Page 14 of Desert King

I hear her shudder through the phone. “We almost lost you and now I feel I’ve lost you anyway…”

“I need this for me.”

She sighs. “I know. But it still kills me. I just want to hold you tight and never let go.”

“I’m twenty-four—not four.”

“You’ll always be my baby.”

My eyes roll as the waitress returns placing three plates in front of me. “I’ve got to go. My food just arrived.”

“Come back. Please.”

My fingers clench on my fork. “I-I can’t. I’m sorry. This is my second chance. My time to figure out what I want to do with my life.”

“I still don’t understand why you had to leave Florida to find that answer, Amber. It’s not going to appear in the blue desert sky like some miracle.”

“I don’t expect it will.”

“Well, when you figure it out, come home.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“Are you almost to Santa Fe?”

“Yes.”

“Will you call me and let me know you got there in one piece?”

“Sure.”

“You better, or I’ll get on a plane and check myself.”

“Ha! You on a plane? Even before COVID, you were too terrified.”

“I don’t trust it. That boy and his cure…I’m telling you Amber, it’s not gone.”

“It is. Besides, I’ve survived it.”

“Barely. Your lungs won’t win a second time.”

“My food’s getting cold… I’ll call you later.”

I disconnect, my appetite gone. I force myself to nibble at the toast. I know the virus is gone, but my mother much like many—suffer from PTSD from lockdown life, all the death and food shortages but most of all—from missing the people who didn’t make it. I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ll live for them all.

I turn the napkin back over. My goals are all so superficial. But part of feeling good on the inside is knowing your outside is on point, right?

The food is bursting with flavor and despite not thinking I could—I polish off just about every bite. Despite the waitress insisting she treats me I open my wallet and take out forty dollars. Taking another napkin, I write her a note:

Just as Ifinish drawing the smiley face, the roar of motorcycles has me looking out the window. I swallow hard. Four men on bikes, wearing aviators and bandanas cruise in the lot.

I gasp as the helmets come off and the cloths lowered. No one could miss that sexy beast, Roger and Tarak wouldn’t be recognizable without that swagger and arrogance that comes off him in waves. One eye is swollen shut. His face is covered in swollen bruises much like Edge’s. But he walks like he could give two fucks.

I gather my purse and phone. A smile is ready on my lips as they enter the small diner. They immediately look to the back where I’m sitting, I raise my hand to wave as four sets of eyes move past me to the last booth. Not a flicker of recognition came my way.

My hand drops.

Heat fills my cheeks.

---