Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Lola
I think I’m gonna be sick again.
Taking shots of tequila till three in the morning will do that to you.
You gonna tell Dad?
Pretty sure he already knows. You’re not exactly throwing up quietly.
Ugh.
- Conversation between Lola, age 14 and Mase, age 21 over the toilet bowl
In the end, I don’t call Roman after the incident at the hardware store. I’m worried about my brother, but I’m also worried that Roman has decided he wants nothing to do with me, or my shop, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to hear his rejection.
Mase isn’t responding to any of my messages either and I don’t know whether to be angry or concerned. This isn’t like him.
I spent my teenage years getting drunk at parties, but Mase spent his running or hiking. He was always looking out for me. And I hate that I can’t return the favor. But I’m also fucking mad at him for what he said this afternoon.
I know I should call my parents, even if it’s just to let them know I’m okay, but I don’t want to hear another lecture about how I can’t do this, how I’m young and inexperienced and I need to come home. So, I stay up stress-cleaning instead.
After I’ve given the grimy bathroom a major scrub down, I take out the adhesive tiles we found and line them out in the pattern I want on the floor. The colors alternate between sea green and cream and half an hour later two thirds of the tiny bathroom is tiled.
I crack my back and check my phone. It’s two AM. I should really go to bed, but I hate leaving a job undone so I knead the aching muscles in my neck and use my nail to peel the backing paper off another tile.
A sharp bang echoes from outside and my hand slips, jabbing the corner of the tile under my nail. “Shit.” I flick my hand then suck at my thumb to stem the bleeding.
Rowdy laughter streams through the open window. I go over to the kitchen sink to look out, expecting to find some drunk tourists stumbling home, but the street is empty. Drill music streams in from outside, the low fi beat and incessant rapping coming from behind the shop.
I frown and slip on my sliders, grabbing my phone before going downstairs to investigate.
I open the door to find the shop floor illuminated in orange light. Confusion holds me hostage for one faltering second as I process what I’m seeing then my stomach dead drops. Fire.
The flames curl just outside the back door. I move fast, hopping the counter and kicking the door open.
Three teenagers scramble out of my way. “Oh shit, go, go, go!” one of them calls, picking up a Bluetooth speaker, the source of the drill music, and clattering against the gate as they leg it. I chase after them, but they hop into the bed of a pickup and speed away.
I want to follow them, but the fire is still burning behind me. I run back inside and snatch the old fire blanket off the wall behind the counter before barreling outside again.
The fire singes the hairs on my arms, smoke stinging my eyes. I look away, shielding my face as I lay the thick blanket over the flames. It smothers most of the fire and I back up, leaning against the chain link fence as the last of the flickering flames disappear and wither into smoke.
I cough into my arm then swear as I look around the small space out the back of the store.
It’s barely a hundred square foot, just a tiny area for trash and access.
Most of the space is taken by the dumpster backed up against the extended brick wall of the shop next door.
I don’t know why anyone would want to hang out here, the chain-link fences make it feel like you’re standing in a cage.
The security light up high on the wall shines bright white, the smoke thick as it catches in its path. Slowly, the worst of the smoke is carried away on the night breeze and my heart sinks as I take in the damage. Beer cans litter the ground along with a whole bunch of cigarette butts.
The bottom edge of the green dumpster is black, the plastic warped where its melted. The fire is all but dead now but I can’t bring myself to remove the blanket. I know what’s underneath it and there’s no way in hell it survived those flames.
Fuck.
I go back inside, the door shaking in its frame as I slam it shut. Smoke scratches at my throat as I breathe in and I fight a coughing fit. My eyes still sting, and I can’t stop the angry tears from falling.
I screw up my face and clench my hands into fists. Maybe this is my karma. I must have trespassed dozens of times as a teenager. My friends and I were young and stupid with a stubborn desire to thrill chase in our small town.
We never deliberately did any damage though. And I have a nasty feeling this wasn’t just kids messing about, because I recognized that pickup truck they climbed into.
It would be hard not to when it was the same one that almost ran me over the other day.