He didn’t ask if I was okay. He just watched the rearview like a hawk and kept the speed up, swerving around whatever methhead debris littered the county roads. When we finally coasted to a stop in front of a roadside diner, I almost fell off the pillion seat, legs so rubbery I had to steady myself on the curb before I puked in the oil-slicked gutter.
The diner was a single-story box with blinking neon that read “CHILI & PIE” and windows so greasy you could’ve written a suicide note in the film. The parking lot was empty except for a Chevy with four donut tires and a Honda whose hood was propped open, engine still steaming. A dog the size of a mop wandered between the cars, then pissed on the wheel of the Honda before trotting off into the chaparral.
Inside, the place was a shrine to midcentury heartbreak: cracked red booths, linoleum floor curling at the edges, a pie case full of congealed sadness, and a single old man behind the counter watching cable news with the sound off. The smell was brutal—burnt coffee, griddle grease, and something faintly like cat pee. I swallowed hard and tried not to think about how my stomach had been doing flip-flops for the last fifty miles.
Augustine let the door swing shut behind him and motioned to the nearest booth, like he owned the joint. I slidin across from him and tried to make myself small, the vinyl seat cold on my bare legs. He flagged the waitress—a girl in her fifties with a smoker’s voice and a nametag that read “DEB”—and ordered eggs, sausage, and a stack of pancakes big enough to choke a horse.
“You want anything?” he asked, not looking up from the menu.
I shook my head, then realized my head was shaking too much. “Just coffee,” I said, but even the thought of drinking it made my mouth go dry.
Deb shot me a side-eye, then poured two cups from the pot on the warmer. She set the mugs down and walked off, the heels of her orthopedic shoes thudding against the tile.
Augustine dumped half a sugar packet in his cup and gave me a once-over. “You look like dogshit.”
“Feel like it, too,” I said, and took a sip of coffee, which tasted exactly like you’d expect: battery acid and despair.
We sat in silence, the way only two people who’ve fucked and maybe fallen for each other and maybe don’t know what to do with it can sit in silence. I watched the news on mute—footage of a warehouse fire in Tucson, a ticker about rising gas prices, some politician in a suit gesturing like he wanted to fight the camera. None of it mattered. All I could focus on was the slow, coiling dreadin my gut and the way the world seemed to be closing in from every direction.
Deb came back with our order of eggs scrambled and swimming in grease, sausage links shriveled and black at the ends, pancakes the size of hubcaps, and topped with a blob of margarine. The sight of it made my jaw clench, and a fresh wave of nausea ripple through me.
Augustine didn’t notice. He cut into the pancakes with military precision, then forked a bite into his mouth. “You gonna eat?” he asked, mouth full.
I wrapped my hands around the mug and tried to pretend I didn’t hear the question. My hands were shaking so bad I almost spilled coffee down my front. The world seemed to be getting smaller, closing in around me like the night before in the woods, only this time there was no storm to blame, just the relentless certainty of being alive and not wanting to be.
He finished his first plate and started on the eggs. “You want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
He shrugged, not looking up. “Whatever’s turning you green. You can’t bullshit me, Mel. I’ve seen junkies with more appetite.”
I gripped the mug harder, knuckles bone white. “I said I’m fine.”
He set his fork down and stared at me, eyes hard. “If you’re gonna hurl, do it before I eat, yeah?”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or just being an asshole. Maybe both.
But that was it—the trigger. My body seized up, and a hot rush of saliva filled my mouth. I slammed the mug down, shoved past Augustine, and made a beeline for the back of the diner, ignoring the looks from Deb and the old man at the counter.
The bathroom was worse than I’d imagined: a cracked mirror, an air freshener that failed spectacularly, a toilet that looked like it had seen one too many overdose deaths. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, flickering in and out. I made it to the stall just in time to retch bile into the bowl, my whole body convulsing until I was empty.
When it was over, I sat back on the tile, hugging my knees and waiting for the world to stop spinning. The room smelled like bleach and regret. I heard Deb in the kitchen, yelling at someone about burnt toast. The sound made me want to puke again.
Eventually, I crawled to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. The girl in the mirror was pale, eyes rimmed in purple, lips cracked. I looked older than my own mother, which was saying something.
I stood there, hands braced on the sides of the sink, until the shaking in my fingers started to slow. Then, without thinking, I pulled out my phone and unlocked the screen. My thumb found the calendar app on autopilot, flipping back through the days, then weeks, counting. The numbers didn’t make sense at first, not with the hangover and the lack of food and the trauma ricocheting through my brain. I counted again, this time slower. My stomach dropped, even though there was nothing left in it.
Somehow, I knew.
I stared at the cracked mirror, at the girl with her ribs poking through her tank top and the bruises on her throat and the way her eyes wouldn’t focus. For a second, I didn’t recognize myself. Then I did, and I realized I wasn’t scared.
Not really.
I was alive, and maybe for the first time since I could remember, I wanted to stay that way.
I wiped my face on a paper towel, took a few shaky breaths, and walked out.
Augustine was waiting at the booth, picking his teeth with a coffee stirrer. When he saw me, his whole face softened, just a little. He pushed the plate of pancakes toward me.
