By the time I get home, my head is pounding and my chest feels too tight for breathing.
Daddy’s rig ain’t in the driveway. Of course it ain’t.
I unlock the door, step inside, lock it, then check it again because one lock feels like a joke now.
The quiet presses in.
I shower and scrub my skin too hard like cleanliness can erase reputation. Afterward I sit on the edge of my bed wrapped in a towel staring at nothing, trying to make my thoughts line up into something logical.
This is stupid, I tell myself.
You danced. You drank. You laughed.
You didn’t fall in love.
Except my phone buzzes.
No Caller ID
I stare at it until the buzzing stops.
A second later a text pops up.
answer your phone, bitch
My blood turns to ice. No capital letters. No punctuation. Like whoever sent it doesn’t care about manners.
Another buzz.
watch out
I don’t answer. I just sit there with my towel clenched in my fists, the napkin in my car like a ticking thing, my heartbeat loud enough to drown out reason.
I lie down anyway because exhaustion is heavier than fear, and sleep drags me under like deep water.
And somewhere between sleep and panic, I know one thing for sure.
Hell, Kentucky noticed me.
And it ain’t decided yet what it’s gonna do about it.
Chapter 7
Brittany
A week is a long time in Hell, Kentucky. Long enough for whispers to get bored. Long enough for my nervous system to stop flinching every time a truck door slams. Long enough for me to almost convince myself I imagined it all.
That the look in that biker bunny’s eyes at the diner was just jealousy, not a warning. That the way Lottie said I got seen wasn’t a death sentence. That Oaks didn’t burn his name into my brain with nothing but a note that said don’t panic and handwriting that looked like it could break bones.
So I lie low.
I work on my homework at the kitchen table with a I go to the pawn shop and keep my head down, ring up busted rings and stolen tools, and take in one wedding band a man tries to pawn while his wife sits in the truck staring straight ahead like she can will the shame into disappearing.
I babysit Mason and let him smear peanut butter on my jeans and call it art. I laugh when he laughs because it feels good to laugh at something that ain’t mean.
I don’t go to the Lockup. I don’t go to Slice unless I’m scheduled. I don’t look for Oaks even when my mind drifts there anyway, traitorous and curious, like wanting is the same as asking for trouble.
I tell myself the quiet means I’m safe.
