I regret hitting send as soon as my finger leaves the screen. I didn’t even realize the smile until it slips off my face. I set the phone face down and pickup the plate. The lack of vibrating isn’t lost on me as I slowly cut off pieces and eat.
Why do I keep insisting on bringing up old shit? He doesn’t want to be reminded. I think that’s clear. I’m somewhere between Kit and Meyer now.
I hear the door next to mine open and close. I can picture him in there. Slipping off his pants, his shirt. Climbing into the shower to rinse off the day. Totally unbothered about me hanging onto the silence of my phone.
I can’t tell you how many texts I typed out over the years. Typed. Deleted. Typed. Deleted. I sneezed once and tapped the screen. I nearly had a heart attack in the split second my eyes closed and I felt my skin hit the screen. I would have expired had I accidentally sent the message. I started typing them in my note app after that.
After twenty minutes, I can’t take it anymore. I move to sit on the edge of the bed and grab my shoes, pulling them on without bothering to untie the laces. I roll my eyes, biting on my bottom lip, but snatch my phone and shove it into my pocket before making my way out of the room. I stop at the sink first, quickly washing my plate and fork, and setting them in the strainer. Whole time my skin tingles on my back, like it’s on the lookout for tall, moody men walking into the room. Ready and waiting to alert me to his presence.
No men, though. Just me and my silent phone.
The sun is mostly set when I step out on the porch. The dark, deep blue dominates over the last pinky, orange streaks of day. It’s cooler now, but warm enough that the water from earlier is mostly dried on the porch now as I make my way down the steps and walk over to the van.
A nice dose of embarrassment swoops into my stomach, swift and annoying, when I remember my reaction earlier. And the fact that I was so worked up, I forgot to even slide the door closed.
I climb inside, hit with the familiar scent of the van. Like hot car and the vanilla air fresheners I’ve got hanging up in every corner. I close the doorbehind me and fumble around with the switch that hangs by the door until the twinkle lights turn on. I’m sure the batteries will need changed soon, but for now, they give off enough light for me to move into the back and slip my hand under the mattress.
The notebook is exactly where I shoved it earlier, and I pull it back out, smoothing my hand over the worn cover once it’s in my hands.
That's when I hear the crinkle.
At first, I think I’m kneeling on something. Even looking down to see. But there is nothing but ugly tan carpet under my knees.
Crinkle.
A thump of something hitting something solid.
It’s coming frominside the van.
And what does my dumbass do? Turn around and slide the door back open, you say?
No! No, I scramble on hands and knees to the bed, catapult myself on top of it, and plaster my back against the back door. I picture looking up in the front seat to Pennywise the clown waving a bloody, severed arm at me. Tendons and fleshy bits wiggling like worms in the air. Manic smile painted red with more than just makeup.
Honestly? I don’t know if my reaction to the raccoon that stands up on the seat and looks back at me is much better.
I scream. Raccoon growls.
Raccoon lifts one of its little hands to its mouth and bites into a pale, frosted square that I would know anywhere.
“Oh, my God.” The raccoon stops its open-mouthed munching at my voice but quickly starts up again all the while watching me. I’ve never had a more intense staring contest in my life. Air is sawing out of me like I’ve just run three miles at full speed.
“How the fuck…” I breathe, wishing the door behind me would spontaneously crumble and give me a smooth exit. Unfortunately, the metal is unforgiving, solid and not at all willing to bust open no matter how hard I press back against it.
The raccoon moves onto the armrest between the seats up front, little furry gut resting on its legs as it sits, eating my snacks.
“That was my last strawberry Pop-Tart you little shit.” I slide my hand blindly over the door on my back, searching with trembling fingers. “Who even eats them without peanut butter? A furry thief and a psycho.” I move over and inwardly cheer when I find the door handle. I haven’t used the back door except for a few times. With my bed in front of it, it was always easier to just use the side door.
I forgot how hard the damn thing was to open.
“Come on. Come one. Fiona, I thought we had something special. When have I ever asked for back door access, huh? Do. Me. A. Solid,” I murmur. I pull the handle, rocking back into the door, steadily getting more aggressive when the Pop-Tart is gone and the furry snack bandit is inching closer.
The door gives with a loud creak, swinging open quickly like I hadn’t had to beat the shit out of it. My back aches, but I have no time to think about it when I go falling out backwards. All the air is knocked out of me when my back hits the dirt drive.
I have no recovery time because all I can envision is the raccoon flying out, arms and legs spread wide like a spider monkey, ready to attack for more frosted snacks.
I scramble up, turn to run…
And stop at the glowing eyes and low growling coming from a few feet away.
