I flinch when Budi leans over the narrow table to stand. Panic flares, and my muscles brace for an impact that never comes. My lungs squeeze, unable to pull in oxygen as the man before me morphs into Tommy.
My knuckles go white around the backpack strap.It’s just Budi.He doesn’t have a violent bone in his body. Or an observant one, since he’s oblivious to my turmoil, double-tapping his earbuds far too casually for the highly illegal exchange we’re having.
He nods toward the kitchen, and I turn just as the clerk holds up a bag with a Styrofoam container and a plastic bag with a straw poking out the top.
“Sate?” Budi asks, and I stiffen.
It’s not Tommy. It’s not John. It’s not any of the Gallaghers.
Pull. Yourself. Together.
“Yeah,” I mutter, scrambling to my feet as the world roars louder, a fist around my lungs.
“Good shit.” He grins, motioning for the clerk to make one for him as well.
I snatch the helmet off the table, grab my order, and unceremoniously shove it into my pack—forgetting I should probably offer him a tight-lipped smile. “Yup. See you next week,” I say, inching backward. My nerves are haywire, convinced a member of the Gallagher syndicate is standing on the other side of the tarpaulin with a gun pointed at my head.
Heart stuck in my throat, I duck beneath the shade and hurry to my bike. The engine barely has a second to start before I’m peeling off the sidewalk onto the busy road.
My attention keeps flicking to my side mirrors as I tear down the street like I’m being chased by hell’s army. I’m convinced I’ll turn to see Tommy sitting behind a wheel, alive and well, back to make me wish it was me who bled out on the kitchen floor.
I tighten my grip around the throttle. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everythingwill befine as long as I focus on my work. If we keep selling and saving, it’ll be easier for me to run. I can lay low for longer without worrying about how I’ll secure a roof over my head.
Stopping myself from becoming roadkill is the only thing that keeps me from slipping off the tightrope and falling into full-fledged panic.
My harsh breaths are forced. I focus on my surroundings; the honking, yelling, the hum of engines, the wind in my hair, the heat of the motor beneath my legs.
The minutes tick by and the hour drives into two as I take more back roads and side streets, twisting and U-turning, going around in circles in case anyone is following me, until I finally reach my destination.
The sun has long begun its descent by the time I come to a stop, certain I’m not being followed. The salty sea breeze fills my lungs, coating my fraying nerves in familiarity. There’s nothing but miles of sand and water each way, not a soul in sight.
No Tommy. No Gallagher. No pirate.
I hope.
Swallowing, I take my helmet off and pocket my keys before climbing down the dunes to get to the beach, parking myself a few feet from the shoreline.
There’s a resort a mile to the left, and another a mile to the right. This is the sweet spot tourists never make it to because there are prettier things to see in the other direction.
Even Dad’s death, heavy as it is, feels small when faced with nothing but miles upon miles of blue. The existential crisis of being insignificant is a welcome reprieve to the horrors of the echo chamber I’ve landed in.
My legs stretch out in front of me, and I dig my toes into the cool, damp sand. The waves roll in, only a foot away from where I stand. The tension slowly unwinds from my muscles as I stare into the vermillion sky, ears constantly straining to hear incoming cars or people.
Grabbing my dinner from my bag, I clean my hands with the sanitizer, then double-check the gun is still there—my safety blanket. My stomach sings the desperate song of its people as my energy saps into the sand from the adrenaline rush.
The bone-deep itch between my shoulder blades from a still-healing tattoo prickles, a nagging irritant that keeps me constantly on edge and makes my dinner taste sour when it isn’t.
My eyes drift shut of their own accord, absorbing the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, the cool wind kissing my sweat-stained skin, the salty air filling my lungs.
At least, after everything, it's cathartic knowing that even though Tommy killed me, my corpse is slowly coming back alive, battered and bruised, with a heartbeat he doesn’t have.
His ghost still haunts me. Wounds still fester. What was broken will never be whole.
2
Ordus
The reef sways with the ocean’s current, shifting colors to the rhythm of my family’s dead hearts. Blue and yellow for my sister’s burial site. Brown and white for my brother. The Curse took the life from the graves of the queens and kings before them long ago.
