Page 54 of Miserable Marionette

His frown deepens as the cat purrs, rubbing its head on his shin, resigned to manually petting itself since Gideon isn’t going to. “Do you want me to have a cat?”

A strange puff of air leaves me at the odd question, followed by a deranged laugh. The big kind, a gut-aching kind of laugh, while my ex-boyfriend joins the ghosts in the basement. When I look up, there’s a new warmth in his eyes, not the soft kind but the kind of warmth you’d feel standing in the cold, watching a raging fire from the window. The illusion of something tender. My cheeks burn. “I could use a ride… if you don’t mind.”

“I’ve got two hours before his family arrives. Let’s go.”

The cat casts us both a withering look before shooting off into the woods. Part of me wants to follow it, to get lost out there again. Gideon’s hand finds the small of my back as he leads me down the stairs, apparently already ready to go. When he opens my car door, for a second, I’m slipping into a beat-up pale blue Impala, the cassette player wonky, if you don’t load them at an angle, a necklace I made him hanging in the—

My eyes blow wide as I settle inside, staring at the beaded monstrosity in the flesh. Dangling there, draped around the rearview like it had ten years ago. It’s a different car, perhaps deep down, even a different owner. The only flash of personality in the black leather interior. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I barely register it as Gideon shuts my door, trailing to his side before deftly slipping in beside me. “Seatbelt, Audrey.”

I obey dumbly, half considering pretending I hadn’t noticed, like I don’t remember. I’ve never been great at pretending, though. My mouth betrays my wishes before he even pulls out of the drive. “You found it.”

Blue eyes cut to me before he reaches up, trailing his fingers over the colorful beads. It’s such a practiced move, like he’s done it a billion times. “I never lost it.”

“How?! I made that—" A puff of air leaves me. “What? Fifteen years ago? Was it packed away all this time?”

“It’s always been right where it’s at since the day you slung it there in my first car.” He glances over at me as we start down the road, shooting me a smirk. “I just had to move it to the others.”

I don’t return the smile; my heart is pounding so loudly in my chest I worry he can hear it, my palms slickening with my sweat despite the chill. “Why?” The words are barely a whisper, and I half consider plugging my ears to save me from having to hear his answer, if he deigns to give me one at all.

“Because you gave it to me. Seatbelt, Audrey, or I’m pulling over and doing it myself.”

It’s only then that I realized I’d paused halfway through strapping it on. The clink is the only sound that fills the cab as I press my hands against my heated cheeks and watch the trees zoom by.

26

Station

Audrey, Present Day, 1994

In all these years, I don’t think the station has changed. Not in the familiar, nostalgic way, but stagnantly. The way that promises no movement forward, no new ideals. Just the same small-town talk, the same small-town judgment one finds without ever having to truly do anything to earn it. I’d made up my mind somewhere in the ten-minute drive over here to tell the police everything. Even if that means another load of stigma gets permanently attached to my name by nightfall.

It’s that fucking drink.

The alcohol.

It’s inflicted so much on me.

Uncle Rodney.

Mom.

Myself.

Bryan.

It twists people in ugly ways, makes the worst parts of them fester and thrum. It has that magical way of making you think one more would be okay. Another binge isn’t going to kill you.

But it does.

It kills you in every way that counts.

Changes you.

Rewires your brain if you’re predisposed to such things. Sometimes even if you’re not.

Sitting with Gideon after all this time, all these new revelations, not a word traded between us, should’ve been nerve-wracking. All I could think about was all the ways I’d let myself down. Sure, it's Bryan’s fault he’s dead. It’s his fault he hurt me. But I didn’t walk away either. I could’ve; he wouldn’t have physically harmed me if I broke things off. He would have been annoying for a week or two, sure, between binders at least, but not violent. His deal was that he never knew when to quit. Drinking, pushing, begging.

Just like Mom never knew when to quit feeling sorry for herself.