“I know two months is so much to ask, but I forgot Silas was a goddamn bloodhound running down errands for the motorcycle club in between cons. He swears he’ll track me down if I try to run again.”
“Don’t cry.” Z’s voice cracked through the speaker. “You know it kills me when you cry, Harp. I’ll be fine. You know I’m always fine.”
But I could see right through his bravado—the way his eyes went too bright, the forced casualness that meant he was barely holding it together. “I can dodge Frank. I’ll stay out of sight. It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal?” My voice broke. “Z?—”
“C’mon, Harp, I’m a survivor. Same as you. Been doing it my whole life. Two more months is nothing.” He tried to smile, and it gutted me. “And fuck, the fact that you even tried so hard to get back here? No one’s ever shown up for me like that.”
The words should’ve made me feel better. Instead, they made everything worse.
I should’ve tried harder. Should’ve stole from Helen like he suggested. Should’ve found another way,anyway. Instead, I let him down. Just like people have been letting both of us down our whole lives.
“I’ll hang on, Harp,” he said softly. “As long as I have you. You’re my lifeline. I just get scared of losing you. You’re the only thing that keeps me sane.”
“I know,” I whispered, throat tight with guilt and determination and something that tasted like grief. “I know. I’m not going anywhere.”
Liar, whispered the part of me that kept noticing Caleb’s smile. The part that felt safe here in ways I’d never felt safe anywhere.
When I closed the laptop, the silence crashed down like a physical weight.
Two months.
Sixty days.
It feels like forever and no time at all. Every day drags while Z’s stuck in that shithole trailer dodging Frank’s fists.
But then I blink and another week’s gone, bringing me closer to eighteen and further from the girl who knew exactly who she was supposed to be.
A survivor. Like Z said.
So why don’t I feel like one anymore?
Sox chirps from the windowsill—no longer the plaintive kitten mew but a fuller, rounder sound.
She’s gotten bigger in the week since that night at the gas station. Not quite full-grown yet, but her legs are longer, her body filling out. The white on her paws extends further up her legs now, like she’s wearing little boots.
She’s becoming something new. Something other than the scrawny, half-drowned thing I snatched from the ground when she made her great escape.
I stand at my bedroom window, forehead pressed to cool glass, and wonder when I stopped recognizing myself, too.
Sox winds between my ankles, purring like a tiny motor. I bend down and scoop her up, holding her against my chest. She’s heavier now. Solid. Real.
“You’re getting spoiled,” I murmur into her fur.
She just purrs louder, kneading her paws against my collarbone.
Back in Selbyville, I could barely keep myself fed. Now I’ve got a cat who depends on me. Who trusts me to show up twice a day with food and fresh water. Who curls up on my chest most nights and falls asleep purring because she feelssafe.
Caleb’s done more than just help me keep up with her food and litter. He leaves his bathroom door cracked at night—for Sox, he says. She meowed at it once, that first week, and ever since, he’s left it open. Apart from when one of us is showering or using the bathroom,there’s this little passage between our rooms if I leave mine open, too. This connection.
Sometimes Sox wanders back and forth, choosing who to sleep with.
Most nights, she chooses me.
But I still like knowing the door’s open. That thin slice of space connecting me to him.
We, I think again, caressing the word in my mind. Like taking care of her is something we do together. Like we’re a team.