Page 45 of These Tears

I let the big envelope slide carefully onto the passenger seat.

Just one more day won’t hurt, I tell myself.

One more day for a letter that probably won’t come.

One more day before I choose the future over the past and the tattered present.

The pavement is wet enough to mirror the postbox in warped red smears. I cross towards it before I can talk myself out of it, Elias’ letter pinched so tightly between my fingers that the corner bends.

I hold it over the slot. My pulse batters against my eardrums until the rest of the street falls away.

And I release my hold on it one finger at a time.

It’s that feeling of letting go that pulls me apart.

Beside me, laughter scrapes against brick.

I turn, glancing just enough to see two men huddled by the wall near the corner shop. Smoke rolls around their faces, leather jackets dulled with grime and rain. One has his shoulder pressed to the bricks. The other lifts his cigarette, but his eyes—

They’re on me.

I catch his gaze.

He doesn’t look away.

My lungs stall.

A car beeps beside me, and the blare punches the air back into my chest. The postbox gives one last metallic tremor around what I’ve just surrendered.

My keys are already in my hand before I remember reaching for them, each edge biting into my palm as my shoes slap the pavement quickly towards the car.

The men’s voices drop behind me. I don’t turn, but I don’t need to. I can hear their footsteps just fine.

Another laugh trails after me, and I slide behind the wheel and lock the doors so quickly the sound cracks through the car.

I just sit there at first, breathing through my nose, my fingers still clenched around the keys I’ve jammed into the ignition.

It’s nothing.

My imagination has a bite today, that’s all.

I am not hearing Conall’s warnings in my head. I am not thinking about Elias telling me to stay away. I am not wondering about the common denominator of both.

Pressing my palm to my chest, I try to will the frantic thing inside it to slow. But then movement catches in the rear-view mirror.

The two men peel away from the pavement and climb into a dented grey car parked two spaces behind mine.

Rain descends suddenly, like a punishment, lashing across the windscreen hard enough to blur the street into streaks of silver, but not enough to hide the shape of them still sitting there.

Their engine doesn’t start.

My throat narrows until breath is scarce. I snatch my phone from my pocket, my thumb jabbing at Conall’s name hard enough to hear the echo of the tap.

It rings and rings.

The car behind me remains dark.

And motionless.