Page 11 of My Revenant
Another rule of running was to remain unpredictable, and I tried to be as random as possible in where I stopped.
I also lived out of a bag, so I didn’t have to worry about packing anything and was always ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
Of course, I wasn’t going to tell anyone I was leaving. I’d just stop showing up the moment I got paid and block Marty’s number. There wasn’t anyone else here who had mine. There wasn’t anyoneanywherewho had mine.
The list of contacts on my blocked list was far longer than the number of contacts I’d had saved before all this started. In fact, there were only two numbers I’d saved that weren’t blocked—Bee and Devil.
I would never call either of them, but I couldn’t bring myself to go without them.
Even though I’d changed my number, changed my phone, and they wouldn’t be able to contact me, I still couldn’t let them go.
Often I wondered about Bee. What did she think happened to me? Was she worried or maybe just angry? What had happened in Port Skelton after I left? Nothing was officially published or reported on, but surely there was…something.
On my weakest nights I would stare at her number, fighting everything in me not to call it and hear her voice. To tell her I was okay. To tell her when I wasn’t. Would I ever get to speak to her again?
Had she reported me missing? I doubt Dad would have done it, but Becca seemed like the type to report me missing and then go searching for me herself when the police came up blank. She probably had a better chance of finding me. She would certainly be more dedicated to it.
Not as dedicated ashim, though. Knuckles—inked and bruised—passed through my mind, making me shiver. HELL BENT. Yeah. He’d be hell-bent on getting me back… if he was still alive.
With work not starting until late afternoon, I made a trip to the laundromat. There was only one in town. It was small and aged, and the machine gave my clothes that musty old laundry smell, like fabric that had been left damp for far too long. Probably because the dryer seemed incapable of ever drying them fully, overheating and shutting off before it ever got the job done. Didn’t matter much what I smelled like, though.
It was always empty. Not once had I seen anyone using it. So when I walked in, my bag slung over my shoulder, it took me by surprise to see that one machine was already going. And further still, when I noticed the figure sitting on one of the three chairs against the wall.
He was sitting on the middle seat—well, he was crouching—with his feet up on the chair, hugging his knees. His legs were exposed by tiny shorts once again, and he was wearing the pink sweater Hank had thought suspicious.
He was looking at me.
Bright blue eyes, one surrounded by an even bluer bruise.
I stalled, staring back at him in silence.
For a moment he looked me up and down, taking me in before his eyes met mine again. He made a little huff of a noise I wasn’t sure how to interpret and looked away, eyes focusing back on his clothes in the machine.
Alright, then.
I unglued myself from the spot and headed to another machine to unload my clothes. With literally nothing to do in town or until my shift started, I’d intended to just sit here and wait for them to be done, but now I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Then again, maybe this was an opportunity.
When the machine started up, I took a seat to the left of Pink-Sweater.
He didn’t turn to look at me again, still hugging his knees and far more interested in watching his clothes spin than in me.
I was always awful at starting conversations, didn’t know where to begin at the best of times, especially when I actually wanted to find out information from somebody without making it seem too obvious.
“New here?” I finally asked after a long silence.
“Yep,” came his response. Only that.
Shit, what else could I say? He didn’t seem as though he wanted to talk to me. I wondered how the fuck Becca had always got me to talk when I didn’t want to. Had I also been this off-putting?
“Visiting family?” I tried.
“Nope.”
Well, this wasn’t happening. Whatever. If he didn’t want to talk to me, that was probably a good thing anyway. Meant I had nothing to be suspicious about.
After twenty minutes of me scrolling on my phone and him watching the washing machine like it was a cinematic masterpiece, he finally broke the silence.
“Do you live here?” His voice was soft, and his eyes remained on the machine rather than turning to look at me.
