Page 46 of Violent Little Thing
Golden Hour
DELILAH
A YEAR AND SOME CHANGE AGO
“ F orty-one, eighty-nine,” the cashier’s cheery smile doesn’t dim when I hand over the worn fifty-dollar bill.
It’s all the money I have and if I’d kept it in my hand a second longer, it would have been too soggy to present to anyone.
While they count my change, I wipe my hand on the soft material of my skirt and dart my eyes around the front of the grocery store.
Since I walked in, my attention hasn’t strayed far from the automatic doors.
Any moment now, I’m waiting for a familiar face to walk through and cut my impromptu trip short.
But it doesn’t happen.
Not when the cashier gives me my change.
Not when I decline a bag .
And not when I drop the coins in a box marked for a children’s charity.
Outside the grocery store, the sun beats down on me with a vengeance.
Luckily, it’s not as high in the sky as it was when I first left the house.
My mouth tastes like I’ve been chewing chalk and my stomach rumbles in protest of the money I just spent on flowers I can’t consume.
There’s a Burger King across the parking lot, but I settle on the vending machine a few feet away from me.
I need to stretch this last seven dollars as far as I can. As tempting as a burger and fries are, it would wipe me out.
So, I walk over to the machine to study my options.
“Strawberry Crush.” There’s awe in my voice as I read the price beside it. “I don’t know what that is, but now I need to taste it.”
After fighting with the machine to accept one of my dollar bills, I finally have the ice-cold reward for my efforts in my palm. Then I tuck my last six dollars in my bra and start the last leg of my trip.
Twenty-minutes away from the grocery store, the condensation slipping down the can matches the sweat on my forehead.
The humid Wildwood air has my tank top sticking to me in ungodly ways.
As I climb yet another hilly sidewalk, the sensation of sweat trickling down my back almost makes me shudder.
Not that holding a plastic-wrapped bouquet is helping my cause, so I sit down at a bus stop and set the bouquet beside me.
It doesn’t take long before I’m convinced the shade of the bus shelter combined with the sweet taste of strawberry soda on my tongue is as close to heaven as I’m ever going to get. I let out a dramatic “ ah ” when I take my last sip.
Knowing this means I have to finish my journey, I grudgingly walk to the trash can and wrinkle my brow at the papers taped to the side.
Spacious studio.
Prime location in the Highlands.
WiFi included.
Bad credit ok.
If bad credit means no credit at all, I’m a shoo in.
Granted, there are probably better places to find prospective apartments than an ad on the side of a bus stop trashcan. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I could use a miracle right now. I tear one of the slips at the bottom of the flyer free and tuck it into my bra with the rest of my money.
There’s a bounce in my step as I walk the rest of the way to the graveyard.
Today’s the first day I left the house by myself. I have a new favorite drink. And now I might have a lead on a place to stay. I’ll iron out the details later. Like the hundred-dollar application fee, my ID and whatever else the flyer said I would need.
For now, I let hope take root in my chest and bloom for the first time in a long time.
I don’t have to figure it all out today.
When I get to where I’m going, the sun is fading fast as the iron gate in front of me beckons me closer.
Wildwood Acres.
A neighborhood so grand it deserves its own area code, apparently.
I’d never understood the fuss. As far as I could tell from the two times I’d been in the car when my dad came here, it was all big houses with no signs of personality.
Just the type of wealth my father had deluded himself into thinking he’d attain .
It makes sense it’s the place he chose to be buried fifteen years ago, according to Weston.
I’m only standing ducked off behind a bush to catch my breath for a beat before we get action at the gate.
It’s a little too easy to sneak in behind a black SUV when the attendant isn’t looking.
Golden hour has an ethereal haze settled over the graveyard.
It toes the line between haunting and beautiful as I zigzag between the plots to get to my father’s final resting place.
His grave is easy to find. It’s the only one without a headstone and that won’t be changing soon. He can thank himself for that.
I fling the flowers angrily at his plot and right away, I’m looking around to check if anybody witnessed my disrespect.
It’s funny how I’m still preoccupied with doing the respectful thing even when he isn’t here.
I hate that I still want to maintain appearances when that was something he never bothered himself with.
In a squat, I start plucking the overgrown grass around my bouquet. Just to give my fingers something to do.
I’m there long enough for the sun to make her exit and the light posts lining the path to flicker on. But I don’t get up. There’s something comforting about being here.
I have no money. No plan besides finding my way back home.
But there’s peace in knowing he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
And that he’ll be there for eternity. Feeding the worms and looking up at me from the pits of hell.
I can’t put my finger on it, but I have a feeling that everything is going to work out.
It’s pure delusion if I say it out loud, but whatever .
Maybe my father and I have that trait in common.
I’m about to get up when a deep voice behind me asks, “How long has it been?”
One glance over my shoulder and I almost freeze in place, but that would look suspicious. So, I blink and paint a mischievous smile on my face.
“You can see me?”
The corny joke gifts me with the stranger’s face contorting into a frown.
“You should see your face,” I tease, pushing to my feet.
Speaking of his face, it’s a beautiful thing.
Twilight backlights his dark skin and nearly robs me of my next breath.
“Relax, I’m not a ghost.” I wipe my hands on my skirt. “Not yet at least.”
Trying to speed past his small talk about my father and whether I live out here, I steer the conversation to what I want to talk about.
He’s the first adult I’ve talked to besides my brother in so long, my words pour out of me, unchecked.
We dance around to so many topics, I can’t remember what we’re talking about when I come up for air, but the man in front of me laughs lowly and pushes that worry to the back of my mind.
The sound is rough and raspy. Husky. Like he’s unlocked some part of his voice box he’s never used before.
My instant fascination is enough to make me forget I’m standing in a graveyard. This man towering over me is a lot of things.
Tall.
Serious.
Clad in all black with his locs cascading over one broad shoulder .
I want to ask him who he is and what he does until the darkness shrouding us registers. It’s not twilight anymore, it’s night . And I’m more than five miles from my house.
“Fuck. What time is it?” I ask the stranger.
“8:45.”
Shit.
I cross my arms and the bills and paper in my bra scratch my skin, reminding me of the only goal I have right now. “Can I have a hundred dollars?” I ask on a whim, keeping my face neutral.
The worst he can say is no. And he does.
At least I tried.
When I wave goodbye, there’s a flicker of hesitation on his face as if he’s not ready for me to go. I don’t allow myself to think about it as I walk away and climb the gate.
I need to get home before Weston shows up from one of his benders and asks me questions I don’t want to answer.