(Eight)
I've been sober for 293 days.
42 visits to AA.
84 rides on the 345.
84 opportunities missed.
85 is my lucky number.
As I stare out the window, wishing the bus would hurry the fuck up, she steps on for the first time. My count winds back to zero. I suck a deep breath in as if it'll make me invisible. It doesn't work. I'm the first person she sees.
Her face registers her surprise before she buries it under a layer of indifference. The bus lurches forward forcing her to take a step closer, but her instincts must kick in; the warning gun sounds, and she spins and takes a seat at the front.
Her back is ramrod straight. Her posture too tight. Her hair is fixed up with a pen. I wonder if she knows it's there. I wonder what she's been doing today, before this journey, for her whole life.
I try to ignore her, knowing the next stop isn't far—even if it will leave me miles from where I need to be. But then we get stuck in a jam. Every second is a breath using up my common sense. She dips her head, looking at something in her hand, probably her phone.
A flicker of a siren through the rainy window draws my attention. It draws hers, too. The red flashing lights become invisible when she catches me looking. I half wonder if the paramedics are on their way to resuscitate me.
I should stay put, but she's too close. The temptation is too strong. And I'm having a bad day. It's all too easy as I stand and walk to the seat in front of her. Her eyes are wide as I sit down, twisting to face her.
She looks around as if this is a joke, or maybe to see if someone might save her. There's no one. Not even my conscience. The artificial lights of the bus turn her yellow as she tries to pretend I'm not there, but she can't hold her curiosity back for long. She juts out her jaw, suspicion narrowing her brown eyes. "What do you want?"
"Why the 345?"
Her face goes slack, her mask slipping in confusion. "What?"
I rest my arm on the back of the seat, tap my finger against the metalwork of the bus. "Why are you on this bus?"
She scrunches her face and leans into the aisle, looking at the traffic up ahead before sitting back. The movement disturbs her perfume; it snaps me back to our brush with death on the Meridian Bridge.
Trapped by the rush hour traffic, she surrenders to her fate and gestures along the aisle. "Sorry, I thought this was a public service?"
I remain quiet, waiting. She's predictable. Her words can't stay unsaid for long.
"Why do you care anyway?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Because."
I raise a brow at her and tilt my head, reeling her back to our last conversation. "Because?"
She crosses her arms angrily. The puff of air that leaves her mouth makes me smile. My smile makes her blush. Whiskey heat runs down my veins.
"Because it was the quickest way to get to work. Seriously, why are you even talking to me?"
"Because I want to." The bus starts up again, its shuddering engine sending acrid smoke through the cracked window.
She reflects my sarcastic expression, but nerves still edge into her features. "What's so different to last week?"
I shrug. "Nothing." I'm weaker. I'm braver. I'm careless.
She looks directly into my eyes as if she's trying to find a better answer. She'll only see her reflection. It's a stare off I win, which is a mistake, because when she turns to look out the window, I want her back.
"You know, it's wrong that I don't know your name."
"What if I don't want to give it to you?"
"You do." I get the result I wanted. Her eyes are all over me again.
"Maybe, but I don't think you really want to know me." She's wrong and right.
This time it's she who holds all the answers—I just have to work out the question. The bus pulls up to the curb, and she stands with a look that tells me I've run out of time. But something changes her mind, and she hovers when the doors burst open, letting the cold night in with a hiss. "You coming?"
I've always been competitive, so without a thought to my other goals, I follow her into the night.
We walk side by side without talking. Both of us are probably thinking of reasons we shouldn't be here. Boyfriend. Addiction. Self-preservation. It's only when we turn onto a quieter street that she turns to me. "You're going to Blake, right?"
"Yeah. Every Thursday." I dodge a few puddles and the cracks, too. I don't need any more bad luck.
"Oh … of course." She drops back into silence. Addiction isn't the easiest topic for small talk, if that's what we're doing here. I'm not entirely sure.
"Are you heading to work?" Our politeness is fucking ridiculous.
Her laughter echoes around the empty street, making it hollow. "Always." She stops short and spins around, a smile transforming her face. "Unless you've got a better offer?"
A thousand possibilities surge through my mind. I stamp them out before they set alight. "Not sure AA is your thing, but you can come if you want."
She cocks her head to the side, in her way. "You can do that? Bring strangers in?"
"Maybe, if it was a friends and family session."
She frowns at the disconnect. Explaining my family dynamics would be the worst buzzkill, so I dodge that, too. "They wouldn't know you were a stranger." Emmett would, but this is hypothetical, I think.
"Sounds fun."
"About as fun as a funeral." The one and only time I allowed my family to attend was a huge mistake. It won't happen again. See, sometimes I do learn my lesson.
"Maybe another day, then. I've had enough of those for a while."
I want to dig out everything she isn't saying, but I hate having my own wounds probed, so I give her the same courtesy. I file away her response as an explanation as to why she might have climbed up on that bridge. One of them, at least.
To distract us both, I pull out my smokes. "You want one?"
She waves the pack away. "I'm good. I'm trying to give up on things that are bad for me."
Aren't we all. I don't like to point out balancing hundreds of feet above water isn't exactly considered healthy.
She stamps her feet, trying to keep warm as I light up. The tall buildings lining the street create a wind tunnel, and I struggle to keep the match burning. "Here." She stands on her tiptoes and cups her hands around the flame. For a second, I'm frozen in place by her proximity, by the fire dancing in her eyes. I make the mistake of looking a second too long and see the way she reacts to me. Her body leaning closer, her eyes darting to the cigarette hanging from my lips.
The flame burns my fingers. I curse and drop the match to the ground, snapping back to reality. I turn my back to the wind, to her, and light up.
She's still not done with her questions when we start walking again. Doesn't she know curiosity killed the cat? "How long have you been going to the meetings?"
"How long have I been sober?" I rephrase for her.
"Well, yeah, I guess." She looks down the sidewalk while I work it out. Or at least, while I pretend to. It's not something you forget. It's an ever-changing tattoo carved into my chest.
"Around eight months." 293 days. The final slice of the new number is almost complete. Only 5 hours of torment left to go. As if the next day will be any better.
"That's pretty good," she says, offering me a different kind of smile, as if she's not really sure what constitutes success. I don't try and explain the Twelve Steps because I don't want to see that smile again. The one soured with pity.
An intersection up ahead is the distraction I need. Cars race by in a flash of lights, and exhaust fumes puff into the night. The noise drowns out any more opportunities to talk until we're over the other side and on Blake.
I try to find a way to explain how eight months feels like a second and a century, depending on my mood. I can't, so the silence goes on too long. It makes me want to know what she's thinking. I tell myself I don't give a shit. She's nobody to me.
She pauses outside the windows of The Red Lantern, which is already busy inside. It makes me think of her red dress. Standing here wrapped up in a winter coat and jeans, she's a hint of a possibility. In that dress, she's a bottle of Jack with the lid off.
I'm tearing at the seams. "I better go." I jerk my chin over at the hall, the open door spilling light onto the steps.
She shifts as if she's going to touch me, but she puts her hands in her pockets instead. "I hope it goes okay."
"Thanks. Have fun." I have to laugh at the face she pulls. The offer of something better sits on the edge of my tongue, but I knock it back.
She pushes the staff door open, letting the buzz of the kitchen into the street. Then she tosses me a grenade. "It's Bella, by the way."
I should throw it back or run for cover, but I catch it and pull the pin. "See you around, Bella."
AN: A millions kisses for you all.
Kim, Choc & Cat make this pretty for me. Heart eyes.
See you soon
Sparrow xx