26. Shane
26
Shane
S he’s back to her old ways.
I watch intently from the window as some older man pulls in front of the house, his luxurious vehicle a far cry from the motorcycles and beaters lining the street. Out Montana steps, her dark hair cascading down her back, her prim and proper pantsuit gripping her flesh, showcasing the curvature of her body.
She makes her way to the door with her new pup in tow, carrying the key to her new life on his back for her from the SUV. She opens the screen door, turning away from him, and he scans her ass with thirsty eyes. She pops the cello into the kitchen, oblivious to me standing there, watching the whole thing from the living room.
They depart again, and I check my phone—one new message.
Montana’s broken-down car now sits at the edge of the driveway, leaving her with no means of transportation. Her need for a new ride aggravates me. The bus was suitable before, but now that she's infiltrating herself into this new society, I guess it’s a bad look.
Betrayal, denial of who she is, and her lack of self-awareness have my knuckles popping into my other fist as I crack my fingers. I glare at the instrument that started it all—the obsession that drove her away from me—and my mind reels with ideas.
I make my way down the hallway, slamming through the door of Josiah’s bedroom. He twists in his desk chair, facing me with a curious brow raised and headphones hanging off his head.
“House party tonight. Invite everyone.”
“Does Wheeter—”
“Everyone,” I interrupt.
I turn to head back to my room, stalling when I hear his voice.
“It's supposed to rain tonight.”
“Do it now,” I say, ignoring his statement entirely.
“But what if—”
“I don't give a fuck if the heavens open up on us and God strikes his way into the middle of the bonfire and everyone dies. This party is happening.”
“Fine.” He raises his hands in the air, turning to face his screen again. Endless codes sit entered before him, but he grabs his cellphone from the desk and begins typing.
I head back to my room, my phone pinging with a text.
PARTY AT WHEETER’S TONIGHT. BYOB.
Sitting at my desk, my hand shakes as I click through desktop files, needing it, needing her. When I locate our video again, I slip my headphones over my head, drowning out the world around me. Resting my elbows on the wood before me, I close my eyes tightly, clutching the earphones firmly against my skull.
Her humming moans penetrate.
Her aching cries pierce.
And I can breathe again for the time being.