Chapter 81. Accountability

Chapter 81. Accountability
The half-pipe under the expressway was lousy with graffiti and broken bottles—perfect match for my headspace. I sat on the coping, bandaged hand cradled in my hoodie pocket, watching skaters ghost by like time-lapse shadows. One more quiet place to pretend the world had stopped spinning.
“Oi, Kelly!”
I didn’t need to turn; the voice was lime-green and bubble-gum all at once. Kira Malone—my favorite neon disaster—was striding across the cracked concrete, hair dyed in a purple-to-electric-green melt that glowed beneath the sodium lamps. Silver hoops winked from her brows, flat-back studs dotted both ears, and her jacket looked like someone had skinned a highlighter pack and stitched it into vinyl.
She plopped down beside me, board clacking. “Word is you’re ghosting school, smashing faces, and letting The Girl slip away. Thought I’d check whether you’d swallowed a whole stupid pill or just half.”
We’d dated all of three chaotic weeks last spring, combusted in record time, and somehow stumbled into an almost-friendship built on mutual heckling.
I grunted. “Nice to see you too.”
Kira produced a can of rainbow seltzer from her backpack, cracked it open with her teeth, then passed it. “Hydrate. You look like a dehydrated cactus.”
“I’m fine,” I muttered, but took a sip anyway—blood-orange fizz stinging the cut on my lip.
Kira’s mismatched eyes (brown left, hazel right—courtesy of one tinted contact) pinned me. “So. Emma Turner. Quiet plant nerd, killer smile. You in, or are you planning to fuck it up a fourth time?”
My stomach dipped. Of course Kira knew—Kira knew everything about anyone vaguely queer within a ten-mile radius. “I…already fucked it up.”
She snorted, neon bangs bouncing. “You’re talking past tense while the girl’s still breathing. Classic self-sabotage.” She flicked my bandaged knuckles. “What’d the wall ever do to you?”
“Wasn’t a wall.” I exhaled. “Guy said something nasty. I reacted.”
“Ah, violence: the language of dudes who can’t process feelings.” She raised pierced brows. “You realize you’re not a dude, right?”
I flinched. The guilt will never heal if people keep poking it. Kira softened—well, as much as a human rave light can soften.
“Didn’t think you still cared.”
“I don’t,” she said lightly, then cocked her head. “I came because I ran into Lara. She can’t shut up about your plant-genius girlfriend in bed with the flu and how tragic it is you’re MIA. She says Emma’s been out sick all week—fever, nightmares, the works. So here I am—community service.”
I flinched at girlfriend, unsure if the label hurt more for its accuracy or its fragility. Stomach drop. I’d spent the same week bouncing between rage, silence, and exactly zero attempts to check on Emma beyond that pathetic ‘glad ur okay’ text.
“Emma’s not— It’s complicated.”
“Uh-huh.” Kira shook her index finger. “You ghost a girl who says she loves you, brawl at a party, end up in cuffs, and call that complicated?” She tapped my knee. “That’s not complicated, Kelly. That’s self-sabotage on speed dial.”
I bristled. “Did Lara ask you to give me the TED talk?”
“No—she’s busy hovering over Petri dishes and flirting with your fever-kid. I came because once upon a mess I actually liked you, and maybe you need someone who isn’t afraid of your hurricane routine to say this out loud: You’re about to lose the best thing that’s happened to you if you keep playing storm-cloud martyr.”
Her words punched air from my lungs. I focused on the seltzer in my hand. “Emma deserves steady. I’m not steady. I tried fixing things. Locked her in the car, begged her not to leave…” The words sounded uglier out loud than in my head.
Kira’s neon nails drummed the board. “Kiddo, consent isn’t just for sex. You trap someone in a car, you prove their worst fear: that loving you means losing doors.”
Kira snorted. “Newsflash: steady doesn’t mean perfect. It means showing up. Lara shows up with soup and spreadsheets—A-plus bedside manner—but she doesn’t light Emma’s eyes the way you do. She loves you. Everyone sees it. Except you. Even Lara, and trust me, that girl doesn’t credit emotions unless they’re chartable data.”
Heat flushed my cheeks. “She said it once. I panicked.”
“And then locked her in a car.” Kira’s eyebrow rose so high it nearly hit her bangs. “Look, I’m not Team Lara or Team Irene— but Emma’s been through enough jerks to fill a conference hall. If you’re going to be another, at least be honest about it. You think punching through walls proves you’re strong? Strength is owning the damage and fixing it before someone else bleeds. You’re a storm, Kelly. Everyone knows that. Emma’s…not. And she still chose to stand under your weather. That’s rare. You gonna let her drown out there alone?”
The half-pipe lights buzzed; somewhere a skater cursed at a missed landing. I rubbed my temple. “I want to change. I just don’t know how fast I can uproot everything.”
“Newsflash—she’s not asking for a personality transplant. She’s asking for accountability. She’s home sick, Irene. Vulnerable. Lara’s playing caretaker, and honestly? She’s good at it. You hand her this opportunity on a silver tray every day you stay silent. Try: ‘I’m sorry I scared you. I want to earn another chance. I’ll wait as long as you need.’ Then actually get help.”
I let that settle. Accountability, not fireworks. Slow seeds, like Emma’s plants.
Kira nudged my shoulder. “You’re losing a near-perfect girl to your own stupidity, Kelly. Perfect doesn’t mean flawless—it means perfect for you. She geeks out over chlorophyll; you pretend you don’t listen but quote her later. She bakes apology cupcakes; you inhale them even when you’re ‘too cool for sweets.’ That kind of perfect.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “You’ve been spying?”
“Call it extracurricular observing.” She stood, rolling her board under one sneaker. “Do the work: talk to her and give her an apology that isn’t wrapped in possessive sex. Then maybe—maybe—Emma takes another tour of Hurricane Irene.”
I flexed my bandaged hand. The gauze smelled faintly of antiseptic and shame. “What if she’s done?”
“Then you become a better human anyway. But at least you won’t wonder ‘what if’ every time you smell rosemary shampoo.”
That arrow hit dead-center. I swallowed. “Thanks, Kira.”
She saluted with two fingers, neon bracelets jingling. “Now quit bleeding ego and start bleeding honesty. And text me when you need someone to shout at who can shout back.”
She kicked off, neon streak surging down the concrete, laughter trailing behind like spray paint. I watched until she disappeared under the overpass lights.
Wind gusted—a chill November draft—smelling of river water and distant city pizza. I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over Emma’s thread.
Accountability. Not a cat meme. Not a plea.
I opened our dialogue and started typing.