"Call the cops," Carl says, his voice strained. "This guy's assaulting me."
Dom releases him abruptly and Carl stumbles back, cradling his wrist. For a moment I think that's it, that we'll just leave, get back in the van, keep moving. But then Dom speaks again, his voice quiet and deadly.
"You do this often? Corner women in your store? See what you can get away with?"
Carl's face flushes red. "Look, I don't know what you think happened…”
"I don’t have to think, I saw it."
"Saw what? I didn't touch her."
"You were going to."
The certainty in Dom's voice makes me tremble from head to toe. He knows. Knows exactly what Carl is, what he does, what he would have done if Dom hadn't been here, and he's not going to let it go.
"We should leave," I say quietly, touching Dom's arm. He doesn't look at me or take his eyes off Carl.
"Yeah," he says finally. "We should."
But the way he says it, the promise in his voice, makes it clear this isn't over.
We eat at the diner across the street, the only other business that looks open. The waitress is young, maybe nineteen, with dark circles under her eyes and a nervous energy that makes my skin prickle. She seats us in a booth by the window and hands us menus without making eye contact.
"Coffee?" she asks.
"Please," I say.
She nods and scuttles away, and Dom leans back against the vinyl seat, his jaw tight.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Fine."
"Dom."
He looks at me then, and I see it, the irritance simmering just beneath the surface, the need to go back across the street and finish what he started.
"He's done it before," Dom says. "You could see it with the way he talked and acted. He's done it and he'll do it again."
"I agree. It makes me sick how many girls he must have harassed in the past."
"So we can't just leave."
We sit with those thoughts, knowing this now comes down to a choice. We could either get in the van and drive away, pretending this place doesn’t exist. Or we can stay and deal withshit, hoping that the police don’t catch up with us. Why am I even thinking about this? We both know the answer.
"No," I say quietly. "We can't leave yet."
His hand finds mine across the table, fingers lacing through mine, and the touch is grounding in a way I can no longer live without.
"You sure?" he asks.
"Yes."
The waitress returns with coffee and we order without really looking at the menu. Eggs, bacon and pancakes, the kind of food that tastes the same everywhere. She writes it down with shaking hands and I watch her carefully.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
She glances at me, startled. "What?"
