The Day She Cried

by K. Webster

  Okay, so maybe it’s something I can do.

  It’ll just take me forever. Each bucket has many parts and some are so greasy I wonder if I’ll even find the serial numbers.

  “Is that all?”

  “For now. You can work on this until we close up. I’ll give you a ride home.”

  Our eyes meet and I grow nervous under his scrutiny. His green eyes fall to my mouth before he lets out an annoyed sigh and stomps from the room.

  This is going to be fun.

  “Time to go, sheep.”

  I jolt at Rome’s harshly barked words and nearly drop the metal thing called a spark plug in my hand. My head throbs from squinting and being hunched over. “What time is it?”

  “After nine. You’ve been at it for hours. Come on, let’s go. I’ve got shit to do.”

  I stand and stretch my arms above my head. My entire body aches from the position I was sitting in. When Rome’s hard gaze falls to my stomach, I realize I must be showing some skin. Quickly, I drop my arms and tug at the hem of my tank top. “How’s my car?”

  “Still broken,” he snaps and leaves the room without a backward glance.

  “Well, okay, then,” I grumble under my breath as I follow after him.

  I find him in the shop, alone, and at the sink washing the grime from his hands. He steps aside and motions with his head at a big bottle of something that claims to get grease off. The stuff works like a miracle and I’m thankful the black gunk is coming off from beneath my nails. My skin prickles with awareness when our arms brush against each other.

  He stares down at me as if I touched him on purpose and he’s pissed about it.

  Rome and his glares.

  “You have some grease on you,” I mumble as I reach up a wet, soapy finger to his forehead. I’ve barely swiped over his flesh when he grabs me hard around my wrist.

  “Don’t fucking touch me. Ever.”

  He rinses off and then storms away. My heart sinks. I think some deep part of me had hoped he was softening toward me. That maybe…maybe we could talk about her.

  “I don’t have all day, sheep,” he hollers across the shop.

  I finish up at the sink and then hurry after him. The moment I step outside, he locks the door and then strides over to his car.

  “Are you like in charge around here?” I ask in confusion.

  “I should think so since I fucking own it.”

  The car door slams once he’s inside. I rush over and climb in beside him. “You own it? That’s so awesome!”

  “Blood money,” he spits out as he fires up the engine.

  It takes me a second to realize what he means. With the settlement, he bought the shop. My mother bought his shop. I’m quiet as he drives like a bat out of hell. I don’t know what to say to him. I want to ask him questions about Raven, but I know he will only get angry.

  When he eventually pulls into a driveway, I start to jerk the door open until I realize I’m not at my house. In fact, I never told him where I lived.

  An uneasy feeling creeps down my spine.

  “W-Where are we?”

  “A party.”

  “Whose party?”

  “Does it fucking matter? We’re here. I’m late. You’re going with.”

  I frown as I sneak a glance his way. “I want to go home.”

  He laughs, but it’s cold and hollow. “And I want a lot of things, sheep. Like my sister. I want my sister back. We don’t get what we want. If we did, it’d be you in that casket and not her.”

  Without another word, he exits the car and slams the door behind him. I sit in the car, wishing I could message Raven. Like last summer.

  LonelyLogan69: I don’t want to go to this party.

  PoetPrincess99: So don’t go. Stay and chat with me.

  LonelyLogan69: Believe me, I’d rather do that.

  PoetPrincess99: I guess I don’t get what the problem is…

  LonelyLogan69: Best friend demands it.

  PoetPrincess99: She sounds like a real peach. Do you always do everything she says?

  I lie back against my pillows and pout. It’s always been this way. Whitney leads and I follow. Always. She’s just more adventurous and exciting than me.

  LonelyLogan69: Maybe I’ll stay.

  PoetPrincess99: I’ll write you another poem if you stay with me.

  Normally I’d be worrying over Whitney’s reaction, but today I can’t find it in me to care as much as usual. I text my best friend quickly before I change my mind.

  Me: I’ve got a bad headache. Rain check. Love ya!

  She responds back with middle finger emojis and I laugh. I feel free now that I don’t have to go to that stupid party.

  LonelyLogan69: You talked me into it. This poem better be worth it.

  I’m grinning as I watch the dots move with her reply.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  I scream when someone pounds on my window. The bearded guy, who I learned today is named Mike, points and laughs at me.

  “Party’s inside, Diner Barbie,” he says through the glass. He makes a crude gesture with two fingers and his tongue wiggling between them. “Unless you’d rather party with me in the backseat of Rome’s car.”

  I push the car door open and he grunts when it hits him. Not giving him a chance to talk any further, I slam the door shut and trot toward the house. There aren’t many people here, maybe fifteen or twenty, but I don’t know anyone. I feel like they’re all staring.

  Is this what Raven felt like?

  I remember a party she attended in the eleventh grade. I’m not sure who invited her, but she showed up anyway. She walked in, biting on her bottom lip, as she scanned the crowd looking for a familiar face. When her eyes landed on mine and lit up, I looked away. Then, I let Bo Stevens lead me into the garage where he got to second base on the hood of his mom’s car.

  I left her alone.

  She didn’t know anyone.

  I was her someone.

  Too bad I was the worst someone she could find.

  My mind drifts to the past when I was her someone.

  PoetPrincess99: Have you ever been in love?

  I frown as I reply.

  LonelyLogan69: No. You?

  PoetPrincess99: I thought so. I thought wrong.

  My heart sinks. I’d seen her around plenty of times but never once did I see her talking to anyone besides her brother. Never any other boys for sure.

  LonelyLogan69: That sounds like a story I need to hear…

  PoetPrincess99: It’s a story I won’t ever be able to tell you.

  I sit up in bed and let out a heavy sigh.

  LonelyLogan69: How come? Do you not trust me?

  PoetPrincess99: It isn’t about trust. It’s about bravery. I’ll never be strong enough to tell it. Some stories are better told with clues. Pictures and poems. Little morsels spoken to new friends. Sprinkled with delicate care over a meal for one…

  LonelyLogan69: Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re being for real or are speaking in poem.

  PoetPrincess99: Sometimes poems are the only way I have a voice.

  She always sounds so sad and broken. It makes my heart ache.

  LonelyLogan69: I hear you. And whoever hurt you can fuck right off.

  PoetPrincess99: Hurt as in past tense? Some hurts never go away. Some hurts are living, breathing scars. Some hurts bleed on and on and on.

  Anger bubbles up inside me.

  LonelyLogan69: How do I help you not hurt?

  PoetPrincess99: You’re doing it.

  LonelyLogan69: How do I stop the bleeding?

  PoetPrincess99: You can’t. One day the bleeding will just end.

  Something tells me that has a much darker meaning that she alludes to.

  The living room is crowded, so I slip away into the kitchen. I find Rome near the sink knocking back a shot of tequila. I’m not sure how he plans to drive me home if he starts drinking. His dog wags his tail and nudges his big head against my knee so I’ll pet him.
r />   “Don’t break anything,” Rome barks.

  I look around the simple home and frown. “This is your house?”

  “Yep. Don’t fucking touch anything and don’t go into her room.”

  Her. Room.

  My heart rate spikes and suddenly it’s all I want to do. I wonder if her things are still in there. I wonder if it smells like her. I wonder if she still has some of her poetry in there.

  “Drink,” he orders.

  I take the offered shot glass and sip it down. It burns my throat and I gag.

  “Fucking sheep,” he snarls, disgust in his tone. “If I told you to go jump off a goddamned bridge, would you do that too?”

  “Why are you so mean to me?” I utter, my words barely heard over the music.

  He grits his teeth and the vein in his neck pulsates. It makes it look as though the raven on his flesh is alive. God, how I wish she were alive.

  Instead of rewarding me with an answer, he storms from the kitchen, his shoulder knocking against mine on the way out. I stand alone for a few moments, absently petting the dog, until Jamal strides in. Eager to get away from him, I rush out on a mission to find a bathroom to lock myself inside. The first door I come to, I twist the knob and push. As soon as the stale air hits me, I know. It’s her room. Carefully, I close the door behind me and flip the switch on.

  I’m hit with such a painful feeling, I swear it’s cutting right through my chest. I rub at the spot between my breasts and drink in her room. Yellow curtains. Bright and cheery. A matching yellow bedspread. Her desk is immaculate aside from a stack of Edgar Allan Poe books. I can’t help but smile—a real smile. She’s the one who forced me to go to the library and check out one of his books. At first, I had trouble understanding the material, but she explained some of the stories to me. What she didn’t tell me, and I had to discover for myself, was that there was a poem called The Raven.

  LonelyLogan69: It’s named after you. That’s so cool. Is Poe your idol?

  PoetPrincess99: I love his work, yes, but that poem isn’t my favorite.

  LonelyLogan69: Tell me which is.

  PoetPrincess99: Alone.

  LonelyLogan69: Well, that’s depressing. You’re not alone now. You have me. I read through it and it doesn’t make much sense to me.

  PoetPrincess99: It’s a poem that wasn’t even recognized as one of his works during his lifetime. A poem about uniqueness. Sadly, he was melancholy most of his life and never felt as though he fit in. He didn’t understand who he was and was generally unhappy.

  LonelyLogan69: And that one is your favorite…why?

  PoetPrincess99: Because I feel like he gets me.

  I walk over to her bed and sit down. Heavy tears pool on my lids, blurring the room around me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper to the air. “You were so fragile and I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand. I didn’t get you.”

  I notice a picture of her entire family in a frame on the end table. The twins were younger—ten or eleven maybe—and both smiling at the camera. Rome’s smile meets his eyes, but Raven has already perfected her fake one at that age. A smile I always assumed was real until she showed me her actual smile. I blink away tears and set the frame back down. Rome told me not to come in here, yet I’m here, consequences be damned.

  Standing, I make my way over to the desk. I open the drawer and find a stack of artwork. The one on top catches my eye. It’s weird and I don’t understand it, but it clearly meant something to her. Faces cut out. Their eyes missing. It’s creepy but what does it actually mean? Raven wasn’t a creepy person. Poetic, yes. Another one of her tiny morsels of herself. The blonde in the middle of the picture still has her eyes. I lift the flap and focus on the beautiful black raven.

  I want to believe that the artwork is a question. Does anyone see her?

  I see you, Raven.

  And, oh, how I miss you.

  After staring at the picture for far too long and deciding that I do understand the meaning, I set it down and rummage through the drawer again until I find a composition book. I flip it open and turn to the first page. The date on it is two years ago. Ramblings in her neat flourishes. Precise and perfect. I run my finger over the words and turn the page. I become engrossed. Page after page, I feel as though I’m unlocking a part of her. I’m about to turn another page when the door swings open and slams against the wall.

  I shriek in surprise, nearly dropping the book.

  Oh, shit.

  I’ve never seen Rome so angry, not even in the courtroom. He’s positively enraged. His breaths come out in uneven huffs as his gaze roves over me in a disgusted way. While I was in here, he must have showered because he’s not wearing his uniform any longer, but instead dons a pair of jeans that hang low on his hips and a tight wife beater that seems glued to his chest. Water drips from his black hair and his jaw ticks with fury.

  “I’m, I, uh…” I stammer.

  He lunges for me and forcefully yanks the book from my grip. I let out a squeak, stumbling back a few steps. My ass hits the wall hard, nearly knocking the breath out of me. Gently, a stark contrast of his mood, he sets the book down. Then, his wrath is turned upon me.

  With a growl, he stalks over to me. His grip finds my throat again and he slides his hand to just below my jaw. My head is forced up so he can look at me. Green eyes glimmer with rage and a vein in his forehead looks as though it might pop at any second.

  “I hate you!” he roars, spittle spraying my face.

  I let out a terrified sob. His grip tightens below my jaw. “P-Please, Rome.”

  “No. You don’t get to talk right now,” he snarls. His eyes dart to my cheeks as he watches my tears roll out. “This. You can do this.” With his other hand, he captures the wetness from my tears and brings it to his lips. His tongue darts out and he licks it off. “Your tears belong to me. Every single last salty one of them.”

  Rome

  “Let me go. Take me home,” she demands, fear making her voice shake.

  I hate her. Fuck, how I do. So why the hell am I staring at her stupid lips again?

  “You don’t deserve to know her,” I hiss, my own words trembling. Not from fear but with emotion. It’s not fucking fair how Raven let in this stranger—a fucking façade of a person—and she never let me in.

  “I loved her.” Her nose turns pink again as more tears stream out.

  “Fuck you,” I bellow as I release her.

  Before I can turn away, she reaches forward and fists my shirt. “Rome…” Her panicked eyes seem to plead with mine to understand.

  But I don’t fucking understand.

  “She loved me too,” she whimpers.

  I fist my hands at my sides. I’d never hit a woman—I’m not my fucking dad—but the wall beside her is looking like a worthy target right now. “Let go of me.” My voice is low and deadly. “Now.”

  I want to punish her. So fucking bad.

  Her blue eyes flare with defiance despite her fear and her tears. There you are, wolf. She licks her bottom lip. I decide right then that she owes it to me. A motherfucking taste. It’s the least she can do.

  I back her against the wall and press my hips against her. She lets out a mewling sound that goes straight to my cock, waking it up. I clutch her throat once more and crash my lips to hers. It’s a brutal kiss. Savage and hateful.

  And she fucking accepts it.

  Parts her soft fat lips and offers me her tongue.

  So I take that too.

  She tastes like tequila and betrayal. Her palms work their way up my chest to my shoulders while I own her mouth with mine. I can’t help but grind my hard cock against her soft body as I try to steal her soul with a simple kiss.

  I want it.

  I want to fucking devour it.

  Her. All of her.

  A moan escapes her and my mind starts replaying fantasies I had from high school—fantasies where I licked her sweet cunt and fucked her until she screamed. I’m so dizzied by the fantasy
that bleeds into my reality that I barely notice my palm is working its way up her stomach below her shirt. When she pushes my hand away, I snap back to the present.

  Jerking away from her, I swipe the back of my hand across my lips and pin her with a glare. “You fucking disgust me.”

  Her lips, swollen from our hard kiss, part open in shock at my words. Fuck if I don’t want to suck on them all night. I turn and storm from the room before I do something stupid like fuck her on my sister’s bed.

  For three days, she’s been avoiding me. Hell, I’d avoid me too. I’m vicious as fuck but then kissed her like some kind of pussy. But what has me confused is why she hasn’t called to inquire about her car or shown up to the diner. Where the fuck is she?

  Her mom is at work, that much I know, which is why I’m parked a few houses down and headed to her house. She doesn’t know that I know where she lives. She doesn’t know a lot of things I know about her. But I do know them. I know them very well.

  I slip into the backyard and quietly make my way up the back porch to the door. The door is one that’s easily broken into. I slip my knife blade between the frame and the door, popping the lock with zero effort. Once inside, I close the door behind me and creep through the quiet house.

  No sounds.

  No anything.

  But she has to be here. Where else would she be?

  I make my way up the stairs quietly and after a quick search, I find the room that belongs to her. The first thing I notice is despite it being three in the afternoon, her room is dark. Sure, she’s got girly walls and décor, but the curtains are drawn. No lights are on. But she’s here. I can hear her breathing.

  Actually, she’s crying.

  Soft, sad whimpers.

  It irritates me.

  What the fuck does she have to be sad about?

  Stalking over to her bed, I grab her poufy comforter and yank it from her body. She doesn’t flinch or cry out in surprise. Nothing.

  What the hell?

  The T-shirt she wears barely covers her ass and she clutches a picture in her fingers.

  “Is that my sister?” I roar, unable to contain my sudden fury.