Drop Off The Key

"I just thought since you're working the night shift, I'd tag along. Get out of the house."

He shrugged. "Whatever."

"I can come over to your place after, if you want."

"How are you gonna get from downtown back to my place? I'm not coming to pick you up."

"I could take a cab."

"Gonna be an expensive cab ride."

I shrugged. "I'll just make this my last pack of smokes for this paycheque and think about getting my license, then."

He waved at his coworker and pointed to the door, then the till. His coworker nodded, no words needed to convey the message. Going for a smoke. You watch the front.

I followed Wyatt out of the store and around the corner of the building to the dilapidated bench and old coffee can that served as an ashtray. He lit both of the cigarettes he'd taken from my pack and handed one to me.

"Where did you get your driver's license at?" I asked after taking a drag. "Maybe I'll go next weekend."

"You don't need to. I can drive you around. I just hate driving downtown."

He touched my hand as we smoked, twining his fingers in mine. I sat back against the bench, holding his hand quietly. Things were good, I told myself. Wyatt could be crass or rude sometimes, but he was mostly good. He cared. He did drive me around a lot, after all. I'd never bothered getting my license as a teenager, and I had meant to once I moved into the city. Wyatt never seemed to mind driving, though, and it just never seemed to matter that I couldn't.

"Tell you what," Wyatt said as he flicked his butt into the coffee can. "Give me a kiss and let me bum another couple smokes off you and I'll pick you up after work."

I smiled, kissed him, and got him to sell me another pack before I gave him the one I'd just bought.

**

I took my phone out when I felt it vibrate without thinking. Before I could even read the message on the lock screen, Jacquie had plucked it from my hands.

"Hey!"

"We said no phones!" She pulled it back as I lurched across the table.

"It was just a habit. Can I have it back, please?"

"Nope. It's mine now."

Krista laughed. "You're going to be a great teacher, Jacquie."

Jacquie again jerked the phone out of my reach as I tried to grab it, passing it to Anne-Marie as Krista howled. My face turned red as I snatched nothing but air from her hand.

"We're here to watch the show, not to text our boyfriends," Jacquie said sternly.

"The show hasn't started yet."

"Not the point."

Anne-Marie cleared her throat. "Um, maybe you actually should read the message."

She looked up from my phone and handed it to me, her eyes apologetic. Glancing down, I felt what little happiness I had left drain from my body.

Going for drinks after work. Can't drive you home.

"Great." I tried to smile and slid the phone back in my pocket without responding.

"What is it?" Jacquie asked.

"You just said we're not—"

"Ohmigod, I know what I just said, but now I want to know what Wyatt said."

I tried to ignore the fact that she'd just assumed no one besides Wyatt would be texting me. I mean, it was true—everyone else I texted was standing at the table with me—but it still bothered me.

"He can't give me a ride home."

"Just take a cab."

I nodded, still miserable, and Krista rolled her eyes.

"What's wrong now?"

"Oh, I just spent the money I was going to use for a cab on a pack of cigarettes that I then gave to Wyatt so now I'm kind of stranded, you condescending bitch," is what someone braver than me might have said. Instead, I just shook my head.

"Nothing. I'm going to get another... um, a glass of water."

I turned from the table without saying anything further. As I waited in line at the bar, I glanced back at the table just in time to see Jacquie wave excitedly at someone. She pointed, the three of them picked up their drinks, and before they'd fully disappeared into the crowd, another group of people took over the table.

There was a bar stool open near the end of the bar. Once the bartender took notice of me and I got my glass of water, I went and sat on it to text Wyatt back.

Okay. I don't really have a plan B... do you think maybe I could borrow a few bucks for the cab?

Sorry. Don't get paid till next Thursday.

Okay... I'm kind of in a pinch here.

What, you can go out on a Saturday night and I can't?

I didn't mean it like that.

Just ask your dad for some money. Dunno what your hangup is but get over it.

He knew exactly what my hangup was on asking my dad for money, and it stung that he'd throw it in my face like that. Before I could process it completely, the bartender slid a bottle of Heineken he'd just opened in front of me.

"I didn't order—"

"It's from me."

I turned my head and inhaled ever-so-slightly as I looked into eyes that were almost as green as the beer bottle in front of me.

Up close, the too-muchness of her was even brighter. A smirk danced across her lips as I stared, my mouth suddenly dry, my face glowing as brightly as the flashing lights that danced across the fog in the bar.

"Usually people say thank you," she said after a moment.

"Oh, I, um..." I licked my lips, trying to get some moisture back into my mouth. "Thank you. I just, I can't... take this. I'm not gay. And I have a boyfriend."

She shrugged, resting an elbow against the bar.

"Not too hung up on that. I just like meeting people."

"Oh." I thought for a moment, then smiled and took the beer. "Well, thank you."

She clinked her own drink against my glass. "I'm Bretta."

"Leigh."

"You didn't want to dance with your friends?"

She tilted her head towards the dance floor. I followed her gaze to see the three people I'd arrived with dancing, carefree and laughing, not even noticing I wasn't with them.

"I don't really dance," I said.

She snorted. "You're not a very good liar."

How she knew about the pang of sadness, the longing to go and join the group and have fun and let loose that overtook me, was beyond me. I shrugged half-heartedly and looked back at my phone.

"Who're you texting that's making you so unhappy? The boyfriend?"

My eyes widened, probably comically, at her bluntness. Her head tilted back as one of those loud, spreading gales of laughter burst forth.

"I, um... sorry, but I just met you," I said softly.

She shrugged again, still chuckling.

"Like I said, I like meeting people, hearing their stories. You've been here two weeks in a row, your friends keep taking off without you, you're staring sadly at your phone at the bar instead of dancing. Then you tell me you're not gay, which just raises more questions. Tell me your story, Leigh."

My head was still spinning.

"You knew I was here before?"

She laughed again. "I don't think I've ever seen someone's face turn quite that shade of red."

I'm sure it turned a very similar shade of red before she stopped laughing again.

"I didn't mean to stare," I said. "You just looked like you were having fun."

"I always have fun." She took a sip of her drink and nudged the bottom of my beer bottle. "So, what's making you so sad, Leigh?"

I shrugged.

"Nothing, really. My boyfriend just decided to go out tonight and I'm trying to figure out how to get home."

"That's not the whole story."

"Well, I just... I'm a little strapped for cash, and he doesn't get paid until next week, so I used the money I was going to use for a cab to buy him a pack of cigarettes."

"Ew. Do you smoke?"

I blushed again and she laughed.

"All good. I'm not going to lecture you. I quit last year. I get how it is."

I smiled at her gratefully. "Thanks. I know it's... it's stupid."

"That's still not the whole story, though."

"How would you know?"

She grinned, her teeth flashing in the dim light of the bar. "You've got something hidden in those eyes."

The way she leaned in as she said it made my breath hitch. I wasn't used to people seeing things in my eyes. I wasn't used to people even noticing me, and yet there stood Bretta, her spotlight laser-focused on me.

"He, um, told me to ask my dad for money."

Bretta clicked her tongue. "And there it is. So what's the story with daddy?"

I shrugged. "He just has his new family now. I don't like to, you know, ask for much."

It took a bit for me to admit the real problem, which was that my dad's new wife already hated the fact that he paid for my tuition. He made enough money that I'd barely qualified for a student loan, which was long gone on books and rent, but Sharon hated my dad spending any money on the reminder of his ex-wife.

It didn't help that I looked like her. Without some major reconstructive surgery, I was always going to have my mom's cheekbones and face shape. I could cut my hair to my chin as I always did, but it would still be the same shade of red that hers was. I couldn't change my height or my build, couldn't control the fact that I shared the same lips as she had. If it weren't for the fact that I had my dad's eyes, she probably would have questioned if I was even his kid at all.

Well, I had his eyes and his DNA, which the test had proved conclusively when my parents had divorced.

We never talked about the test. He'd never questioned it in front of me, never said that he suspected he wasn't my real dad. It was only when we were at the appointment that my mom told me why they had to swab my cheek. When the results came back, she showed them to me, then forwarded them to her lawyer.

Two months later, she was living overseas and I was living with my dad. A month after that, Sharon moved in. The following year, she'd had the twins, two years after that, my half-sister. She was never unkind to me... but she was never exactly kind, either.

My siblings were much younger than me, so when I left for university, the twins were just starting kindergarten. Sharon had fought with my dad about paying my tuition, insisting that he should be saving the money for their kids—since I wasn't theirs, I was just his—but my dad had cut the cheque without so much as entertaining her arguments.

Bretta listened as I told the story, bits and pieces at first until I was talking without her prompting me for more information. I wasn't sure exactly how she got me to open up like that, but before I knew it, she had waved the bartender down for another round of drinks and bought me a second beer.

"So you have these family issues, and your boyfriend... what's his name?"

"Wyatt."

"Wyatt tells you, knowing full well that it's a sore spot, to ask your dad for money instead of coming to get you?"

I knew where she was going and I shook my head.

"It's not like that. He... Wyatt's a good guy."

"Is he, though?"

"Yes." I stared at her defiantly.

She met my eyes for a moment before another sharp laugh burst from her lungs. "Tell me about Wyatt. How'd you meet?"

"He works at a convenience store near my apartment. I got lost when I first moved in and he walked me home."

"That's not so bad, I guess. He's a student, too?"

I shook my head. "He's one of the night managers, though. Or, well, assistant managers."

The laughter faded first from her eyes, then from her lips as I talked about Wyatt.

"He talks to you how?" she blurted at one point.

I blushed, squirming nervously on the bar stool. She leaned in closer and suddenly we weren't in a bar anymore; the world only existed between her and me. Her eyes were intense, pools of green that penetrated past my pupils and into my heart.

"You know that's not normal, right?"

"It's not... I mean, I just..."

"He's got to at least be good in bed, right?" she asked.

"Um, well..."

"Jesus Christ, Leigh."

"I don't know many people here."

"Ditch his ass. You'll meet someone else. At least it's only been a couple of months," she said.

I must have looked confused because she chuckled again.

"I mean, since you started school and met your boyfriend. Still lots of time to make friends."

"Oh."

Bretta frowned. "I mean, you're what, eighteen?"

I could feel my cheeks reddening again. "Um... I mean, I moved here when I was eighteen."

"And now you're...?"

"Twenty-one."

Bretta gaped at me, lips parted comically as she stared.

"Girl." The disbelief spilled from her like water across the bar. "You've been with that asshole for three years?"

"He's not—"

"Do you love him?"

I didn't answer.

"You've been together three years. Why aren't you living together?"

I shifted again on the stool. I didn't owe her anything; I'd only just met her. I didn't have to justify Wyatt to her.

There was just something about Bretta. She was too much; she was more than I could handle. She had noticed me—me, of all people—and wanted to know about my life. No one ever wanted to know more about me.

"We... I'm still in school. I gave him a key to my apartment, and I have one to his."

She snorted, unconvinced, and jerked her head in the direction of the dance floor. "And those girls, you met them through him? Three years and that's... do you have any other friends?"

The words stung and I felt heat rise in my cheeks again.

"Please tell me you see there's a problem, Leigh. Your boyfriend is... I mean, calling him mediocre would be giving him too much credit. He's manipulative and he's horrible to you! And your 'friends,' as you call them? They're—"

"Yes, okay?" I hissed.

Tears sprung in my eyes and I tightened my fingers around the beer bottle, staring down at it and willing myself not to cry. Even as she spoke, her words harsh and blunt and far too forward for someone I'd literally just met, I couldn't hold it against her. Every bit of it was true, and every bit of it was a truth I'd been avoiding.

Bretta stared silently at me until I had composed myself. When I finally looked back at her, the sympathetic pity in her eyes made me want to cry all over again.

"I get it," I said. "I'm pathetic."

"You are not pathetic."

"You don't need to rub it in. But Wyatt... he's not that bad."

"You keep telling yourself that."

"If it's such a problem, what am I supposed to do?" I asked her. "Those are my friends. That's all I have. And he... he helps me. My... three years, I'm supposed to, what, just... break up with him?"

She leaned in closer, face stoic and sincere.

"Let me help you."

"I don't know what to do," I said.

My heart ached. Hard, slow, pounding heartbeats nearly shook my body as I processed Bretta's words.

"The problem is all inside your head," she said to me. "The answer is there, too. It's easy. You just have to think logically."

"How would you know? You don't know me."

"Look, I hate to... I dunno, intrude or whatever. Don't take this the wrong way, but there's gotta be like... at least fifty ways you could leave that son-of-a-bitch. I mean, shit. Go to his place, get your stuff, and slip out the back door while he's sleeping. That'd be better than he even deserves."

"He's... he's all I have. We had... have... we have a future. We have plans."

"Make a new plan." Her eyes seemed to flicker, flames hidden beneath the green irises.

"That's easier said than done."

"Why?"

"What if I don't... want to? What if it, you know, makes him sad?"

She rolled her eyes, that smirk crossing her lips again.

"After all the shit he's done to you, you don't need to be coy about it. Kick his ass to the curb and set yourself free."

My heart was pounding, a steady, firm drumbeat underlining each of her words. I was almost light-headed, her intense eyes focused on mine as she leaned in close.

"I can't," I whispered. "Bretta, it's... what about... I mean, I don't even have a driver's license."

"Take the bus."

"What am I supposed to tell him?"

"Tell him? It's not a conversation. You don't have much to discuss with him. He's a dick, you deserve better."

"And what if I don't?"

"If you don't break up with him—"

"No." I bit my lip, the drumming of my heart fading to a low pulse. "What if I don't deserve better?"

"You do."

Her face was so close to mine. When had she leaned in so far? I could almost feel her breath escaping between parted lips, brushing against my face, a soft citrusy scent filling my nose. For a long moment, I stared into those green eyes, frozen, dangling on the edge of something that didn't make sense.

Then she blinked, a wide grin spread across her face, and she pulled back. I shook off the moment as she pulled out her wallet, took twenty dollars out, and thrust it into my hand.

"Here. Get a cab. Go to his place, right now, and drop off the key, Leigh."

I tried to shove the money back at her, but she turned on a heel, a cackling laugh cutting through the sudden roar of the bar that rushed back into my ears.

"I don't need—"

"Get yourself free, girl! It was nice to meet you!"

She disappeared into a throng of people and I sat in shock, staring after her for long after she'd walked away.

**

Wyatt's face was twisted in shock.

"You are not," he said.

My jaw trembled but I clenched it, nodding shakily.

"Y-Yes I am."

A cigarette hung from his fingers, ash clinging desperately to the tip as it burned forgotten.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Leigh? You're breaking up with me?"

I folded my arms across my chest.

It had been a week since the whirlwind night that I'd met Bretta and she'd convinced me I could do better than Wyatt. I had used the money for the cab to go to Wyatt's, but I couldn't just drop off the key.

No, after letting myself into the apartment, Wyatt had woken up. He was sleeping on the couch, not in his bed, and grinned brightly when he caught sight of me.

"Hey, baby!"

His words were slurred, still semi-drunk, but he was just... he was so happy to see me. And despite the resolution I thought I'd had after my conversation with Bretta, I had caved as soon as he wrapped his arms around me.

He'd made a show of going down on me, something he only ever even tried to do when he was drunk. I didn't have the heart to tell him the only reason I was "so wet" was because he'd slobbered everywhere. When he pulled himself away from my pussy, he kissed me sloppily as he pushed his cock inside me.

And of course I didn't come, but my heart did swell as he murmured in my ear about how good I felt. When he came, he groaned, resting heavily against my body as he spilled inside me.

"You make me so happy," he mumbled, and kissed me again before rolling off and falling asleep.

I lay awake beside him for a long time, Bretta's words echoing and fading until I was embarrassed that I'd considered leaving Wyatt because a stranger told me to.

Still, throughout the week, a melancholy haze grew around me. It was little things, at first. Wyatt commenting on how much I ate at lunch one day. Wyatt opening my cigarettes and helping himself without asking. Wyatt unabashedly staring at a woman in a tight dress that stumbled into the convenience store while we were sitting on the bench smoking on his break one night.

Each little thing was accompanied by the reverberations of Bretta's voice, stronger and louder each time.

Get yourself free, girl.

The final straw was when I brought up getting my license again.

"You'll probably fail the test anyway," he said as we sat on his patio, smoking. "It's just a waste of money."

I stared at the cigarette between my fingers, only half-smoked. A wave of nausea passed over my body and I wrinkled my nose, butting it out and standing up.

"We should break up," I said.

The statement surprised me almost as much as it surprised Wyatt.

"What?"

"I'm breaking up with you."

It wasn't until he started begging that I lost my nerve.

"Come on. Let's talk about this." The ash dropped from his cigarette onto the patio as he spoke. "What's this really about? Because I don't think you need your driver's license?"