Sighing, I play with the steel chain hung around my neck and drag it from left to right, so the scrape of metal against metal creates a comfortingt-t-t-t-t-t. I wear Ry’s tag now that he’s gone, and hanging with it, a coin he used to carry in his pocket, day in, day out. It was a device he always taunted me with.
Heads, you lose. Tails, I win.
It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize his game, and after that, I hardly made a fuss about it anyway, because he only ever flipped a coin when we’d worked through an argument, he’d heard me out, and westillcouldn’t come to an agreement. By that point, I figured he was probably right, and I was wrong anyway.
As was so often the case.
Now I rub the coin and tag together for comfort, sliding them along the chain and slapping my leg when another mosquito touches down for dinner. But this time, at least, I take a hint and push off my chair.
It’s time to go in, or I’ll have red welts along my legs tomorrow and a nasty case of ‘why was I so dumb?’ beating at the back of my mind. I stretch my spine and, releasing Ry’s chain, bend until my bones crackle and a long groan reverberates from the base of my lungs. Straightening out again, I tuck the chain beneath my shirt and scoop up my empty glass, and passing through the door, I head to the sink and set it inside for loading into the dishwasher later. I wander through my dark home, not quite nighttime-black, but the sun is too low outside to provide anything more than passable vision.
I reach out on my way past and smack the light switch to illuminate the living room. But it takes three more steps for mybrain to acknowledge that no light comes on, and another before I skid to a stop and turn back with a frown. Swallowing, I move to the wall and test the switch again—on, off, on—before dropping my hand and shivering as the sun races toward the horizon faster than ever. Shadows grow darker. Scarier. Quicker than usual. “The hell?” I test it one last time—the ultimate exercise in false hope—and, chewing on my lip, I take my phone from my shorts pocket and tap the flashlight app so I can see more than a couple of feet ahead of me.
Scowling, I spin on my feet and stride back through the kitchen, the back door, off the porch, and around to the side of my house in search of the power box. Yanking the old, rusting metal door open, I shine the flashlight inside and gawk, much like I did earlier today with my head under the hood of the RAM.
I have no damn clue what I’m looking at, but a pretty decent idea that all the switches should point toward ‘on’. Fortunately for me, one doesn’t. So I flick it back into place and release the heavy steel covering, then, retracing my steps, I head inside again, close the door, lock up, and test the kitchen light switch.
The room fills with glorious, soul-serving light that releases my heart from the vise I didn’t realize was squeezing me half to death. But my victory is short-lived as the lights die once more, and with them, the fridge beeps on its way out, and the dishwasher bids its robotic goodbye.
“Mother shitter.” Snarling, I stalk back to the door and swing it wide a second time, and jogging down the steps and around to the power box, I open it again to reveal the stupid breaker pointing down.
Off.
“Whyyyyyy?” Groaning, I flick it again, though I know it’s useless, and heading back into the house, I do as I did with the living room light; I test it a stupid number of times before I admit something isn’t working and I have no damn clue how to fix it.
Cranky, I turn from the wall and lean back, my shoulder blades touching plaster and my feet resting against the already scuffed baseboards. Unlocking my phone, I scroll through my contacts and find Ryan’s name, the one I would call, even if he was out of the country and fighting hard for our freedom.
Tears itch the backs of my eyes and form a lump in the base of my throat, exactly how it does every time I experience a new moment of missing my brother, and though I try to swallow the ache and breathe through the pain, the lump remains stubborn until tears well over, dribbling along my bruised cheek.
Every droplet is like a hot poker on my skin. A swift kick to my stomach. Every exhale is a painful emptying of my lungs and a stark reminder that he’s gone.
I needed him, even when he was thousands of miles away. I relied on him, even if his voice was the only comfort I received in my moments of fear and loneliness. He was my rock and my home, and now he’s gone.
What could’ve been a silly chat packed with teasing laughter while he walked me through fixing my power box, is just me. All alone and with no one to call and not a soul on this planet to reach out to.
“God.” My tears turn to an annoying sob, which turns to a hiss of pain as I swipe my cheek and remember my still-healing scrapes. I scroll through my contacts, past names I’ve known my whole life, people who could probably help me just as easilyas Ry would have. I skip past the Dixons, all three of them, and keep moving beyond Duke. I flip past Edwin’s name, knowing he’s more likely to invite me over for dinner and coddling instead ofactuallyhelping. Then I scroll past Justin—the guy with a small penis—and snicker, the taste of my tears on my tongue when I open my mouth to breathe.
He could probably help. He might even consider it a chance at redemption.
Just call Lincoln and get it over with.
An annoying voice in the back of my mind prompts me to do the one thing I’d rather not, because needing him is just so…damsel. The brother’s-friend thing is too cliché.
I refuse to be that person.
I absolutely reject the idea that at twenty-seven years old, a man I met three days ago is the lifeline I choose in a world where Ry no longer exists. But he’s near, I have to admit. A literal minute drive away.
It’ll be fine.
Right?
“So stupid.” I close my eyes and tap on his name, and sliding along the wall, I lower to my butt while the call rings, and rings, and rings, and rings…
“Dammit.” It’s gonna go to voicemail, which means I’ll look ridiculous, but I won’t even receive the benefit of having my power fixed. Dragging my eyes open again, my jaw quivering with pathetic tears, I stretch my thumb and prepare to tap the red dot to end our call, but just as I intend to do it, the line connects, and Lincoln’s panting breath washes into my ear.
“Nova?” He’s suspicious. Not all that enthused, really. Whichmakes sense, since stealing his phone number from a loan application is hardly professional. “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” And yet, my voice trembles on that single word and makes me sound foolish. “I’m sorry for calling.”
