonah, Ryan, Marco. I go to turn on my side and the crunch of the paper in my pocket makes me flinch. Jonah’s death felt like a cruel twist of fate. Ryan’s felt like a bad coincidence. Marco’s feels like a murder—I think of the red gasoline container in my trunk—and I’m the intended suspect.
Chapter 11
At least a dozen kids in Claire’s class and their parents show up at our house for homecoming pictures. My friends hang out outside while I make small talk with the adults asking me about school and what I’ll do when I graduate. It’s an overwhelming amount of conversation for someone who is on the verge of a breakdown. I catch a few whispers here and there from some of the parents who saw the news about the fire.
“Did you see that new restaurant in North Winwick caught on fire last night?” one woman says.
“Yes! And I heard the owner wasinsidewhen it happened!” another woman says with her hand over her heart.
“I could see the smoke from my house!” one man says.
I can’t hear another word about it, and I meet my friends outside. We sit in near silence watching a movie on the back patio but I’m staring at my car, afraid that if I look away the gas container might drive itself to the police station.
Eventually we call it a night; the boys go back to the basement while Dani and Annica share Claire’s bed because she’s sleeping at a friend’s house after the dance. I lie there in the dark for atleast an hour before getting up and quietly sneaking outside. The only rational thing I can think of is to get rid of this gas container; whether it was the one to start the fire or just some sick joke, I want it gone.
I take it to the edge of the woods behind my house, my feet crunching on the leaves in the yard with each step. I’m going to have to walk into the woods at least a few feet to toss this far enough but—
“What are you doing with that?” Asher’s voice scares the shit out of me.
“Jesus Christ, Asher,” I hiss. “What are you doing out here?”
