Page 17 of What They Say

Kath hesitated in the doorway, still buzzing from the day. The red stockings felt ridiculous now, like armor she didn’t need at home. She set her helmet on the chair by the door and tried for casual.

“Hey. You’re home early.”

Maudie didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

Kath waited a beat, then crossed the room and dropped into the old armchair across from her sister. “I met someone today.”

That got a reaction. Maudie’s eyes flicked up, flat and unimpressed. “Another one?”

“Not like that.” Kath leaned forwards, elbows on her knees. She couldn’t keep the small smile off her face. “His name’s Chase. He plays guitar in this band—Occupy Yourself. He knew the guy who built my bike. We just sat and talked. For like an hour. He was different. Quiet. Didn’t try to impress me or grab my ass or any of that shit.”

Maudie snorted and looked back at her phone. “Sounds boring.”

Kath’s smile faltered. “He wasn’t boring. He was...God, he was real. Like he actually listened when I talked about music. Asked real questions. Didn’t make it weird.”

Silence.

Kath tried again, softer. “I don’t know, Maudie. It felt nice. First time in a long time that I didn’t feel like I had to have my guard all the way up.”

Maudie finally set her phone down, but her expression was cold. “That’s cute. Real cute. You meet some boy who follows you around on your fancy custom bike, and suddenly you’re all dreamy-eyed.”

“It’s not like that—”

“No?” Maudie sat up, eyes narrowing. “You know what it is like? You took three grand you had saved up—the money we could’ve used for a new fridge, or maybe a decent couch that doesn’t have springs poking through—and you blew it on that fucking motorcycle. Because you wanted it. Not us. You.”

Kath felt the words land like slaps. “It was my money, Maudie. I worked overtime for six months for that. You said you were fine with it.”

“I said that because you wouldn’t shut up about it!” Maudie’s voice rose. “Mom’s been gone for more than a year—off with some trucker asshole who probably doesn’t even remember her name by now—and you’re out here buying toys like we’re not barely keeping the lights on.”

Kath’s stomach twisted. “I pay my half of everything. Rent, groceries, utilities. I’ve never been late once. The bike was my thing. Something that makes me feel...free.”

“Free,” Maudie repeated bitterly. “Must be nice. While I’m stuck here working doubles at the bar so we don’t get evicted, you’re out playing biker chick and flirting with some musician who’ll probably fuck you and leave like the rest of them.”

The words stung worse than they should have. Kath stood up, fists clenched at her sides.

“You don’t know him.”

“I don’t need to,” Maudie shot back. “I know you. You get all excited about some guy, and suddenly nothing else matters. Just like Mom. Just like every other girl who thinks a pretty face and a loud engine means something real.”

Kath stared at her sister, the person who used to sneak her snacks and cover for her when their mom brought home the worst men. The person who now looked at her like she was the enemy.

“I’m not Mom,” Kath said quietly. “And I’m not you either.”

Maudie laughed, but it sounded hollow. “No shit. At least I know better than to trust some boy who smiles at me in a diner.”

Kath turned and walked down the hall before she said something she couldn’t take back. She closed her bedroom door, locked it, and leaned against it for a long moment, breathing hard.

Her eyes landed on the notebook sitting on her desk. She crossed the room, flipped it open, and started writing fast, the angry lines flowing like water from her pen.

She looks at me like I’m already gone

Like the bike, the boy, the dream—they’re all wrong

Says I’m just like her, chasing smoke and fire

But I’d rather burn bright than live cold and tired

Kath dropped the pen and stared at the words until they blurred.