“You’re lucky!” He spits, magically now having something to say. The woman behind him, who until now was frozen, staring wide-eyed, flinches and backs away from him completely.
Assholes like him are all the same. I’ve seen it my whole life. They’re really tough as long as the person they’re beating on is weaker than them. They’re controlling, abusive, violent — a total fucking waste of space.
I make a quick step toward him as if I’m coming for him again. He springs back like the pussy I know he is, and I laugh in his face. “Luck has nothing to do with it,” I reply soberly. Then I turn and walk away. He’s not even close to worth it.
“I’m leaving," I say to no one in particular.
Sean, who has now joined Ronan after noticing the commotion, claps me on the back. “You okay, man?”
I bob my head swiftly, throwing cash on the bar to settle my tab. I just want to get out of here, grab a slice, and go to fucking bed. Another hand squeezes my shoulder.
“We good?” This time it’s Ro checking in.
“Yeah, but I’m out of here. I’ll catch you guys later.”
Ronan gives me a knowing nod. Looking at Sean, he points to where the band is starting their next song. Knowing I just need my space, the two head towards the crowd. The familiar drumbeat of Ozzy Osbourne’sCrazy Trainbooms from the stage. I pause, taking in the instrumentals and a few deep breaths. When I finally feel like I can passBroon his stool without going round two, I make my way towards the exit. The woman, who was once by his side, is now at the opposite end of the bar. She gives me an easy smile that speaks volumes.“Thank you.”
Stepping into the evening heat, the sound of the band resonates outside, while the lyrics play in my head. Walking to my truck, I think about all of the times someone saw my mom in those same situations. Did anyone ever do anything about it? And if they did, did it make her think about changing?
I’m old enough now to know that it’s not as simple as just leaving. That people don’t just quit drinking or leave abusive relationships on a whim. That the process is grueling and involves danger, risk, and consequences. It’s not something you do casually, but a decision you make every single day. That I understand.
What I can’t wrap my head around is why I was never enough of a reason for her. Not at six or eight or twelve or fifteen. I drive myself nuts wondering.Why couldn’t she ever just pick me?
14
Claire
It turns out that Chloe creepily insisting on me wearing layers was actually helpful. The library air was on full blast tonight, but thanks to my hoodie, I managed to survive. I ended up staying for almost an hour after my session with Zach and even managed to brainstorm a few ideas for a novel. It was so surreal even putting them on paper — like songs of my dreams being played out loud.
The only reason I left was because they were closing at nine. That, and my stomach was growling so much they probably would have kicked me out anyway. The vending machine, which is usually stocked with everything from Chex Mix to PopTarts, was severely lacking tonight. Apparently, all of the moms bringing their kids to story times throughout the day have no respect for us grown-ups who need ample amounts of processed sugars to exist.
So, when I was driving past the strip mall, I didn’t necessarily make a conscious decision to stop at Enzo’s so much as I was pulled there by the forces of fresh sauce and gooey mozzarella cheese. Between Jay and Chloe, it must have been practically brainwashed into my mind because suddenly I was parallel parking a little ways from the building. Before I even thought it through, I shoved my phone in my front pocket and my wallet in the back and headed towards the restaurant.
As weird as it sounds, I smell him before I see him. In reality, the mix of tobacco and mint could have been anyone, but somehow, I knew it was Jay. Leaning with his foot propped and his back against the wall, he still stands over six feet tall. He’s wearing dark denim jeans and a blackt-shirt that tugs across his chest, sleeves clinging to his biceps like the two things are welded together. He’s staring off again, like I've already seen before. Either into space or at the ground, it's like his head is somewhere else. What is it that his mind is always running to? Or maybe running from.
I clear my throat in my subtle attempt to get his attention. He glances at me without breaking his serious exterior and drops his sight back down to the sidewalk he was staring at. From there, his eyes begin to move slowly up my legs. They stop at my waist, then continue up my torso, and suddenly I wish I would have at least left my hoodie in my car. Finally, his exploration continues to my face, pausing I notice, just a beat longer on my lips. It’s only when our eyes meet that the intensity of his face softens just a little, the corners of his mouth turning upward so slightly you might miss it if you weren’t paying attention. Luckily for me, I was definitely paying attention — to everything about him.
“Claire.” Despite my warm clothing, I feel goosebumps form as my body remembers the effect he has on me by just speaking my name. “What did we say about stalking?”
“Jay.” I surprise myself with my quick reaction. “What did we say about quitting?” I gesture towards his half-smoked cigarette. “Plus, I’m not stalking, just starving, and someone said this is the best pizza in town.” Pointing to the neon sign in the window I add, “Please tell me they’re still open.”
“For…” He pulls his phone from his pocket, and I can see from the screen the time reads 9:18 pm. “Twelve minutes.” He puts his cigarette out on the wall and trashes the butt, then nods his head towards the door.
There’s a slight panic that crawls up my body as I realize he’s asking if I want to go in — with him. Considering I just miraculously showed up here, I didn’t think I might see him. Had I, I definitely would have done my makeup and ditched the oversized college hoodie for a school I didn’t even attend. I catch my reflection in the window and wince. Yep, that’s a cheese curl stain from my subpar vending machine purchase earlierthis evening. Curse the little rats who stole all of the PopTarts. A Frosted Brown Sugar Cinnamon would never have let me down like this.
Without waiting for my response, Jay pulls back the door to Enzo’s and holds it open for me to pass through, his tattoos on full display. Because suddenly I’m sweating, I quickly strip off my hoodie and tie it around my waist before moving through the door.
The perfect combination of fresh basil and fried food floods my senses the second I step into the restaurant. The decor is familiar but unique. There’s black and white checkered flooring and red leather seat cushions, reminiscent of traditional pizza parlors, but the wall art screams one-of-a-kind. Where old-school places might hang pictures of classic doughboys with chef hats and handlebar mustaches, this one has ones of mob bosses and vintage Italian gangsters.
There’s a wide serving window right in front displaying a dozen different types of pizza. Most of the pies are down to just a slice or two, considering the time, but my mouth still waters at what’s left. Behind the window is an open kitchen and to the left are a handful of two-top tables, the majority of which already have their chairs flipped on top of them.
A tan, bearded guy, probably several years older than me, approaches the counter wiping his hands on a shabby dishrag. He’s wearing a worn white Enzo’s shirt, a dusted black apron, and a scar above his right eye.
“Yo, Jay! I thought you guys were goin’ to River’s?” the worker says and apparently these two know each other.
“Yeah, we did but I bailed early. Sean and Ro will be there awhile.”
“Cool, cool. Can I get you guys somethin’?” He looks from Jay to me, then back to Jay with a look on his face I just can’t place. Surprise maybe?
