I let the silence stretch after his smart-assed comment, but this guy has piqued my curiosity.  Fidgeting anxiously, the question tumbles out before my brain is capable of keeping my mouth shut.

“What’s your name?”

“Ryan,” he offers.  No less no more.  Ryan.  Simple.  Male.  It suits him.

“Hi, Ryan.”

“Hi,” he replies, flashing me another easy grin.  I wonder what that’s like—smiling, feeling happy all the time, extending that happiness to complete strangers.  Only bitterness twined with hurt dipped in ugliness runs through my veins.  Staring down at the backs of my hands, I flex my fingers as if I can actually see the tainted blood.

“You gonna tell me your name?” he asks without looking at me.

“Tatum.”

He’s quiet for several moments before he asks, “You hungry, Tatum?”

I shrug noncommittally.  Truthfully, I’m not all that hungry.  But riding in the car with this Ryan guy, even though we aren’t talking, has lightened some unmentioned load from my chest.  For once I don’t feel so lonely.

And as we drive nearer to town, I feel that load slowly increasing, as if each minute towards town piles a brick on my heart.

“I’m starving,” he continues after I refuse to speak.  “Before I stopped to help you, I was planning on grabbing a bite at the diner in town.”   His words pull one heavy brick from the pile.

“You offering?” I ask quietly, feeling idiotic and afraid I’m reading him wrong.  From my peripheral, I see another grin slide across his face.

 “I am, Sweetheart.”

Settling my nerves with a deep breath, I do something so out of character for me, I question my sanity.  I fully turn my body to Ryan and say, “Yeah, I’m hungry.”  I’m grateful I sound more confident than I feel inside.

As we drive closer to town, I can’t help but fidget with the bands I wear on my wrists.  It’s a nervous habit, but I don’t realize I’m doing it until I see Ryan’s eyes flick down to where I’m caressing the fabric.  I watch as his mouth forms a tight, hard line, but he doesn’t say anything.  The darkness in the car obscures his features, but I swear I see a flash of pity in his eyes.

Fuck pity.  He doesn’t know the first thing about me.  I turn my attention back out the passenger window, resting my forehead against the glass, and think back to when it all began…

I discovered the relief of the blade when I was fourteen.  I can’t remember how the idea came to me, only that I was desperate for anything to take away the constant hurt of disappointment, of being unwanted and unloved.   I nabbed the paring knife from our kitchen drawer (the only knife that wasn’t dirty since mom hadn’t done dishes all week) and snuck off into my room.  There wasn’t any fear, only anxiousness as I shed my shorts and danced the tip across my thigh.  I didn’t realize what I was doing until it was done.

My hormonal teenaged mantra carved into my flesh beneath my hip.  FTW.  Fuck The World.  I smirked when it was all over.  Seemed fitting considering my life.

I hid the knife in my closet after that.  Mom wouldn’t notice it was gone.  Between the booze and the drugs and the Johns, she didn’t notice anything.  I found myself retreating into the dark shadows of that four-by-four box whenever the pain was unbearable.  It became my sanctuary.

Until now.

Now I’m eighteen and living on my own.  Emancipated from my mother last year after she OD’d on heroine in our bathroom.  Ironic, I know.

But what I do is not about death.  Honestly, I don’t think it was for her either.  Just too much stupidity.  She survived but is currently in an inpatient facility fifty miles away.  I’ve never known my father, but I wasn’t about to search for him at a time when my whole world had crashed down around me.  Not that he’d want me, but if he did, he didn’t deserve to be my support.  He didn’t deserve shit from me.

I would have been placed in foster care, seeing as the only family I’ve ever had was my mom, but the job I’d held for two years agreed to bump me to fulltime.  The court determined I could support myself.  The second I left the courthouse, I jumped into the search for a new place to live.  The only apartment building in this microscopic town had a studio available.  The red brick exterior was aging and in desperate need of a power wash, the lawns brown and uncared for.  The building was noisy with paper thin walls, sketchy residents with sketchier company.

It was a tiny piece of shit, but it became mine.  Only mine.

Now I commence my ritual in the quiet privacy of my own bathroom, attempting to erase the demons chasing me, exorcising the ones embedded in my soul.  No one would understand why I do it.  Why I use a sharp metal edge to keep myself afloat.  So I hide the truth.  Cover the tracks of my ruined flesh with decorated fabric.  Every time I catch a glimpse of the wristband, a small smirk ghosts across my lips, a little thrill in my chest.  My little secret.

I’m still not sure what Ryan was thinking or what I saw in his eyes, but if he wants to give me pity, then fuck him.  Pity is the last thing I need.

CHAPTER TWO  

Tatum

The rumbling of the engine quiets down to a gentle purr when Ryan pulls up in front of the all night diner.  This town is so small it has one of everything.  One church.  One bar.  One mechanic’s shop-slash-gas station.  One restaurant.  One coffee shop.  One nursing home.  And one school that houses k-12.  Anything else is a 20 minute drive out of town.

Plenty of residents are entirely comfortable making that commute to have more amenities in their lives.  The majority of us stay put, myself included.  I embrace the simple life.  I’m too busy juggling my life so I don’t get evicted, fired, or expelled to spend time at the theater or the mall.  Not to mention I can’t afford it—the time or the money.

My stomach shifts with a sudden bout of nerves as Ryan exits the car.  He steps onto the curb but looks back when I don’t follow.  I’m stuck stupidly staring after him through the windshield.  What am I doing here?  I just met this guy, and now I’m going out for a late night snack.  I don’t do this.  I never do this.  So why do I want to go inside?  Why do I feel as if I’ll miss something spectacular if I ask him to bring me home instead?  I feel crazy and conflicted.  Ryan confuses me and intrigues me, angers me and excites me all at once.  I like it.  The thrill of doing something out of the ordinary is intoxicating.

Slowly, I climb out of Ryan’s car and join him on the sidewalk.

“Hi,” I supply when neither of us move nor speak.

“Is that all you know how to say?” he teases, a dimple creasing his cheek.  Somehow I failed to notice that feature during the dark car ride, but it’s kind of sexy.

Under the lamp lighting the entrance, I realize he’s handsome.  He definitely does not look like a creepy stalker murder.  And he can’t be much older than I am.  His hair is dark brown and tousled, falling slightly over his ears and collar.  He has rich, chocolate brown eyes, and his gaze is warm, regarding me with curiosity and a whole lot of interest.  As my eyes slide down to assess his mouth, I notice he’s grinning at me again.

“Uh-what?”

I forgot he asked me something.  I was too busy ogling over the dimple in his cheek.  Ryan drops his chin to his chest and shakes his head slowly.  He’s laughing at me and trying to hide it.  Bastard.

“Nothin’, Sweetheart.  Let’s go inside.”

Ever the chivalrous gentlemen, Ryan holds the door open and waits for me to pass through.  I’m beginning to feel awkward.  I’m not used to this behavior, and I don’t know how to react.  My natural inclination is to be a smartass but that would be rude.  Rudeness is something I reserve for familiar company, not some stranger who saved me from being stranded on a dark, remote highway.

“Thanks,” I mutter instead, digging deep to locate my manners.