Page 16 of Brazen Being It

It stuck with me and I can’t shake it.

We pull off at the dusty little motel on the edge of a nothing town. One gas station. One diner. A boarded-up church. And the kind of motel that’s seen more crime scenes than honeymoons. The motel that is her home.

Toon mutters, “meet is seven am, let’s shower, crash, and roll out as soon as we finish with the Saint’s. Or you gonna be tied up with the hot piece.”

I want to punch him, my best friend, for calling her a hot piece. “One night. Then we roll. What I do during that night isn’t your business.”

The lady at the front desk doesn’t even look up from her soap opera as she slides us a room key.

Room 6. Two beds. Smells like mildew and regret.

We toss our gear inside and step out to smoke. The air is cooler now, the kind of stillness that comes just before the sky splits open with summer rain. I light a cigarette and lean against the railing, watching the parking lot.

And that’s when I see her.

At first, I think I’m imagining things. I thought she would be at work. Instead she’s in front of me like an angel calling me to Heaven.

She’s bent over near the vending machines, picking something up off the pavement—change, maybe. Her hoodie’s too big, the sleeves swallowing her hands. Her jeans are torn at the knees. And even from a distance, I can tell she hasn’t eaten right in days.

It’s her.

Cambria.

I don’t know what the hell made me look out at that exact second. Maybe fate. Maybe dumb luck. But once I see her, I can’t look away.

“Yo,” Toon says, nudging me. “You can’t eat her up from this far away.”

I let out a half-hearted laugh.

He follows my gaze again. “You know her?”

“Kind of.”

He gives me a look. “That means either you screwed her, or you want to.”

I smirk. “Neither. Yet.”

He laughs and walks off, giving me the space.

I flick the cigarette, grab the room key, and head down the stairs. She doesn’t notice me until I’m right beside her.

“You always dig through parking lots, or is this just a Tuesday thing?” I ask.

She startles, straightens fast, her face pale under the motel’s yellow light.

“You,” she says. “You’re here.”

“Me. And I’m here.”

She glances around nervously then back at me. She looks like she wants to run. Or maybe cry. Or maybe both.

“You always show up when I’m at my worst?”

I tilt my head. “What if this is your best?”

She snorts, the sound bitter. “Then that’s real fucking sad.”

“Thought you had to work.”

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