Page 28 of Sinners Atone
Unlike the main road, the one up to Strawberry Farm is well-lit and well-maintained. Fairy lights wrap around the fir trees flanking either side, and you can’t walk more than three feet without stepping into the glow of one of the many Victorian-style lamps. At the end sits a white gate, with a painted wooden sign on it. Underneath, there’s an even larger sign warning trespassers that they’ll be shot, though I doubt Uncle Finn has ever held a gun, let alone pulled a trigger.
I don’t live with Finn anymore. My house sits at the edge of the land, a cozy two-story cottage with white board and batten and a pink front door. It was his eighteenth birthday gift to me, and allegedly, his most ambitious project to date. I never questioned how he built it so quickly, or why I’ve seen the exact same house being transported in two parts on the freeway, I was just so happy to have my own place to decorate how I want and to call my own.
Finn walks me down the gravel path, climbs three steps to the porch, and flips on the Bat Signal—a single pink bulb dangling above the front door, visible from any rear-facing window in his farmhouse opposite, that he installed after one too many nights of me forgetting to text him when I got home.
He slides his hands into his pockets, nudging the swinging love seat with his knee so it creaks back and forth. “I hope you have a great time tomorrow. I’ll be sad to miss it.”
“Uh-huh. I’m not sure your carpentry course is worth missing the wedding of the century, but I’m sure it’ll be very educational.” I search his eyes for a flicker of dishonesty, but he just nods solemnly. Lawyers really do make the biggest liars. “I’ll be sure to take lots of photos,” I add, tucking my clutch under my arm and slipping my SOS bag off his shoulder and ontomine. “Unless I meet The One, of course, then I’ll be far too busy for that. Did you know, studies show that twenty-two percent of women meet the love of their life at?—”
The short vibration in my clutch cuts me off. My vision warps, and there’s a familiar punch to my gut, hard and violent.
No.
My shaky exhale floats off the porch and into the dark. I wish it’d just take me with it. Somewhere,anywhere, as long as unfinished sentences and rejection emails can’t hurt me.
I choke out the question, though I already know the answer. “What time is it?”
Finn tugs back the sleeve of his coat and checks that stupidly expensive timepiece supposedly reserved for birthdays and weddings. When he glances up at me, his jaw is tight.
His voice is even tighter. “You promised to stop doing this, Wren.”
The back of my eyes start to burn. How can I stop when it’s all I think about? When that one sentence—five words, thirty-five characters, including spaces—dictates every single second of my life?
A hot fat tear rolls down my cold cheek, my rapid blinking doing nothing to stop it from falling. Finn tracks it with a look of disapproval, then turns his attention out to the night, seeking relief from the discomfort my emotions always bring him.
“If you went to law school when you said you would, this would have all gone away by now,” he mutters.
Guess lawyers make the biggest jerks too.
I wipe my wet cheek with the back of my hand and turn on my heel before the rest of my tears can come.
“Good night, Uncle Finn.”
Though, I don’t wish him a good night at all.
Dear User3569,
Your edit has been rejected.
Reason: Bias.
If you feel your edit was rejected in error, you can appeal the decision via the Helpdesk. Live support is available between 9am-5pm, Monday-Friday. Appeals sent after these hours will be replied to the next working day.
Regards,
Damien Cross
With my fistsclenched on either side of my laptop, I glare at the name at the bottom of my email until my eyes burn and the pixels separate.
I’m not one for name-calling, but Damien Cross is an asshole. There’re only two people on this earth I loathe, and though themost I know about him is that he has a grainy profile picture on a privateInstagramaccount, this man is one of them.
My blowup chair squeaks under me as I flop against its backrest and sigh. Adrenaline and a stupid flicker of hope drove me up the stairs two at a time to read the email on a screen bigger than my cellphone,just in case.I haven’t even taken off my coat or sneakers yet.
Why I expected any different, I don’t know. No matter what I say, how many news articles I send in, how many new accounts I make, or what device I create them from, the midnight email is always the same.
I hover the cursor over the link to the Helpdesk, a strongly worded appeal itching in the tips of my fingers. But there’s no point. It’ll just have me anxiously waiting for yetanotheremail, a stock reply telling me to submit more evidence, so I slam the laptop shut and slide it across my pink shag pile rug so hard it disappears under the bed.
I guess I’ll just try again tomorrow.
