RISK & REWARD

48 | 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘵

EVEN on the drive over, Slade doesn't seem normal. She seems on-edge, more than usual; I cling to her like always as we drive, and she's still not relaxed. She's rigid, stiff, and overall just...different.

When we arrive to that once-empty lot, we find a dozen or so cars scattered around the big screen; we're the only bike, I notice, as does Slade. We aren't even stopped by the time she habitually tries to pull her hood up, only to find that she no longer has a hood on her. I feel her stiffness grow; she's more nervous, now. Great.

"Hey." I go to put a hand on her leg before I stop myself and awkwardly return it to my side. "Hey, Slade."

She turns the bike off, puts down the kickstand with her heel. Pauses; places both hands on the pommel of her seat as if to hold herself up. Swallows once, twice. Turns her head toward me, but keeps her eyes away.

"I brought...things," she says slowly, tone slightly less wary and slightly more nervous. Behind her, the screen turns on, and her side profile is suddenly cast in silver light, glowing in the white of her hair.

"Oh?" I lean back. "What?"

She swallows again. Her eyes flick back towards me, but refuse to look at my face; no, they're cast absently on my midsection as she opens her mouth, finds her words, and says, slowly, "s' in the seat"

The things Slade brought along are the bags of candy stolen earlier straight out of the gas station. Did I expect that? Yes. Do I still fawn over her giving them to me with a dozen thank-yous? Also yes. The light coming off the screen gives her nowhere to hide the flustered blush on her face; she tucks into that little chocolate bar she'd grabbed earlier, leaning forward to rest on Jethawk's handlebars even as I slide to sit beside it.

"You wanna join me down here?" I ask, looking up at the silhouette framed in white a mere few feet away. She looks down, looks away; bites off the end of her chocolate, doesn't reply.

Oh. I feel my heart sink; hot guilt weighs and curls into the pit of my stomach, sick and twisting. Oh. Okay.

The opening chords of Lana Del Rey's Summertime Sadness lilt out from the screen as it fades to black. Slade's attention changes; her head lifts, just slightly, and the thin sliver of her face that I can see is pointed towards the source of the sound.

I'm sorry. The words sit heavy in my head as I swallow, motion so thick I nearly choke, and look to the screen with a fresh chill seeping through my layers of clothes and straight into my bones. I'm sorry.

Hey, stranger. I'm writing this for Mama; her eyes aren't "good enough" anymore. She says it's because she's getting old; I think it's because she was drunk when she last picked up a pen, but what do I know?...

The movie is about fifteen minutes in when I hear the soft shuffle of a body beside me. I don't dare look over; the familiar rasp of Slade's breath going cold in her chest hisses out beside me for a brief second before I feel something warm and soft settle over my shoulders.

Slade is silent as I look over at her with wide eyes, face pointed solidly at the screen where a warm summer night at a closed-down beach is playing out. The glittering ocean surface is a stark contrast to our current situation; freezing cold in the eaves of winter, even in my hoodie and coat and now Slade's jacket.

Slade's jacket, which leaves Slade herself in nothing more than a tight turtleneck and her cargo pants.

"Slade!" I hiss her name so quietly it's barely loud enough for her to hear; she just swallows, legs crossed and knees lifted off the ground as she turns her face towards me.