“I still don’t understand why you had to leave Florida to find that answer, Amber. It’s not going to appear in the blue desert sky like some miracle.”
“I don’t expect it will.”
“Well, when you figure it out, come home.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“Are you almost to Santa Fe?”
“Yes.”
“Will you call me and let me know you got there in one piece?”
“Sure.”
“You better, or I’ll get on a plane and check myself.”
“Ha! You on a plane? Even before COVID, you were too terrified.”
“I don’t trust it. That boy and his cure…I’m telling you Amber, it’s not gone.”
“It is. Besides, I’ve survived it.”
“Barely. Your lungs won’t win a second time.”
“My food’s getting cold… I’ll call you later.”
I disconnect, my appetite gone. I force myself to nibble at the toast. I know the virus is gone, but my mother much like many—suffer from PTSD from lockdown life, all the death and food shortages but most of all—from missing the people who didn’t make it. I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ll live for them all.
I turn the napkin back over. My goals are all so superficial. But part of feeling good on the inside is knowing your outside is on point, right?
The food is bursting with flavor and despite not thinking I could—I polish off just about every bite. Despite the waitress insisting she treats me I open my wallet and take out forty dollars. Taking another napkin, I write her a note:
Just as I finish drawing the smiley face, the roar of motorcycles has me looking out the window. I swallow hard. Four men on bikes, wearing aviators and bandanas cruise in the lot.
I gasp as the helmets come off and the cloths lowered. No one could miss that sexy beast, Roger and Tarak wouldn’t be recognizable without that swagger and arrogance that comes off him in waves. One eye is swollen shut. His face is covered in swollen bruises much like Edge’s. But he walks like he could give two fucks.
I gather my purse and phone. A smile is ready on my lips as they enter the small diner. They immediately look to the back where I’m sitting, I raise my hand to wave as four sets of eyes move past me to the last booth. Not a flicker of recognition came my way.
My hand drops.
Heat fills my cheeks.
The men walk right by me. I swallow the lump forming. Am I really that invisible? Am I really such a plain Jane that a man I thought shared a good conversation with me yesterday would so soon forget? It stings that not even Roger remembers me.
I wipe the corner of my eye and make a dash for the ladies’ room. Pushing back my hair, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I’m not that bad for a living ghost. I swipe my eyes feeling the tears waiting at the dam, wanting to spill over.
“Don’t you dare cry. Especially over a group of bikers, Amber.” Turning on the taps, I splash some cold water on my face.
In a few more hours I’ll arrive at my new life. I won’t be passed by ever again. I will be somebody, dang it. Somebody worth noticing.
The bathroom door opens with a bang as I stride out. My head doesn’t even turn in their direction. I practically jog over to the old, blue truck and climb in throwing my purse on the passenger’s seat. It’s then I notice the paper that drifts to the floor. I reach over, retrieving it. The title. After briefly, scanning it, I crumble it up and toss it back to the floor. I must be in a stolen truck. There’s no other explanation for a seemingly legit title complete with notarized stamp that claims the owner of this blue Ford is none other than: Little Brown Mouse. Address Unknown.
“That fucker!” My fist slams down hard on the dash. I pull out of the lot faster than I should, leaving a cloud of desert dust in my wake. My anger fuels me. It’s better than the bitter taste being invisible left in my mouth.
Instead of pulling back onto I-40, I keep going on the access road. There’s a super Walmart not far ahead.
I don’t waste time parking and going straight to the health and beauty section. I never bothered with shit like this before and barely know where to start. But I do know I want my face to look fierce and my hair to have just… more. I don’t even know what colors go with “white as shit” skin, so I just pick a bunch of bronzers dumping them into my cart. Next is ten different shades of lip gloss and a few tubes of mascara promising “lashes so long he’ll drop to his knees.” The picture on the box shows a diamond ring. A snort escapes me, but the box goes into my cart.
Next, I hit up the hair care aisle. “What goes over mud brown?” I pick up a box of pink, thinking my tips would look cool this shade but after scanning the box realize I’d have to dye my tips platinum first. I peruse a few boxes and dump three in. I use the self-scan and get back to my truck but not before I use my hand sanitizer and use an antibacterial wipe on my face. My mother’s words haunt me like a bad sex-ed talk. “You will not die. You will not catch it again,” I murmur to myself like a mantra. The world is slowly healing but will never be the same and I realize I won’t be either. But that’s okay. Because the version 2.0 of me is going to kick the shit out of the first.
3
Tarak
I made her the second we came in the door. Even with only one eye working, she wasn’t hard to miss. Not because she’s some great beauty either. I watch people. Study them. Life in the MC is a game of poker. You win by reading your opponents. I was voted Prez because of my instincts. My ability to read people has saved more than one brother in my MC. Meets have turned sour and I was always the first one to get the read; drawing first and protecting my brothers from fatal blows.
This girl, she’s full of tiny tells. Sometimes it’s a tooth nibbling a lower lip, nervous hands, or haunted eyes. The girl has a story. She sticks out like a bright flower against miles of desert. Only her petals haven’t bloomed yet. She needs watering, tending—a shit ton of TLC. Something or someone put the shadows in her eyes.
I used to be a man who did those things for a woman. Especially the broken, haunted ones. They always called to me. I see all the jagged, fucked-up pieces of myself reflected when I look at them. Some, romantic stupid part of me thought that if I just found that one other jagged-edged soul, I could line up mine and make it whole again. It’s my Native-American blood. My ancestors were fierce warriors. But we also had passion. Deep-seeded passion for Earth, the cosmos, the stars, and our women.
But I’ve been singed; utterly destroyed by the power of love. The scars are so thick around my heart, I know I’ll never love like I did once ever again in this lifetime.
When we walked past her booth, I stared straight ahead. Nope. There’s no way that broken, pale mousey-brown haired girl who got in my face yesterday was gonna take one more second of my time. The other guys didn’t recognize the brown-eyed girl in the least. So, I didn’t bother either.
I heard her quick intake of breath; watched her tiny trembles. And when she fled to the safety of the restrooms, my eyes happened to fall on the napkin covered in purple ink she left behind.