Page 3 of This Might Hurt

Sun lances through the front window onto the tall man standing in the middle of the room, flaming brilliantly through his copper-colored hair.

He looks mid-twenties, like me, with a face so unnervingly perfect I can’t quite grasp it.

The water bottle in his left hand drips condensation onto the dirty floor as we gawk at each other.

He must have been bent over by the drink coolers on the far wall when I came in.

I have no fucking idea why he didn’t stay there and call the police.

When he tilts his head, the dusty light flashes across deep gray eyes like a bottomless pool. I feel a sudden, intense rush of recognition. They look empty, hollow, rotting away—and for a second, I forget where I am and what a hurry I’m in, because I’ve never met someone else who’s rotting like me.

Without taking my eyes off him, I scoot ungracefully back over the counter with my cash in one hand and the gun in the other. This time, I apply the lessons I’ve learned and level the thing straight at his chest from ten feet away. “Put your hands behind your head.”

He doesn’t. He hasn’t actually done a single thing since I turned around.

He doesn’t reach for his phone, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t plead, doesn’t fight, doesn’t run.

I’m not even sure if he’s blinked. He just stands there with his arms limp at his sides and stares at me almost longingly, like maybe he approached me on purpose to see what I would do to him.

Something about the nothingness on his face throbs against the loneliest part of me, like a pulse.

Look, look. If we can see each other, does that mean we aren’t ghosts?

“Hey.” Pushing down the noise in my head, I risk a step closer.

In my opinion, the key to bluffing is to believe your own bluff more than anyone else.

So I believe firmly, with my whole chest, that I’m the one in power here.

That I’m about to walk out those tantalizing glass doors I can see past his wide shoulders.

I’m so fucking close. “Give me your phone and sit down with your hands behind your head. I won’t hurt you. ”

Nothing. I suddenly know, deep in my gut, that the next ten seconds are the difference between making it out and losing everything.

I promised her. On the day she was born. On the summer night we built a fire on the riverbank and made cities in the wet sand and told each other all the things we couldn’t say to Mom and Dad. On the night she almost died. And every day in between. I’ll take care of you.

She’s the song stuck in my head; she’s the shapes burned into my retinas when I close my eyes. She’s the only person who ever loved me for real.

It can’t end here. I haven’t done enough.

The guy twitches when I shove the butt of the gun hard under his collarbone, but I can’t seem to shift his big, uncooperative body even one step back. “Give me your fucking phone and get out of the fucking way.”

He blinks at me, eyebrows scrunching with confusion, like a kid who just got woken up from sleepwalking. At long last he moves, thank god, but instead of reaching for his phone he lifts his arm and points over my shoulder.

When I turn around, it takes me a minute to spot the small red silent alarm indicator blinking near the floor behind the counter.

“Oh,” I say, feeling very tired. If the clerk pressed it as soon as he saw me, it’s been going for four minutes.

I used to run track in high school, but I was known as the guy who always got fifth place, no matter how hard I trained.

There’s no way I could ever run across the flat brushland fast enough to hide before the cops show up.

Something heavy and dark settles in my chest—the knowledge that my life ended four minutes ago, and I didn’t even notice. I’m not scared or mad. I just wish I wasn’t alone.

A throat clears, and I turn around to find the guy still standing right behind me, like a stubborn stray dog. “Hi. Do you have any bright ideas to contribute?”

“Is this common?” He tips his chin toward the gun. His voice is quiet and textured, but not deep. He sounds almost as tired as I feel. “My mother told me people get robbed and murdered in these places, but I didn’t expect it to be so literal.”

“It’s your lucky day. I don’t have time to murder you.” I hold out the plastic bag dangling from my other hand. “I need you to give this to someone for me, please.”

He narrows his eyes, his forehead creasing. His long face and strong, refined features remind me of one of those Greek statues with sadness carved into the lines of their mouths.

“Oh sorry, you need an address.” There’s a receipt sticking out of the printer, probably from when that dad bought his kids whatever treat they didn’t want to share.

I throw the clerk’s possessions back on the counter, then rip it off, grab a pen from the sun-faded cup, and start writing on the back.

No matter how hard I concentrate, I can’t get the letters not to be shaky.

“So this house has a mailbox shaped like a rooster. That’s how you know it’s the right one.

Open him up and stick the money inside, then you can go. ”

“No.”

I was starting to wonder if I was hallucinating him to keep me company while I ruin my life. But that single syllable proves he’s real—if he existed in my mind, he would have said yes in a much less nasty tone.

“Don’t be like that.” I stuff the receipt in the top of the bag so he can’t lose it. “It’s only like four hours from here. I’d do it for you.”

He raises an eyebrow, like it’s not my problem you’re a loser. “I can’t.”

That seems like a weird thing to assert, so I study him again.

His perfectly fitted olive t-shirt and light wash jeans look like they cost a million dollars, and he’s wearing a gold watch the size of a hockey puck.

He even smells expensive under the faint tang of refrigerant and window cleaner in the air.

Nothing about him clarifies why he’s not capable of being nice.

“Would it feel easier if I made you do it?” I don’t know why I push the gun up under his chin.

It feels much more violent than pointing it from a distance, and faintly arousing in a way that makes me regret everything about myself.

He makes a tiny animal sound of surprise in his throat, nostrils flaring, his eerie eyes searching my face.

When I try to pull away, he reaches up and wraps a firm, sweaty hand around mine on the handle of the gun to stop me.

Both of us are shaking a little, and I can feel the soft give of that delicate spot right above his Adam’s apple.

I tug against him, but his grip tightens until his fingernails are digging into my skin.

I thought I was a freak for liking this a little, but he’s the one who thinks the gun is fucking loaded right now. “What are you doing?” I murmur.

He blinks, then looks at me accusingly like I did this to him.

“It’s empty,” I tell him.

Instead of just taking his hand away, he pushes me and the gun until there’s a big space between us.

“Please.” Having tried and failed at everything else, I resort to begging as he starts to turn toward the door. “The money is for a sick kid.”

He glances back at the way I’m holding the bag out pathetically, the red smiley face on the side mocking me. “You’re lying.”

“Okay, she’s eighteen now, and she’s not sick, but—” I break off as he walks away and shoulders one of the heavy doors open, letting in a rush of hot air.

Great. I guess all I can do now is decide if I’m going to sit on the curb like a loser until the cops come or make them get some exercise chasing me.

But when the wind brushes through my hair again, I look up and realize he’s holding the door open, staring out at the desolate road.

He shifts his weight uneasily, then glances over his shoulder.

For a moment he seems surprised to see me, like he didn’t think I was real either.

“Fine, hurry up,” he snaps, even though I didn’t say anything. “Or don’t.” And with that, he’s gone.