Page 101 of Rookie's Shot
She's wearing a sundress—unusual for her.
Something about the warm weather or the occasion made her trade the armor for something lighter.
Her blonde hair is down, catching the string lights.
She hasn't looked at Ounce all night. Not once. The deliberateness of it is louder than any glance would be.
Earlier, she walked to the bar for a refill and had to pass within three feet of where Ounce was standing.
She angled her path wide enough to avoid his shadow.
He tracked the angle without moving his head, and the muscle in his jaw worked once before he lifted his beer and didn't drink from it.
They haven't spoken in weeks.
Maybe months.
Nobody in the club talks about it because there's nothing to talk about—two people who aren't anything to each other, who share a clubhouse and a history and a silence so loud it fills every room they're both in.
Except I've been the person standing in that silence. I know what it sounds like from the inside.
Ounce watches her the way I used to watch networks.
Tracking patterns, flagging changes, building a picture of something he doesn't fully understand yet but can feel taking shape beneath the surface.
Kinsey laughs at something Tildie says. The sound carries across the lot, and Ounce's grip tightens on the untouched beer.
I've seen that grip before. On my own hands.
Around a pen in a statistics classroom, watching a woman in the row beside me who didn't want to be seen.
Kinsey turns from Tildie and walks toward the parking lot.
She pulls her phone from her bag, checking something, and her path takes her past the fence where Ounce is standing.
She glances up and their eyes meet.
For two seconds, neither of them moves.
The string lights sway between them. The music plays. The party carries on around two people who are standing five feet apart and drowning in it.
Kinsey looks away first.
She keeps walking, phone in hand, and disappears around the corner of the building.
Ounce watches her go. His expression doesn't change. His body doesn't move.
But he sets the untouched beer on the fence post and walks inside without finishing it.
Saylor follows my gaze, sees the empty fence post and notices Kinsey's absence.
She looks at me. I look at her.
Neither of us say a word. Some stories aren't ours to tell.
But that one's coming. I can feel it the way you feel weather shifting—pressure dropping, air changing, something building on the horizon that hasn't arrived yet but will.
Saylor leans her head against my shoulder. I press my mouth into her hair.
