Chapter 74 Split line

Chapter 74 Split line

The noise of the arcade behind us seems to double in volume, shrieking from a hunting simulator drilling into the back of my skull. Right before Chloe stepped out from the shadow of the ticket kiosk, a group of kids had swarmed the machine, forcing Jackson to reach back blindly and catch my hand to pull me through the bottleneck. Our fingers are still locked together, his thumb pressed hard against my knuckles, when her voice hits us again.

Chloe’s eyes drop instantly. Her gaze tracking down the black sleeve of his sweatshirt, follows the line of his arm, and stops dead where his hand is wrapped around mine.

Our hands rip apart so fast the metal tooth of my cardigan zipper scratches the back of my wrist, leaving a burning red line across the skin. Jackson steps to the right, his boots making a sticky, tearing sound against the theater tile. His arms drop straight to his sides, his fists clenching deep inside the pockets of his hoodie.

"I didn't even see you there," Jackson says, his voice dropping into drawl. He looks at the gold logo on Chloe’s white wool coat. "Someone bumped into me from the simulator line. I thought it was Caleb." He explains why we are holding hands.

"I was just trying to get to the trash can," I say quickly, my voice high and thin. I step back until my shoulder hits the plastic frame of a movie poster display. "The crowd by the doors has brought darkness. I didn't see what I was holding or where I was stepping."

Chloe doesn't move. She stands still in her white coat, her fingers tightening around the rim of her popcorn bucket until the cardboard creases under her nails. She looks at me, her eyes moving slowly from my wet boots, up the faded hem of my gray cardigan, to the place where my hair is damp from the sleet in a way that makes my skin pricke.

"You're a long way from the valley, Maya," she says, her tone conversational. "I didn't think anyone from the lower lane came up to the Oakhaven plaza on a Tuesday."

"My mom had a prescription to pick up at the regional clinic down the road," I lie, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can think them through. My heart is hammering so hard against my ribs I'm certain she can see the fabric of my shirt moving. "The bus doesn't run back through the pass until five, so I came inside to stay out of the sleet."

Chloe turns her head back to Jackson, her blonde layers shifting smoothly over her shoulders. She arches an eyebrow. "And what about you? You told me you were staying in the locker room until six for the defensive tape review with the coach."

Jackson stands with his chin tucked into his collar, his expression blank.

"Coach canceled the second half of the tape because the projector bulb blew out," Jackson says flatly. "The guys went over to the diner by the rink, but I didn't want to sit in the booth for two hours. I drove out here to kill time before the evening skate."

"By yourself?" Chloe asks.

"Yeah," he says. "I was just walking out to the truck when the line for the racing game backed up into the corridor."

Chloe looks between the two of us again. The silence stretching out.

She takes a slow breath, her chest rising under the white wool. When she speaks, her voice is lower, directed at Jackson.

"My mom and I are meeting your father at the country club at seven, Jackson," she says, her fingers loosening on the popcorn bucket, smoothing out the creased cardboard. "Arthur said he wanted us to review the seating chart for the post-qualifier dinner on Friday. You're supposed to be at the head table with me."

Jackson’s jaw tightens, a small muscle under his ear twitching twice before he forces his face back into stillness.

"I remember," Jackson says.

"Good," Chloe says, a tight smile appearing on her lips that doesn't reach her eyes. She steps to the side, clearing the path toward the glass exit doors, but her shoulder stays close enough to Jackson’s that their sleeves brush. "Because your dad called my house twice this morning to make sure you weren't skipping the practice roster. He’s very particular about the Friday schedule."

"I'm going to the truck now," Jackson says. He finally looks down at me for a fraction of a second, his grey eyes empty of the warmth they held in the theater.
"Excuse me."

"I need to check the bus sign anyway," I say to the room in general, my hands trembling as I pull my backpack straps tight against my shoulders.
I don't wait for either of them to answer. I step around Chloe, my gray sleeve avoiding her white coat, and walk quickly toward the doors.

Outside, the rain has turned into a freezing drizzle, the grey sky lowering until it touches the tops of the pine trees surrounding the plaza. I walk down the asphalt lane, my sneakers soaking through as I walk through the slushy puddles between the rows of parked cars. My chest feels tight, like a band of iron is wrapped around my lungs, the gray illusion of the Crestview library and the three-hour horizon vanishing under the yellow glare of the parking lot lights.

I reach the blue plastic bus shelter at the edge of the highway. The bench is wet from the blowing mist, so I stand against the cracked plexiglass wall, my teeth chattering as the wind comes howling down the valley pass.

My phone buzzes in my cardigan pocket.

I pull it out with numb, clumsy fingers. The screen is wet from the drizzle clinging to my skin. There is a text notification, followed instantly by a banking application alert.

Account Update: Interac e-Transfer received from J. Thorne. $150.00.

Below the alert, the text message reads:
The blue cab company is parked behind the grocery store next to the theater. Don't wait for the bus in this. Call them right now.

A second text arrives two seconds later:
I'm sorry i had to leave you. I'll call you when she goes home. Do not go to Raph's until I call you.

I look at the small digital numbers on the screen until they blur. The one fifty dollars, sitting in my phone, more than enough to pay for a private ride all the way back to the valley lane without having to sit on the cold vinyl seat of the 8:10 PM bus for an hour. It’s efficient. It’s calculated. It’s exactly how Jackson operates when the floor starts to cave in around us.

I look back toward the theater lobby glass. Through the yellow tint of the windows, I can see the white shape of Chloe’s coat moving toward the concession stand, and the tall, black-hooded silhouette of Jackson walking three steps behind her, his hands in his pockets, his head down as he follows her lead.

I clear the screen with my thumb, log into the transit application, and dial the number for the local dispatch. My voice sounds cracked and small against the roar of the logging trucks passing on the highway, but I give the man the coordinates for the blue shelter and wait under the plastic roof for the headlamps to appear through the grey dark.