Chapter 6 Chase
Chase
The girl.
She’s in my house.
Frozen with confusion, I trail my gaze over her, from her poof of teased hair, to her amethyst lips, to her bulky black heels clicking against my kitchen floor as she fidgets in place. My throat constricts when I meet her eyes again. “Annie, right?”
She hesitates, slowly dropping her arm to her side as she assesses me.
Her focus lingers on my bare chest for a second longer than she seems comfortable with before panning down to the gnarly wound taking over my upper thigh, wrapped in gauze and bandages.
“Um, yeah…” she says, a shell-shocked whisper. “That’s right.”
I nod, rolling my tongue against my cheek.
I’m at a loss. I should say something, apologize, thank her. But I can’t help but wonder if she’s here to turn me in. The notion ices my blood, though I wouldn’t blame her if she decided to call the cops. I’d go willingly.
My lips part to speak, but whatever word vomit might spill free is eclipsed by her voice.
“I smell like a deep fryer,” she blurts. “I’m so sorry.”
This takes me off guard. Toaster’s overgrown nails clack against the faux-wood planks as he paces around the dining table, hunting down month-old muffin crumbs. “You’re…apologizing.” A frown creases, and I stare at her, stunned. “To me.”
She wrings her hands together, nails tipped with robin’s-egg blue. “I guess. I broke into your house, reeking of hash browns and breakfast burritos.”
I drag a hand over my jaw, scratching at the grown-out stubble, stalling.
Annie’s cheeks redden by the second, her eyes betraying her as they flick downward—once, twice—before she snaps out of it. She pivots sharply, tucking her hair behind her ears with blatant aggression, like she’s trying to reset herself.
“Uh, sorry…” Glancing over my shoulder, I do a double take at the wall hook, falter, then lumber over to the front door to snag a zip-up hoodie off the coat knob. I shove my arms into the sleeve holes and clear my throat. “Wasn’t expecting company.”
“Right. Of course you weren’t. I just…” Her voice trails off, a tangible awkwardness filling the space between us.
She doesn’t know me, and I don’t know her. But here she is, standing in my house, trembling in her chunky heels, and staring at me with glazed blue eyes. Meanwhile, I’m half naked, looking like I just clawed my way out of a coma. I sort of did.
“I was taking care of your dog while you were in the hospital. I didn’t realize they’d let you out, or if you even…”
Survived.
She starts chewing on her thumbnail.
I study her, rake a hand through my hair, though it does nothing to tame the mess. “Shit,” I mutter.
“Yeah. I should go—”
“No, wait.” Taking a sharp step forward, I nearly hiss through my teeth as I tip against the wall and remove pressure off my battered leg.
“I…owe you an apology. Of epic proportions,” I say.
“Seriously. I don’t even know where to start, but that night was like a fucked-up fever dream, and I’m really sorry I dragged you into it. I honestly wondered if I made you up.”
That dream fizzes beneath the surface of my memories.
Stella’s voice. Annie’s voice. Faraway songs.
Crystal-blue water morphing into the same colored eyes boring into mine.
She continues to shuffle in place. “Well, surprise. I’m real.” It looks like she’s about to do a little twirl to showcase her existence, but she stops herself.
Annie stares at me like I’m an otherworldly being. An alien, or a divine deity, or one of those sickishly pale Victorian-era children that show up in your dreams to warn you about impending doom.
I shake my head, dislodging the haze. “I don’t know how to thank you. For everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“You literally saved my life. And took care of my dog. And…” I glance around the tidy space. “Cleaned my house?”
She rubs her lips together and shrugs. “I did what any decent human being would do.”
“I kidnapped you. Stole your car. Probably gave you lifelong PTSD.” The puzzled frown deepens. “I don’t think most human beings would be so forgiving.”
“I mean, I can’t speak for the majority of the population, but I can speak for myself.
I couldn’t not do those things. It’s not in my nature to stand by idly and watch someone drown.
Self-inflicted or not,” she says softly, glancing away.
“So, you’re welcome. Every one of us hits rock bottom at some point, and all we can do is hope someone is there to help pull us out.
You just happened to steal the right car. ”
Jesus.
I’m starting to question if she’s real again. A metallic buzzing whirrs between my ears, causing my temples to pound.
I don’t respond; I don’t know how to.
As the silence stretches, I watch as she peers over at the wall I’m leaning against, her attention skimming the four guitars propped up against it. Guitars I’ve built. She blinks at them, taking in the hand-carved bodies and colorful lacquers. “Do you play? Or just build them?” she wonders.
I stuff my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. “I play. It’s just a hobby.”
“My brother plays too. He’s good. Really good.” She snags her lip between her teeth, chewing on it. “Tag. I think you met him briefly that night.”
“Yeah.”
The doo-wop guy. Old-school music seeped from the car when he hopped out of the driver’s seat and joined me at the entrance. He looked more like a grungy rocker than someone with a sixties playlist, but I’m not one to judge.
“It’s his dream to start a band one day and tour the world. He does a few solo gigs around town. Breweries, coffee shops. Mostly covers.”
I analyze her, wondering where she’s going with that.
“You should come watch him play sometime.”
“Um…” I send her a quick headshake, the offer seeping in like half-set grout.
She laughs lightly, embarrassed. “Sorry. That was weird.”
“A little. Mostly because I suspect your brother wants me dead.”
“Maybe, but that’s fixable.”
My head tilts to the side as I try to read her pale-sky eyes shimmering with uncertainty. Or maybe it’s certainty. It’s like she truly believes fate intervened that night and we were meant to cross paths. And now she wants to summon me into her social circle. Her life.
“I’m not much of a people person these days,” I admit, lifting from the wall. I half limp over to the couch and collapse with a pained exhale. “And you realize I’m kind of a felon, right?”
Her nose scrunches. “Are you, though? In the eyes of the law? We never reported the car stolen. I convinced my brother to tell the cops I drove you willingly.”
“Still struggling to understand that.”
“You don’t need to understand. It is what it is. You had enough on your plate, death being at the forefront.”
“I’m also still wondering if I’m hallucinating.”
It’s as if she can’t help herself—she does the twirl. “Still real.”
One side of my mouth quirks up with the barest smile before it fades. “Listen, Annie…I’m not really in a good place right now, as you’ve noticed. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to pal around with the people I’ve victimized. But I appreciate the invitation.”
She takes a small step forward as Toaster flies past her and joins me on the couch. “Yeah, of course. It was a dumb idea.”
“It wasn’t. I just—”
“I get it.” She looks around the room one more time, her shoulders deflating. “Anyway, my ride is waiting, so I’ll get out of your hair. I’m glad you’re okay.”
Moving to the front door, looking dejected, she stops short when I call out to her one more time.
“Hey.”
Annie blinks down at the dingy carpet in my living room before turning to glance at me.
“You left that note, didn’t you?” I ask.
Her cheeks pinken again as she clears her throat with a nod. “Yeah. I do that sometimes.”
“Leave strangers little words of encouragement after they abduct and traumatize you?”
“Write,” she corrects, smiling faintly. “Lyrics, poems. You know, whenever the muse strikes.”
I lean back against the cushions, burying my hand in Toaster’s fur. “Well, it meant a lot. What you said.”
My chest spasms at the memory of the words she left behind, scribbled on a wrinkled napkin leftover from a food-delivery order. I wasn’t expecting it. I’m not used to acts of kindness.
Undeserved, at that.
“Good. I’m happy to hear that,” she replies.
“You were kind to me,” I continue, inching forward, catching her eyes before she disappears for good. If this is the last time I ever see her, she needs to know it mattered. That someone like her looked at someone like me and didn’t turn the other way. “Why?”
Annie doesn’t miss a beat. Her lips curl up with a flash of teeth. “Because kindness is a testament to our own character. It’s not about external factors. If it ever feels difficult to be kind, we need to look within.”
My eyes glaze over as I stare at her, processing. Warm tendrils of light journey through me, curling around each rib. I don’t say anything with words, but hers have infiltrated. Punctured tiny pinholes in my armor.
Before turning away, she leaves me with a final thought, almost like a lifeline. Just in case. “Tag plays at that café off Devlin Street every Thursday night at seven. You know…if you’re ever bored.”
Then she walks away, swallowed by the afternoon light, her violet-striped hair bouncing at her back.
If I were anyone else, I’d call after her. Tell her I’ll be there, that I’m always bored, eternally looking for a telltale spark.
But I don’t.
I just sit there, holding on to her words like a matchstick in the dark.
***
Two weeks pass me by, filled with restless nights, stiff muscles, and the persistent, nagging ache in my thigh that no amount of ignoring can shake.
The first few days were the worst, every movement a reminder that I took a bullet and that my body isn’t bouncing back the way I want it to. That I’m not invincible.
The follow-up appointments are tedious. The doctor pokes at the wound, asks about my pain levels, and reminds me to “take it easy”—as if I have any say in the matter. Stitches out, more bandages. More rules about what I can and can’t do.
At home, I go through the motions, begrudgingly following my physical therapist’s instructions. Push too hard, and my leg reminds me that I’m fucked. Laze around, and my brain tells me I’m useless. It’s a constant battle, one I keep losing.
Somewhere in the clusterfuck of it all, I pick up a guitar again. My fingers move easier than my legs do, and for a few minutes at a time, I forget that I’m stuck in this body that refuses to cooperate. I can sink into something that still feels like mine.
But the music always stops, and reality sets back in.
I’m still partially behind on rent, using the cash from Solomon to catch up on utilities, stock the fridge and freezer, and fix my car. Thankfully, my landlord is a little old lady who was definitely a saint in a past life.
I’m not allowed to drive for another two weeks, so some of the money is going to rideshares to take me to and from my appointments.
But today I’ve landed somewhere else.
Somewhere I probably shouldn’t be.
The familiar jingle bell greets me like a bone-deep trigger.
My skin starts to sweat as I use my crutches to drag my weight through the entrance, my attention landing on a middle-aged woman behind the counter, her dark hair threaded with glints of silver.
There’s another woman beside her with similar features. Mid-twenties, maybe.
Mother and daughter.
Together they sift through the register, talking among themselves, glancing up with smiles as I struggle to keep myself upright.
“Good afternoon,” the younger woman calls out.
I hesitate, my heart pounding in my chest.
Invisible voices scream at me to turn the other way, to book it before they realize who I am. The damage I’ve caused. But guilt is a fucking parasite, and I need to do whatever I can to relieve myself of its weight. To set it free.
“Um, hey.” Slowly, I inch toward the checkout station, leaning my crutches against the counter topped with an assortment of panic-buys. Fishing through my pockets, I pull out a handful of change.
Three dollars and twenty-seven cents.
I place it on the counter and meet the daughter’s eyes.
Her smile falters. “Are you…buying something?”
“Yeah. Sort of. I’m…” Flashbacks trickle through me. Fluorescent lights streak across my vision, disorienting me. Gun smoke. Clipped, garbled words. Fiery pain sheathed in a crimson haze. “I was here a few weeks ago. I owe you for a can of dog food.”
The older woman lets out a squeak. A strangled, choking sound.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For everything.”
The daughter’s face shifts in an instant, smile gone. Her whole body tightens like a bowstring as she rounds the counter.
“Get out,” she snaps, standing right in front of me, her voice low but shaking. “You need to leave.”
“I’m so sorry—”
“You ruined our lives. Do you realize that? My father is under investigation. We’re drowning in legal fees.”
I force a swallow. “I’m not pressing charges.”
“That’s not the point,” she grits out. “He never meant to hurt anyone. We’ve been robbed three times this year, and he’s been working double shifts just to pay off my medical school loans. This store is all we have. Now we could lose everything.”
“Parvati…” The older woman rushes over, placing a palm on her daughter’s shoulder.
“I’m going to rectify that,” I say, extending a hand like a peace offering. I can hardly stay upright, partly from my pulsing leg, but mostly from the devastation I feel soaking into every pocket of this gas station, trying to pull me under. “I will, I promise. It was an accident.”
“Stealing is not an accident.” She steps two inches closer. “Do you know how terrified he was going to work every day for the past few months? He didn’t have a choice. But you did.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I can’t believe you had the nerve to show your face here.”
“I’m—”
“Leave. Right now.”
The mother says nothing, just stares at me with tightly drawn lips and wide, glossy eyes. I glance between them. I see their pain, feel it as if it were my own.
There’s nothing more I can say.
I send them a dejected nod, reach for my crutches, and haul myself out the door.
But I’ll make this right. Someday.
When my guitar business takes off. When the money starts rolling in. When the full debt has been paid and they stop hating me.
Or maybe when I stop hating myself.
Whichever comes first.