Page 52 of Sinners Atone
The Ho-Ho-Helpful Elf is back, and she’s ready for some (safe) festive fun!I write, along with some cute Christmassy emojis.Too much eggnog? Holiday heels hurting? Come and find me on the corner of the Visconti Grand Hotel. I’ve got your back! #HolidayHero #DrinkResponsibly
As I press upload, a high-pitched whine pierces through the air and puts me on high alert. It’s coming from a girl on the other side of the road, wobbling past the champagne bar.
I grab my bag and break into a jog over to her.
“Are you okay, honey?” I place a hand on her bare shoulder and tap the name tag pinned to my pink hi-vis vest. “I’m Wren, and I’m here to help!”
A slurred response comes through her lipstick-smeared mouth. Luckily, I’m fluent in drunk and realize she’s lost her friends somewhere between a restaurant and a cocktail bar.
Usually, I’d take her into Tayce’s tattoo parlor to warm up with a hot cocoa, but she’s shut up shop for her yearly vacation, so I sit her down on the entryway step instead.
“Here.” I tug a foil blanket from my tote, wrap it over her shoulders, and press a bottle of water into her hand. There’s no point dealing with her tear-stained makeup or messy hair; she definitely needs to call it a night. “Where are you staying?”
“Hotel.” She hiccups.
How very useful. As I rifle through her purse for a key card, I hit her with my usual monologue. “Sip the water, don’t gulp. When you get back to your hotel, drink two more glasses of water, and eat these.” I drop a pack of crackers into her purse. “And don’t forget to take your makeup off.” I find a card for the Hilton at the end of the strip, then get to my feet to wave to the taxi rank across the road. The first cab in the line flashes its headlights and crawls down the street toward us, patiently waiting for the gaggle of partygoers to pass by.
I sit back down and rub the girl’s back. “Make sure you charge your phone, okay? And sleep on your left side, it’ll help you feel less sick…” A white light snags the corner of my eye. She’s wiggled her cell out of her bra and is now clumsily scrolling through the contacts. I squint over her shoulder; she’s typing something out to a boy’s name with a broken heart emoji next to it.
“Is that your boyfriend?”
“No—” She hiccups. “I wish.”
I pry the device from her hands. “Absolutely no drunk texting boys unless your keys unlock the same front door,” I scold. Fiddling with the contact settings, I change his name to Dentist, slip her cell into her purse, and hope she doesn’t figure out what I’ve done until she sobers up tomorrow.
The taxi pulls up to the sidewalk, and the window rolls down, revealing a glare from under bushy eyebrows.
“Are you shitting me? It’s not even nine p.m.”
“Hello, Roger,” I chime, helping the girl to her feet. “Have I ever told you that you’re my favorite taxi driver?”
“Several times. I’m still not taking her for free.”
“And I wouldn’t expect you to, honey.” I fish through my tote for a Ziploc bag of candy and toss it through the window. “The macaroons are homemade.” While he mutters and grunts about having a mortgage to pay, I fold the girl into his back seat before he can protest. “To the Hilton, please.”
“Aw, come off it, Wren. That’s only a ten-minute walk.”
“Does she look like she can walk? Besides, I’m too busy to take her.”
“Fine,” he grunts. As he starts the engine, he nods behind me with a smirk. “Isn’t that your friend’s shop?”
I turn to find a man in the doorway of Tayce’s shop, a stream of pee running from between his legs and splattering the step.
“Ew! That isnota public restroom,” I shriek, reaching for the whistle around my neck and giving it a hard blow. “Shoo!”
The night only gets busier. It passes in a blur of Band-Aids, hand holding, and consoling. I’ve chipped a nail trying to break up a cat fight between two girls who stepped out wearing the same dress, patched up bloodied knees, treated sprained ankles, reassured worried parents over the phone. By the time the last nightclub slams its doors shut, my SOS bag is nearly empty and I’m exhausted.
Leaning against the streetlamp, I chomp through the last of my crackers, watching the final few strays stumble out of late-night food joints and into waiting cars.
Crumpling the empty pack in my hand, my weary sigh floats down the bare promenade. The last bus back to Devil’s Dip left over an hour ago, and my bones groan thinking about the long, cold walk home ahead of me.
It’s times like this I wish more than anything that guilt didn’t riddle me like a disease. That I could slide into the warmth of a taxi without muscle memory twitching my hands, and the anger, betrayal, andinjustice flooding my vision red. That I could leave the memory of what I did about it under the dust sheet in Uncle Finn’s workshop, like I did with the weapon, or bury it six feet under like I did with the consequences.
But my heart is pounding and my knees are trembling at the mere thought of it.
I gather up my stuff and start walking.
It’s only taken a few hours for the strip to transform from a winter wonderland to a deathly obstacle course. My boots crunch over broken beer bottles, and I tread carefully around the ice patches and puddles of vomit.
