7. Roxie
Roxie
Rowan
C onsciousness came back in pieces, like broken glass reassembling itself in slow motion.
First, the taste in my mouth: cotton and copper and the ghost of whiskey that had seemed like such a good idea twelve hours ago.
Then the light, pale and merciless, slicing through the blinds and hitting my face.
My skull felt like it was being slowly compressed in a vise, each heartbeat sending fresh waves of pain radiating from behind my eyes.
I fumbled for the bottle of painkillers on the nightstand, fingers clumsy and uncooperative.
Two pills fell into my palm, and I swallowed them dry before reaching for the glass of water that sat beside them.
The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly metallic, but it washed away the worst of the chemical aftertaste coating my teeth.
For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the water-stained ceiling and trying to piece together how I'd gotten home.
The last clear memory I had was Anna pouring whiskey.
Everything after that was fragments: cold air on my face, the sound of voices that might have been real or imagined, the sensation of being carried by someone whose cologne smelled like cedar and rain.
The sheets beneath me were wrinkled and damp with sweat, and I realized I was still wearing yesterday's clothes.
My jeans were twisted uncomfortably around my legs, my t-shirt bunched up under my arms. Someone had taken off my shoes and jacket, but everything else clung to me, stale with sleep and the ghost of last night.
I should have felt grateful. Instead, I felt hollow, scraped raw by embarrassment and that sharp-edged shame that came from not remembering how you’d gotten home. Had I walked? Called a cab? Made an ass of myself in front of Anna’s customers? The not-knowing was worse than any hangover.
Sitting up, the room tilted and spun, and I braced myself against the mattress until it all settled back into place.
The silence pressed in, heavy and absolute.
In New York, there was always noise—sirens, construction, strangers arguing through the walls.
Here, it was just my own breathing and the distant, relentless crash of waves against the rocks below.
The stillness felt dangerous, like standing at the edge of a cliff and realizing how easy it would be to step off. Too much space for old memories to rise up, for grief to sink its claws in and drag me under again.
I shoved the covers aside, peeled off my clothes, and made my way to the cramped bathroom.
The tiles were icy against my feet, and for a moment I caught my own reflection in the mirror—hair wild, eyes red-rimmed, a bruise blooming along my jaw I didn’t remember getting.
I looked like someone who’d survived a disaster, not someone who’d slept off a hangover in a safe bed.
I turned the water on as hot as I could stand, letting the shower pound the last of the sweat and sleep from my skin.
The steam filled the room, blurring the edges of everything, and for a few minutes, I could pretend I was somewhere else, someone else—someone who hadn’t burned all his bridges and come home just to haunt his own past. I scrubbed myself until my skin stung, chasing the fog out of my head, trying to wash away the shame and regret clinging to me like a second skin.
When I stepped out, the air felt sharper, cleaner. I dressed quickly—fresh t-shirt, jeans, the same old jacket, but it felt a little less like armor, a little more like something that belonged to the living.
Downstairs, Fred was waiting, leaning in his usual spot by the apartment door, a cigarette perched between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the morning air. He gave me a slow once-over, one eyebrow raised.
“Looks like the shower almost managed to revive you,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “Figured you might be dead up there, or worse—writing poetry.”
“Worse,” I agreed. “I was considering breakfast.”
Fred snorted, then jerked his chin toward the side of the building. “Got an old Yamaha sitting out back. Belonged to my nephew before he decided cars were less likely to kill him. It’s been wasting away in the shed. Thought maybe you could put it to use before it rusts solid.”
I blinked at him. “You’re just—what—loaning me a bike?”
“Loaning?” He grinned, showing a flash of gold tooth. “Nothing in life’s free, kid. You scratch it, you fix it. You total it, you buy me beer until the day I die. That’s the deal.”
I huffed out something close to a laugh. “That's extortion.”
“Extortion is when I charge you rent for it. This is charity. Don't ruin the moment.”
The so-called Yamaha looked like it had lived three different lives and lost badly at all of them. Rust along the tank, leather seat split wide, handlebar wrapped in duct tape. But when Fred handed me the keys, there was a gleam in his eye that dared me to say no.
“You sure this thing runs?” I asked, turning the key over in my hand.
“She'll run,” he said, puffing on his cigarette like it was gospel. “She just likes to be asked nicely. Unlike you.”
I checked the gas gauge—half full, which was better than I'd expected. “This have enough gas to get me around town?”
“Tank's got plenty. I filled her up last week.” Fred flicked ash onto the pavement. “Should last you a few days if you're not planning any cross-country adventures.”
The engine roared to life under me a moment later, coughing smoke before settling into a growl. The vibration bled through my bones and rattled my teeth, and for the first time in days I felt a jolt of something close to alive.
“Hold on,” Fred said, disappearing into the shop. He emerged with a helmet still in its plastic wrapping. “Brand new. Can't have you cracking your skull on my watch—bad for business.”
“I can't afford?—“
“It's included in the rental,” he said, cutting me off. “Consider it insurance. Mine, not yours.”
I pulled on the helmet after tearing away the plastic, the padding fresh and clean against my head, and kicked the bike into gear.
“Thanks, Fred,” I called over the engine noise. “I owe you.”
“Just bring her back in one piece,” he shouted back, already turning toward the shop. “And try not to wrap yourself around a tree.”
Harbor's End spread out around me as I navigated the narrow streets, all brick buildings and weather-beaten signs advertising businesses that had probably been here since before I was born.
The morning was gray and overcast, threatening rain that would make the roads slick and dangerous.
Perfect weather for making bad decisions.
I took the road that led toward the cliffs, opening up the throttle as the buildings fell away behind me.
The bike responded eagerly, engine whining as we climbed the winding road that hugged the coastline.
On my left, the ocean stretched to the horizon, dark water meeting darker sky in a line that looked like the edge of the world.
On my right, scrub grass and stunted trees bent by years of salt wind.
The cold air felt sharp but not sharp enough to clear the fog that had taken up permanent residence in my head. I gripped the handlebars tighter, leaning into the curves. The speedometer crept higher, and I let it, chasing the illusion that I could outrun my own thoughts.
That's when I saw the movement in the road ahead.
Small and pale, almost blending into the gray asphalt.
At first, I thought it was debris, maybe a plastic bag caught by the wind.
Then it moved again, and I realized it was alive.
A kitten, no more than a few months old, frozen in the middle of the road with huge green eyes that reflected the bike's headlight.
Instinct took over before conscious thought could interfere.
I yanked the handlebars hard to the right, feeling the back tire slide as I fought to maintain control.
The bike wobbled dangerously, threatening to highside and send me skidding across the asphalt.
My chest slammed into the handlebars hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs, and for a moment I thought we were going down.
But the tires found purchase again, and I managed to keep us upright, pulling over to the shoulder with my heart hammering against my ribs.
I sat there for a moment, engine idling, trying to process what had just happened.
Ten seconds earlier, I'd been pushing sixty on a road that wasn't designed for it.
Now I was parked on the shoulder, shaking from adrenaline and the realization of how close I'd come to ending up as roadkill myself.
The kitten was still there, crouched in the exact spot where I'd nearly run it over. It was small and obviously feral, all ribs and matted fur.
I pulled off my helmet and walked back to where it sat, moving slowly so I wouldn't spook it. It watched me approach with the wary intelligence of an animal that had learned not to trust easily, but she didn't run.
“You're either brave or stupid,” I said, crouching down a few feet away. My voice sounded strange in the quiet air, rougher than I'd expected. “Can't decide which.”
It mewed once, a tiny sound that barely carried over the wind. Up close, I could see how thin it was, how the cold had settled into its bones. Its fur was gray and white, marked with patches of dirt and what looked like old motor oil.
I reached out slowly, expecting it to bolt.
Instead, it sniffed my fingers and then butted its head against my palm, purring with the desperate intensity of something that had been alone too long.
The sound vibrated through my hand and up my arm, settling somewhere in my chest that I'd thought was permanently numb.
“Guess you're mine now,” I said, though it sounded more like a challenge than a promise.
I checked and found out that it was a female cat.