Page 52 of Limbo

I jump up and grab his face in my hands, careful with his injured side. “And you, Trey-tor. I’m so unbelievably mad at you right now.”

He mirrors my position, grasping my face. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t what you want. Please, Cal.”

He’s absolutely right; I don’t want any of this. I want to be at school, far, far away from here. I want to never see the waste of space who is my father again. I want control over my life.

I push his hands away. “No one cares what I want.”

“I do.” Brock steps between us and sets my cup in my hand. “What do you want to do right now, Callista?”

Over his shoulder, Trey begs me with his eyes not to answer. He knows what I want to do. It’s what I always do when it all becomes too much, and I can’t breathe.

I want to escape.

To forget.

What set off the death match underway in my parents’ bedroom, I won’t bother investigating. Once again, I want nothing more than to flee the scene of destruction. I need a break from all the shit that is my fucking life before I lose my mind. More specifically, I need to get away from them.

One of the night’s broken objects hurled against a wall for dramatic effect is a picture frame—their wedding photo. They replace it at least once a month. I pick it up on my way through the kitchen and shake out the loose glass.

Initially, I only plan to sit outside on the steps, but Jesus, do their voices carry. I keep walking. Maybe I’ll wander in the direction of Uncle Kevin’s. Misery loves company, but no one else’s presence other than Trey’s seems manageable at the moment.

Headlights behind me on the gravel street cast my shadow twenty feet ahead of me. It significantly shortens as they drive closer. Any other town in America, someone walking down the middle of an unlit road in a black sweatshirt might move. Not in Sutterville, PA. Everyone knows to just dodge the pedestrians.

Except whoever is following along behind me.

The lights blind me when I glance back. With my less than tolerant mood engaged, I flip them off. The engine revs, and they pull up beside me. I stop to tell the drunken yokel exactly where they can go, but a drunken yokel they are not.

“Need a ride?” he asks through the rolled-down window.

Just like the first time, I feel his voice everywhere at once.

“I’m almost there,” I say.

He leans over, and the passenger door swings open. “Want one anyway?”

The glow of the dash lights up the dimple in his cheek when he smiles. God, that dimple. Despite all the reasons to say no, which probably number in the thousands, I climb in.

“Where we headed?”

“Red truck.” I point at the driveway less than a block away. “I told you, I was almost there.”

His expression never falters as he stares at me. “It’s the strangest thing.” He shifts the car into drive, eyes still on mine. “The gas pedal doesn’t seem to be working anymore.”

We creep forward, the car coasting down the street, and I can’t help but smile. “I should have walked then.”

“Nah,” he says, switching his focus to the road. “This just means we have plenty of time to get to know each other.”

“What happened to the truck?”

“Taillight needs fixed.” His eyes dart to the beer can in the cupholder. “Couldn’t chance a conversation with a cop.”

“You’re safe.” His eyebrows draw in, so I further explain, “Mandatory family dinner at the sheriff’s house every Thursday night at six. Then, they watch some lame country-western movie.”

“Good to know.” He motions toward the frame in my hands that, until now, I forgot about. “What’s that?”

I trace the last shard of glass still attached in the corner with a finger. “My parents like to throw around their wedding picture, so I figured I’d do them a favor and get rid of it.”

He checks out the windshield. “Sweet of you.”

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