Page 14 of Let Me In

“You sure you’re alright?”

I nod, but it’s half-formed. A reflex.

He glances toward the road, then back to me.

“If you ever sell anything again,” he says, calm but unmistakable, “don’t do it alone.”

It’s not a suggestion. Not really. It lands somewhere between a boundary and a vow; one drawn not with words, but with the way his body angled just slightly toward mine, like a shield I didn’t ask for but somehow still needed. It shouldn’t warm me. But it does.

Just like when he told me not to ride after dark.

After another pause, as though to let it sink in, he adds: “Or call me.”

He doesn’t look at my father. Not even once. Like he already understands the undercurrent, like he’s mapped the terrain with one sweep of his gaze and decided it doesn’t need his attention.

He turns toward his car, opens the door, then pauses. Reaches into the glove compartment. Pulls out a small, folded piece of paper.

He hands it to me.

A number. That’s all.

I take it. Carefully.

Then he looks at me one last time. Steady, searching, like he’s leaving something behind without needing to say it.

Not smiling.

Just seeing.

Like he’s already read everything about this day and chosen to remember it exactly as it was.

He gets in the car. The engine growls low and smooth.

Then he’s gone.

But the imprint of him lingers like pressure in the air, like a presence my body can’t forget even after he’s gone.

And so does the piece of paper, warm in my palm. It’s not just warmth from the sun or the heat of the engine—it's the warmth of knowing someone saw what I couldn’t say. That number feels like more than a handful of digits. It feels like a lifeline. Like a quiet offer of reassurance I didn’t know I needed, but don’t want to be without.

6

CAL

She was shaking.

Not visibly. Not in the dramatic way people think of when they hear the word. But her fingers wouldn’t stay still. I watched them trying to clasp together, trying to hide the tremble in her palms. Not quite fear. More like a memory of it—older, quieter, worn soft from use.

And no one did a damn thing about it.

Not the man trying to undercut her. Not her father, who stood just close enough to see it all and just far enough to pretend he hadn’t.

I didn’t plan on being there. Or maybe I did. Maybe I just needed to be near, just in case.

Tiny coastal town. One road in, one out. A handful of garages, a handful more mouths. It wasn’t hard to figure out where she lived. I didn’t follow her. Didn’t track her. I just drove. A loop. That’s all.

But I wasn’t surprised when I saw her.

I was surprised she needed someone.

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