Felipe:
Let’s hang out. I’ll come get you. Where you at?
A shiver creeps up my spine. My trust levels are low. There’s no way I’m getting in a vehicle with someone I’ve never met.
Me:
I don’t get in cars with strangers. But I can meet you somewhere.
Felipe:
Let’s meet at the fireworks. I’ll bring whiskey.
The mention of fireworks makes me laugh bitterly. Of course. Timmy never shuts up about them. He’s obsessed with the ten-minute show that happens every Friday—an obsession that feels trivial now, compared to everything else.
I set off to meet Felipe, hoping the night will provide some relief. But on my way to the fireworks, I make a wrong turn down a dark alley, thinking it’s a shortcut. Immediately, I know I’ve messed up. Shadows shift around me, men hunched over, doing drugs. Eyes flicker in my direction, sizing me up.
Heart racing, I quicken my pace, aiming for the glimmer of the ocean at the alley’s end. My boots slap against the wet concrete, andwhen I get to what I think is safety, a wave crashes at the shoreline, splashing me with cold, frothy water.Shit. The tide is fully in, blocking my way out. I stifle a nervous laugh, pretending it’s funny—pretending I’m not scared out of my mind.
A group of men watches me from the shadows, their expressions unreadable. My stomach knots. Then, one of them catches my eye. He looks different, and like he’s helping them somehow, rather than participating in whatever they’re doing—calmer, not quite part of the chaos. A large cross earring dangles from his ear.
“Hi there! I’m Margaux!” I blurt out, forcing a grin and stepping toward him, desperate to break the tension.
He gives me a slow smile. “Hey, Margaux. I’m Mack.”
We shake hands, and the moment feels surreal, like I’ve wandered into a strange, dark dream. But somehow, the atmosphere shifts. The tension breaks. The others go back to what they were doing, leaving me alone. I let out the breath I’ve been holding and hurry back the way I came.
By the time I reach the beach, my heart is still pounding. But I find Felipe easily enough. He’s standing by his truck, grinning when he spots me. His short dark hair is buzzed military-style, and he has tattoos peeking out from under his shirt sleeves. Unfortunately, he’s not the solid wall of muscle I was hoping for, who could protect me—instead, he’s about my height, around five-foot-five. Dammit. Although he is in the military, so I assume he has some form of combat training, at least.
He pulls down the tailgate of his truck, and we sit there, passing the whiskey bottle between us. He chats about his life, his job, and his culture. I listen, grateful to be out of my apartment and around someone—anyone—who isn’t Timmy. But I still feel like a fugitive, glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting him to show up, even though I know he’s locked up.
As the fireworks explode overhead, people cheer, but I feel disconnected from the joy around me. I take another swig of whiskey, hoping it will numb the edges of my fear.
Then, without warning, Felipe leans in and kisses me.
It’s awkward. Terrible. His lips are too wet, and his timing is off. I sure don’t want to be kissing anyone right now, and in a weird way, I feel guilty that this is even happening. That I somehow owe faithfulness to Timmy, even though he literally tried to kill me. I pull away slightly, but he leans in again, pressing another awful kiss against my mouth.
I freeze, unsure how to handle it without making a scene.
“Want to hang out in my truck for a bit?” he asks, his voice low.
“Um, no!” I say, panic bubbling up. “I have to go!”
“You have to go?”
“Yep! Thanks for the whiskey, though! Bye!”
Without waiting for a response, I hop down from the tailgate and take off in the opposite direction, my heart hammering in my chest.
When I finally get home, I crank up the air conditioning and collapse onto the mattress. I can’t sit still. I need to move.
I pull up some shuffling videos online—the ones Timmy kept talking about, the ones that he used when he was learning to dance—and try to mimic the moves. It reminds me of the old dance routines I used to do in jazz ballet. Running man, box steps—familiar steps, but reimagined in this new style.
I dance for hours, the music blasting through my headphones, my body moving in rhythm with the beat. I can’t stop. For these moments, I can forget everything—Timmy, the jail, the fear. I get lost in the movement, laughing when I trip over my own feet, letting the music carry me somewhere far away from all the chaos.
For a little while, I feel free. But only for a little while.
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