35. Cassidy
THIRTY-FIVE
CASSIDY
The old man from the ranch house dumped us in town with a twenty and a grunt that I think was supposed to be good luck. Pretty sure he was just glad to be rid of us.
Tierney, the wife of the younger one, gave Bindi some clothes before we left and she lit up like Christmas morning. I watched her slip into those black jeans like she was putting her skin back on.
We walked a couple of blocks from where the old man left us and found this little diner. Bindi’s got her elbow propped on the table, straw between her lips, spinning it slowly in a glass of soda. She hasn’t said much since we sat down—pretty sure she already picked out what she wants.
I stare down at the menu in front of me. The words blur, smeared together like someone spilled grease across the page. Reading’s never come easy—never came at all, really.
Bindi was reading Carrie and It in middle school. I was pretending to care about football stats and flipping through magazines for the pictures .
She caught me when we were fourteen. I was failing English, hard, though I tried to act like I didn’t give a shit. “Books are boring,” I said. “Waste of time.” Truth was, I couldn’t make the words stick. Couldn’t track a sentence long enough to know what the fuck it said.
So Bindi read them to me—every chapter, every goddamn word. Propped herself on her stomach and read Of Mice and Men and I listened to every word. Understood it, too. It made sense when she said it.
She was the only thing that ever did.
And when I couldn’t write the damn essay?
When I stared at the blank page for hours, the pencil gripped so hard it broke?
She didn’t get soft about it. Didn’t try to fix me.
Just leaned over and said, “Fine. I’ll write about it, you copy it—word for word.
” And I did, with sloppy letters, half backwards.
She corrected me, erased shit. But we did that together and got me a C. I passed because of her.
So now, this morning, when the letters start crawling off the menu like ants, I know better than to fight it.
That old static buzz starts in my skull—the one that used to make me want to slam my head against a locker just to shut it up.
I don’t let it win. I don’t let it show. I pick the three things I always pick.
Eggs. Toast. Bacon.
Safe. Simple. I don’t need more than that. I’ve got her sitting across from me, soda in hand, eyes half-lidded like she’s bored but ready to snap if someone looks at her wrong. That’s my girl.
And as long as I’ve got her? The rest of it doesn’t matter.
Moments later, the plates hit the table. The waitress gives us a once-over, mutters an unenthusiastic “Enjoy,” then scurries away.
Bindi shrugs and grabs the syrup and drowns her pancakes in them. I grab my coffee and take a sip. I’m not really sure what to say, so I say the one thing that’s been chewing at me since we sat down.
“We need a plan.”
Bindi wipes syrup from her mouth with a napkin, “Yeah. Preferably one that doesn’t involve armed robbery.”
I lean back, scoffing. “What else you got in mind?”
“I don’t know. Maybe something that doesn’t end with us in prison? Or dead?”
“What world do you think we’re in, Binx?”
“I’m serious. The cops are after us. We were lucky it was Anthony’s goons last night and not the feds.”
“I’m serious too. You wanna survive and be free, or do you want to be good and rot in a fucking cell?”
“I think your idea of free is a fucking fantasy.” She glares at me.
I stare right back at her. “I think you’re still clinging to some fantasy that we can do what we have to do without getting blood on our hands. That’s not real.”
“We make it real. We can choose not to be monsters, Cass.”
I slam my mug down and coffee sloshes over the rim.
“You wanna talk about justice, Binx? Fairness? Right and wrong?” I laugh, dragging a hand through my hair. “Kids like us . . . what justice was there in anything we lived through? Why the fuck do we owe the world some kind of courtesy?”
She doesn’t answer, just exhales and sinks back against the red vinyl booth, like she’s bracing for the rest.
“The system chews kids like us up, spits us out, then acts like it’s a goddamn mystery when we come back broken with teeth, with rage.
” I lean forward. “You really think I ever had a shot at normal? A white picket fence? Wife? Two-point-five kids and a fucking golden retriever?” I huff a laugh “Seven homes before I turned sixteen. One had locks on every cabinet, even the fridge. Another kept me in a shed out back like a fucking dog. ”
Her eyes flash. I keep going.
“And the social workers, the teachers—they weren’t monsters. They just couldn’t do shit. Couldn’t fix what was already rigged. The system’s designed to look the other way. To let kids like me disappear.” I tap the table, hard. “They told me to try harder, be good, and follow the rules.”
I scoff. “You know what those rules got me? A label. A file so tall it could crush someone. ‘Unruly.’ ‘Aggressive.’ ‘Delayed comprehension.’”
I laugh because if I don’t laugh, I’ll fucking break. And I can’t. That’s one thing I learned in every house that beat the softness out of me—don’t cry. Don’t let them see you’re broken. Swallow it. Smile. Move on.
“You,” I say. “You were the one good thing, and they tried to take you from me, over and over. I know what I’ve done; I know what I am. I’m not a good man, Binx. But I wasn’t built for goodness, I was built to break.”
She starts to speak, but I cut her off because I’m not done.
“You know what kills me? I tried.” My voice cracks a little, but I keep pushing.
“I did everything they said to do—opened the books, tried to make the letters sit still long enough to read. But they wouldn’t.
And every time I failed, they just said I wasn’t trying hard enough. That I was lazy—stupid.”
I smile again, my lip tugging at one corner of my mouth, my tongue gliding over my teeth.
“We were never gonna be normal, Binx. Even if we had a shot . . . parents, love, a goddamn front porch, it wouldn’t have saved us.
We were always meant for this. I stopped pretending a long time ago.
It’s time you did too. You wanna leave this life?
Fine. Go. But we both know you won’t get far, because you don’t want to be saved. ”
I hold her eyes, voice dropping to a whisper. “You just wanna see how far I’ll chase you.”
Bindi stares at me. “You done?” she asks, tilting her head. “Because I got something to say, too. ”
I lean back, stretching my arm across the seat. “Go ahead.”
“You think you’re the only one who got chewed up?
You think just because the system broke you that you get a free pass to turn into this .
. . this fucking wrecking ball of a person?
I got tossed around too, Cassidy. I was starved, hit, burned.
Our goddamned foster father tried to climb into bed with me.
But I didn’t let it make me like this. I didn’t let it win.
” Her voice cracks. “We’re not some tragic villain origin story, Cass. We get to fucking choose who we are.”
I want to argue. I want to tear holes in that neat little speech, but I’m not even hearing her anymore.
Because something outside the window catches my eye.
A sun-faded wooden sign. Half of it’s missing, the other half reads:
The Bar
It’s old, run-down, leaning a little, like the wind might knock it over, but I know that door. That busted neon beer light in the window. That cracked concrete stoop.
I blink, still staring at the shitty building. “Holy shit.”
Bindi falters. “What?”
I look around like I’m trying to place myself for the first time—the streets, the buildings. That gas station two blocks down with the busted marquee sign. The dry cleaner’s with the rusted awning.
“Cedarbrook,” I say, the grin crawling onto my face without permission. “We’re in fucking Cedarbrook.”
Bindi frowns. “And that’s . . . good?”
“That’s Jimmy’s town. He owns that bar—holy shit. I can’t believe it.”
“Jimmy? That Jimmy? The one that treated you like a son?”
“Yeah. That Jimmy.” I’m grinning like a fucking maniac now, my chest still buzzing from everything that’s gone wrong, but suddenly it doesn’t matter. This—this is the turn, the pivot. This is the moment the story shifts.
“We wait,” I say, already moving to toss a couple of crumpled bills from the old man on the table. “Bar won’t open ‘til noon.”
Bindi watches me like she doesn’t quite know who she’s looking at anymore.
“You think Jimmy’s just gonna help us out of the kindness of his heart?”
“Hell no. But he owes me.”
She doesn’t follow right away. Just stares out the window at the crooked bar sign and chews on whatever argument she didn’t get to finish.
“Let’s go. Luck like this doesn’t happen twice.”
At 12:03 p.m., someone flips the sign in the bar window.
OPEN
Bindi pushes off the brick wall, brushing dirt off her jeans as she flicks away a spent cigarette. I take her hand as we cross the street, like we’re walking into something sacred instead of a building that probably reeks of piss and despair.
Inside, it’s exactly how I remember it. Dim as hell, warped tile floors, and pool tables in the corner, one leg propped up with a stack of old milk crates. It still smells like bleach.
There’s a man behind the bar, but it’s not Jimmy.
He’s younger—thirties, maybe. Crooked nose, short dark hair. Same scowl. Same posture. He leans back on his heels, arms crossed.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
I walk up to the bar. “I’m looking for Jimmy.”
The guy’s jaw tightens, and his hand dips under the counter—subtle, but not subtle enough. He’s got something stashed under there. Maybe a bat. Maybe a gun.
My gaze follows his hand. “I must have the wrong place. My bad.”
I pivot, start to turn away. But then he exhales hard. “He’s dead. Been a couple of years. Tell your fucking boss.”
I freeze.