Page 77 of Tar City
I pour the coffee. The smell alone is enough to make my eyes water. One sip confirms my suspicions. “Right,” I mutter, pouring the entire mug down the sink.Okay, so I don’t know everything about Jax.He can’t make coffee. Noted. I’ll add it to the file. Weaknesses: coffee, sentimentality, and the fact he thinks I’m a fool who can’t see right through him.
I find a bagel, slather it with butter, and eat it leaning against the counter. I take the damn pill, swallowing it dry before limping back to the bedroom.
Scotch pads after me, his nails clicking on the floor like he’s been assigned to surveillance. The dog’s a disaster zone. Kibble is sprayed around his bowl like he detonated a small, brown food bomb. I actually consider cleaning it up for a second, then I remember who his owner is. Let Jax deal with it. He can snap his fingers or twitch his nose or whatever the hell he does to make things vanish.
I bypass the bed entirely, sinking onto the floor instead. The pill is a lump in my throat, the caffeine is a distant promise, my ankle is a dull, persistent ache, and my hair is probably a disaster. But everything can wait. He wants to play bartender and hide? Fine. Let him.I’ve got my own work to do.
I open the first journal, feeling the thrill of an exciting, guilty pleasure. I’m pretty sure this counts as crossing a line—a big one—but my boundaries are a little blurry right now, and it’s time I got my hands dirty.
I pick a used notebook from the top of the stack and flip a few pages in, scanning random lines. Observations. Fragmented thoughts. Sketches of memory. A list of things that don’t make sense about the tar.
And then, about a third of the way through, there’s something different. The handwriting changes, the jagged scrawl smoothing out into something almost graceful. It’s a poem.
When her lips crashed mine,
it wasn’t sugar.
Just a sweetness
that tasted like poison
to my bitterness.
When her lips crashed mine,
I stopped running.
The ache paused.
The noise quieted.
And for one second?—
one fragile damn second
in this fucked-up world?—
I might’ve actually mattered.
When her lips crashed mine
it wasn’t just about hiding.
It was about being seen.
And in saving her?—
I saved me.
I blink and I blink. I press the notebook to my heart, a useless gesture, like I can somehow absorb the words and the pain behind them.
“Oh, Jax…” I whisper. Scotch presses his head against my side. I bury my fingers in his fur, the soft warmth a small comfort against the sudden, overwhelming tenderness swelling in my chest.
A photo slips from between the pages and lands at my feet—our graduation picture. There’s Jax, all light and easy smiles, and beside him, me, looking like a ghost. He was so handsome then, so full of life, so unbroken. I used to think I was the darkness to his light, but now I can’t tell if the roles have reversed, or if I just dragged him into the dark with me.
I take a breath, steadying myself, and turn the page.
Another poem.
