Page 14 of Swallow Your Sorries

Maybe…My stomach flutters and my asshole clenches as I fiddle with my bag’s strap. No.NO! Beaussip is some nine to thirty-year-old’s first email address.

It’s just a coincidence.

I slip into the hall, and I’m about to dart past the classroom when a girl behind Madame asks, seemingly half annoyed and half intrigued, “What dirt does Beaussip have now?”

“It says Gant sent in a tip,” another girl responds, her brows knitting and her eyes flying to Madame, who whips around.

“MyGant?”

The first girl nods, and clicks open the message with half the class that eagerly follows suit.

A buzz rises around the room as the sound of a shower erupts from multiple speakers.

I don’t hesitate.I don’t think.I break for the exit, shoving past a group of students entering the hall. Hovering above them all, is a mop of inky black locks that sets my heart and legs galloping even faster. Over his shoulder, and through the glass doors, I zoom in on the reflective bus stop sign across the street. My only escape.

Shrinking against the wall, I dart past him, unseen in the crowd, and ram through the exit doors, before bolting into the dark street.

One second I’m leaping off the sidewalk and the next…pain.

That’s the first thing that comes to mind as something bumps into my side with enough force to knock me onto the asphalt. Winded, I peer up into the blinding circular lights of a vintage black vehicle. The kind from the nineteen forties.

I clutch my aching side and gasp. Something had dug into my flesh, not enough to puncture the skin, but deep and blunt enough to tear through my leotard and leave what would undoubtedly be a ghastly gash. I finger the small concave spot gingerly. Already, blood was pooling beneath my pale skin.

Seconds tick by until I realise the driver isn’t getting out. Maybe they’re in as much shock as I am. As I get to my knees, I see the object that attempted to stab me. An animal of some sort atop the hood. Maybe an eagle.

Over the steering wheel, I’m met with crystal clear, unrepentant eyes. He lifts a leather-gloved hand and shoos me as if I’m a stray dog and not a person he just ploughed into. Given the size of the vehicle, he must’ve been driving super slowly to just bump and not kill me.

He could’ve fucking killed me.

I could’ve killed myself…

I hobble to the driver’s window indignantly, and I’m about to ramp on the glass to confront him when two things happen at once. One, he speeds off the moment I’m out of the way and two Gant appears on the top step of the studio’s back entrance. The same step we stood on when he smashed my phone and grabbed my throat.

Cradling my side, I look both ways this time before sprinting across the street to the bus stop. Like a beacon in the night, I spot its headlights inching closer. Over my shoulder, Gant’s expression is murderous as he weaves across the four lanes of traffic toward me.

I speed up, squeezing my eyes shut as the pain nearly blinds me, but in three paces I’m there clutching the bus’s rail. I hobble up the steps and into its toasty refuge. As I stumble into the nearest free seat, and the doors shut behind me, I see Gant through the window, just one lane away. Just one lane, too late.

Relief washes over me as the bus lurches forward, but for the second time that day, it’s fleeting. He’s holding up traffic, ignoring a sedan whose owner is laying into the horn. His eyes are trained on me, but he isn’t yelling profanities, nor flipping me off. He’s merely watching me go as if he knows this isn’t the last time that we’ll meet.

Well, he’s wrong, because I’mnevercoming to this part of town ever again.

***

At home, the house is shrouded in darkness save for a single flashlight, moving around Mum and Jarett’s room. His truck isn’t inside the driveway, and when I hobble into their bedroom, his side of the closet is empty.

“What’s going on?” I pant. My heartbeat, which never eased on the bus ride over, slams into overdrive so fast and hard that I feel faint as I watch Mum throw what little clothes she owns into a trash bag. We only own one suitcase and it’s gone.

And so is Jarett.

“Shhh!” she hisses. Her gaze flies to the drawn curtains completely oblivious to my distress as I slump against the wall, still cradling my aching side. “We have to go, Elle. Now.”

“What? Why?” I whisper, as she drops to her knees and shoves the mattress off the bed. Our government documents flutter around, as do a stack of loose bills. Maybe four hundred in total.

She grabs my birth certificate, then hers. “Y-your father got into a bit of trouble.”

A mild dose of peace washes over me. Okay, that’s nothing new. Jarett always gets into trouble and spends a few weekends out of the year in jail.

“What did he do this time?” I ask hopefully. “Get into another bar brawl?”

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