The End for Now

Now It's Easy

Trevor didn't mean to slow at the curb; it was habit, and he let it happen.

Her house looked the same except for the front door, which somebody had painted a horrible canary yellow that almost made you squint. The windows were open because her dad never turned on the air, which Trevor liked because it meant that despite all that had changed, some things didn't change, ever. Some parts of you were rooted so deep you couldn't rip them out if you wanted to. Couldn't cover them up either.

Trevor knew he was going to end up here after spotting her last week. It had been the swing of her ponytail, how it caught just enough momentum to brush her shoulder as she'd walked into the diner with two girls from their high school whose names he couldn't exactly remember. The feeling had pulled at his stomach and his arms and legs. Seeing her was the feeling of coming home.

There wasn't really anything to do about it. This was real life: You date people and break up and then see them and pretend they're just somebody you used to know. It was no big deal. He'd done it most of the spring semester and survived. It had been worse for Jordan, but she'd found somebody else and that helped lessen his guilt. She'd been flawed in way that wasn't her fault; he'd ignored it until he couldn't. Like a splinter he was scared to pull out, not because it hurt, but because he was worried how deep it went.

The garage door opened and Cassie walked out to her car. She spotted him and crossed the yard.

"Stalking is a felony," she said.

"I heard that somewhere."

"Which is bad for you because pretty boys get it the worst in prison. Is what TV tells me."

"TV has told me that too."

"I'd recommend joining a gang."

"Obviously."

"Or you could take out some tough guy to show that you're not to be messed with."

"I'm not afraid to fight dirty."

"That's good because there's no rules in prison."

"Right," Trevor said. "Prison rules."

"I feel better knowing you're not gonna be surprised by all the violence."

"Your concern has been noted."

No warm up—they didn't need it. The feeling of coming home.

Cassie leaned on the open window and piano keyed her nails. They were painted the same horrible yellow as the door. She walked around and got in.

"When'd you get back?" she asked.

"Couple weeks ago. You?"

"Last week. Trimesters and such."

"Right."

"Your face is really burnt."

"Been cutting lawns with some guy my dad knows."

"You should wear sunscreen. And a hat. Skin cancer is pretty serious."

"Serious as that front door."

"Imagine if you had to paint it. Worst Mother's Day gift ever." Cassie ran a hand along the door panel. She fiddled with the radio buttons. "Turn it on."

"Why?"

"An experiment."

Trevor turned the ignition one click. Cassie hit the last preset button and a Bob Dylan song came through the crappy speakers. "Of course you kept my station."

"I actually forgot about it."

"I actually forgot how bad you were at lying."

He left the radio on as an admission.