Page 193 of Don’t Say Mafia

For a second, hearing him say my name had softened something in me. It was an unfortunate reflex . . . muscle memory from a lifetime of believing he was the one place that couldn’t hurt me. The reality of him always came back into focus, though. The couch. The clothes. The smell. The empty apartment and the empty fridge and all the empty fucking promises.

Another tear slipped free before I could stop it, tracing the same path as the first traitorous one.

He’d once told me we’d have a quiet place and peace. He’d whispered vows under stars and rusted swings. He’d sworn we’d get out. That this life wouldn’t touch us. That we wouldn’t turn into the people we came from.

I’d believed him then, because that Ryan had never lied to me.

I didn’t believe him now.

I stood there a moment longer, staring at him longingly the way you did when you knew someone was slipping away, and I hated myself for being the fool back then who had never imagined he’d break his promises to me.

Youth makes everything feel permanent. It wraps promises in gold and tells you they’ll last forever, because you’re too young to understand how easily forever can crack.

I stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind me, and I didn’t try to do it quietly this time.

Smoke and bleach clung to the hallway, the chlorine scent lingering without ever managing to make anything feel clean. The heat met me head-on, already scorching and relentless this early in the morning. By the time I got home, the apartment would feel like an oven. The window unit would rattle in protest, same as always, and quit the second the temperature climbed too high to handle.

Outside, the complex sagged under years of neglect. The stucco was cracked and stained, and the railings were rusted through. This was the part of Vegas they didn’t put on postcards. Here there was no neon or glamour. There was just concrete and desperation and people doing their best to survive.

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and started walking, passing a man slumped against the wall in the stairwell, his head lolled back, mouth open, chest rising shallowly. A syringe still rested in his arm, forgotten or abandoned, I couldn’t tell which. I didn’t look too closely. Looking too closely invited things you couldn’t unsee. I stepped around him like I’d learned to do, careful not to brush against him.

This was my normal now.

The street was already awake in all the wrong ways. A rusted Chevy idled at the curb, bass thumping through its open windows like a heartbeat with arrhythmia. The driver had his seat reclined so far back he was practically lying down, with one arm dangling out the door, and a lit cigarette that glowed red every time he took a drag. His stare followed my ass as I walked by, and for the millionth time I wished I was allowed to wear a longer skirt during my shift.

Farther down the block, a woman screamed from a second-floor balcony. “You piece of shit, get back here!” Glass shattered, and a man laughed before he yelled something filthier in return. The argument didn’t stop; it just kept rolling, louder, uglier, like they were trying to outmatch each other in how much damage they could do with words alone.

I kept my head down and my eyes forward, placing one foot in front of the other, hoping I could go invisible if I just didn’t look at anyone.

There had been a time Ryan wouldn’t have let me do this alone.

He used to walk me to the bus stop every morning, no matter how tired he was, no matter how late he’d worked the night before. He’d stand there with his hands shoved in his pockets, scanning the street like he was on guard duty, waiting until the bus pulled up and I was safely inside before heading back home. He’d told me it was stupid, that the world shouldn’t be this way, but until it changed, he wasn’t taking chances with me.

Now the sidewalk stretched empty beside me.

The bus stop came into view in all its glory, the metal bench warped and tagged. I took my place beside it and folded my arms, wishing that it didn’t feel as though a million eyes were currently crawling across my skin.

I swallowed the unease in my throat and told myself the same thing I always did.

I will be fine.

I always was.

Even if this wasn’t the life I’d been promised.

The bus hissed to a stop in front of me, and its doors folded open with a tired sigh. I climbed on and smiled at the driver out of reflex, swiping the pass my work had given me when I picked up enough hours to qualify. The machine beeped and flashed green, and I moved down the aisle to take the same seat I always did, halfway back on the right.

Routine was what kept me upright.

As the bus lurched forward and the city slid past in washed-out colors, my thoughts drifted where they always did when I let them. Back to how we’d gotten here. Back to the version of Ryan who had sat on that rusted swing years ago and promised me more.

Vegas had been his idea.

He’d said it with that hopeful look in his eyes, the one that used to undo me every time. He talked about better jobs and more opportunity, about a fresh start that didn’t include broken windows and flashing police lights. I’d said yes immediately and ran to the courthouse with him to get married before we left. I didn’t have a pretty dress, and we didn’t have any guests. But his hand shaking a little as he slid the cheap ring on my finger had been enough. I’d believed he understood how big the promise was.

I’d believed him with my whole heart because it felt like everything we’d survived had finally led somewhere.

After that, we had packed everything we owned into his car and drove off with the kind of excitement that makes it feel like a great thing was just around the corner.