Exit Wounds

14 | my girl sadie

F O U R T E E N

LOS ANGELES, CA

          "Fucking Michelle," I complain to Sadie, on our Uber ride back to the Airbnb.

          She shoots me a pointed glare from the opposite end of the back seat before returning to her priority—the state of my career. She holds her phone on one hand and her baby-blue planner on the other, using her knee for support for the latter, and I pretend not to notice how many appointments she has scribbled out. In this industry, you have to be reliable, and I suppose I haven't been doing great in that aspect.

          We don't speak much.

          There wasn't much room for conversation before we got into the car, as it would be terribly inappropriate to rant about my family and Adam during a funeral, regardless of how despicable my grandmother was. Instead, I sat there on my designated seat, arms and legs crossed so tightly my muscles are still cramping, and stared right ahead, refusing to look anywhere but ahead. My eyes stung the whole way through, but I sat there, as straight as an iron board, refusing to shed a single tear.

           Most people wouldn't have cared or find it odd that I was crying at my grandmother's funeral, as that's the normal way to act in such a situation, but I hadn't wanted to attract Adam's attention any further. Though my mother had been decent enough to keep us far away from each other—I suspected it was mostly to try and keep us apart for the sake of eliminating any violent triggers and not because she cares about my mental state—I could still feel the pressure of his stare glued to the side of my head.

           Michelle overheard the conversation, though I'm not sure to what extent, and I'm not entirely certain I want to know. He doesn't know about that—I'm certain she's smart enough not to mention it to him—which keeps her on his good side and away from imminent danger, at least for now, but I've been in a nearly constant state of panic ever since. Sadie, of course, knows how rattled I am and doesn't need me to spell it out for her, knowing me well enough to see through the cracks in my armor. I suppose I'm too transparent for it to be obvious as well, as I've never been too great at faking my emotions around her.

          "She's following us, you know," Sadie points out, closing her planner and stuffing it back inside her Givenchy bag, an accessory that probably costs more than everything I'm wearing today. "Her car has been following us since we left. I assume you know about this?"

          Our driver, a twenty-something guy with a rattail, briefly looks back at us over his shoulder. "We're being tailgated? Should I pull over?"

          "Drive, Petey." His name isn't Petey. I wouldn't be too surprised if this interaction ends up lowering Sadie's average passenger rating on the Uber app, but, at the same time, she gets away with things most people do not. "Harley?"

          "Not here." I shoot a pointed look towards the back of Not-Petey's head, and she nods, immediately understanding. Los Angeles is the furthest thing from a small city where everyone knows everyone, but I stopped believing in coincidences and the power of fate years ago when I left, and I wouldn't be shocked to end up discovering this random driver is somehow connected to Adam. I don't want him to hear a word about what happened at the funeral and ruin things any further; mentioning Michelle has already been scandalous enough. "I think she wants to talk."

          "That's convenient."

          I sigh, running my fingers through my hair before pressing the heels of my hands against my closed lids. My migraine, caused both by my jetlag and my insomnia, refuses to give me a break from an already terrible day, and all I want to do right now is slide under my sheets in New York and sleep for an entire month.