“It’s not crazy. It’s the truth.”
“Okay . . . so what exactly is the order for you? Is it money, me, your life . . . or is there something that comes before money?”
“I realize what I’ve done, okay? I see where you’d think that, but if I’d known that you were gonna leave me, I would have never . . . I just wanted to take care of you.”
“You’ve said that.”
“Please don’t do this. I can’t stand feeling like this . . . it’s . . . it’s killin’ me,” I said, on the verge of panic. The wall Abby kept around her when we were just friends was back up, stronger than before. She wasn’t listening. I couldn’t get through to her.
“I’m done, Travis.”
I winced. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s over. Go home.”
My eyebrows pulled in. “You’re my home.”
Abby paused, and for a moment I felt like I’d actually gotten through to her, but her eyes lost focus, and the wall was up again. “You made your choice, Trav. I’ve made mine.”
“I’m going to stay the hell out of Vegas, and away from Benny . . . I’m going to finish school. But I need you. I need you. You’re my best friend.”
For the first time since I was a little kid, hot tears burned in my eyes and dripped down one of my cheeks. Unable to restrain myself, I reached out for Abby, wrapped her small frame in my arms, and planted my lips on hers. Her mouth was cold and stiff, so I cradled her face in my hands, kissing her harder, desperate to get a reaction.
“Kiss me,” I begged.
Abby’s kept her mouth taut, but her body was lifeless. If I let her go, she would have fallen. “Kiss me!” I pleaded. “Please, Pigeon! I told him no!”
Abby shoved me away. “Leave me alone, Travis!”
She shouldered passed me, but I grabbed her wrist. She kept her arm straight, outstretched behind her, but she didn’t turn around.
“I am begging you.” I fell to my knees, her hand still in mine. My breath puffed out in white steam as I spoke, reminding me of the cold. “I’m begging you, Abby. Don’t do this.”
Abby glanced back, and then her eyes drifted down her arm to mine, seeing the tattoo on my wrist. The tattoo that bared her name.
She looked away, toward the cafeteria. “Let me go, Travis.”
The air knocked out of me, and with all hope obliterated, I relaxed my hand, and let her slip out of my fingers.
Abby didn’t look back as she walked away from me, and my palms fell flat on the sidewalk. She wasn’t coming back. She didn’t want me anymore, and there was nothing I could do or say to change it.
Several minutes passed before I could gain the strength to stand. My feet didn’t want to move, but somehow I forced them to cooperate long enough to get me to the Harley. I sat on the seat, and let my tears fall. Loss was something I’d only experienced once before in my life, but this felt more real. Losing Abby wasn’t a story I remembered from early childhood—it was in my face, debilitating me like a sickness, robbing me of my senses and physically, excruciatingly painful.
My mother’s words echoed in my ear. Abby was the girl I had to fight for, and I went down fighting. None of it was ever going to be enough.
A red Dodge Intrepid pulled up next to my bike. I didn’t have to look up to see who it was.
Trenton killed the engine, resting an arm out of the open window. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I said, wiping my eyes with my jacket sleeve.
“Rough night?”
“Yeah,” I nodded, staring at the Harley’s fuel tank.
“I just got off work. I need a fuckin’ drink. Ride with me to the Dutch.”
I took a long, faltering breath. Trenton, like Dad and the rest of my brothers, always knew how to handle me. We both knew I shouldn’t drive in my condition.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?” Trenton said with a small, surprised smile.
I swung my leg backward over the seat, and then walked around to the passenger side of Trenton’s car. The heat from the vents made my skin burn, and for the first time that night I felt how biting cold the air was, and recognized that I didn’t have nearly enough clothes on for the temperature.
“Shepley called you?”
“Yep.” He backed out from the parking space and slowly weaved through the lot, finding the street at a turtle’s pace. He looked over at me. “I guess a guy named French called his girl? Said you and Abby were fighting outside the cafeteria.”
“We weren’t fighting. I was just . . . trying to get her back.”
Trenton nodded once, pulling into the street. “That’s what I figured.”
We didn’t speak again until we took our stools at the bar of the Dutch. The crowd was rough, but Bill, the owner and bartender, knew Dad well from when we were kids, and most of the regulars watched us grow up.
“Good to see you boys. It’s been a while,” Bill said, wiping down the counter before setting a beer and a shot on the bar in front of each of us.
“Hey, Bill,” Trenton said, immediately tossing back his shot.