Fallout Dreams

mia 06

the girl sitting across from nolan looked so much like ava that he double checked her moles to be certain it was his girlfriend. slouching spine, glassy eyes; she was hugging her own chest and probably didn't realize it.

"it's that time of year," the waitress said, nodding to the rain and oblivious to the tension between her only two patrons. "tornado warnings twice a week 'til june. can i get y'all anything else?"

"we're good," nolan said. "thanks."

the urge to crawl across the table and hold mia was tremendous. he didn't care anymore if she was real or fake or somewhere between. he loved her... and he wanted to say it.

instead, he listened to her story about black paint and creepy diaries and hand prints that didn't belong, scrambling to answer her questions in whatever way seemed to put her at ease.

"the handprint," she said. "nobody's been to the house since ava painted her room."

"there are a million explanations."

"like what?"

"maybe she made a stencil of a hand and painted it herself. or maybe she IS seeing someone and wants to keep it a secret. for all we know, he could be good for her!"

a man pushed through the glass doors in storm-soaked hoodie and jeans. he left a trail of mud from the doors to the table just behind mia.

she didn't seem to notice the man, but tightened her arms across her chest and kept her gaze on her untouched toast.

"i don't want to be a jerk," nolan continued, "but isn't it possible you saw it wrong? you said you were scared. it was dark—"

"i thought it would validate my fear if i found out she had a boyfriend... i thought it would prove i'm not batshit crazy like she is..."

"ava's an artist, mi. she was already special, delicate, and vulnerable... and all those mixed-up traits were probably multiplied a thousand times over by her brush with death. honestly, she probably needs someone to watch over her... someone to inspire her while also keeping her grounded."

the waitress pranced from the kitchen with a toothy smile to take the man's order. "well howdy, mister!" she said, more giggle than words.

"i can't go back to that house..." mia said.

"that's why we're here," nolan replied, still watching the waitress over mia's shoulder. the woman's smile was replaced with burning cheeks and lips sealed like a zip-lock bag. she turned from the man—arms stiff and fingers splayed—and plodded to the kitchen with her head down.

"what do i do?" mia asked, recapturing nolan's attention.

"i think she needs to talk with someone."

"she's been seeing a therapist since the accident."

"then maybe something... more extreme."

mia shook her head. "she's not going to a loony bin."

"you can always call for an in-home consultation."

mia loosened the grip on her torso and pressed her thumbs into her eyes. "i did this to her."

"gary's death did this."

she moved her thumbs to her temples. "no..."

"the car accident, then."

she scrunched her eyes and dug her nails into her face. "yeah... and i caused it."

"how? you told me you were throwing up at the dance."