Walking Disaster

eye. “Did I ever tell you how much I
loathe
that word?”
    “Sorry,” I said, pulling her into my side. I lit a cigarette and took a deep breath, turning over my hand. The delicate but thick black lines of ink weaved together to form
Pigeon
. “How weird is it that this tat isn’t just my new favorite, but it makes me feel at ease to know it’s there?”
    “Pretty weird,” Abby said. I shot her a look, and she laughed. “I’m kidding. I can’t say I understand it, but it’s sweet . . . in a Travis Maddox sort of
way.”
    “If it feels this good to have this on my arm, I can’t imagine how it’s going to feel to get a ring on your finger.”
    “Travis . . .”
    “In four, or maybe five years,” I said, inwardly cringing that I went that far.
    Abby took a breath. “We need to slow down. Way, way down.”
    “Don’t start this, Pidge.”
    “If we keep going at this pace, I’m going to be barefoot and pregnant before I graduate. I’m not ready to move in with you, I’m not ready for a ring, and I’m
certainly not ready to settle down.”
    I gently cupped her shoulders. “This isn’t the ‘I wanna see other people’ speech, is it? Because I’m not sharing you. No fucking way.”
    “I don’t want anyone else,” she said, exasperated.
    I relaxed and released her shoulders, turning to grip the railing. “What are you saying, then?” I asked, terrified of her answer.
    “I’m saying we need to slow down. That’s
all
I’m saying.”
    I nodded, unhappy.
    Abby reached for my arm. “Don’t be mad.”
    “It seems like we take one step forward and two steps back, Pidge. Every time I think we’re on the same page, you put up a wall. I don’t get it . . . most girls are hounding
their boyfriends to get serious, to talk about their feelings, to take the next step . . .”
    “I thought we established that I’m not
most girls
?”
    I dropped my head, frustrated. “I’m tired of guessing. Where do you see this going, Abby?”
    She pressed her lips against my shirt. “When I think about my future, I see you.”
    I hugged her to my side, every muscle in my body immediately relaxing with her words. We both watched the night clouds move across the starless, black sky. The laughter and humming of the voices
below sparked a smile across Abby’s face. I watched the same partygoers she did, huddling together and rushing into the house from the street.
    For the first time that day, the ominous feeling hovering over me began to fade away.
    “Abby! There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!” America said, bursting through the door. She held up her cell phone. “I just got off the phone with my dad.
Mick called them last night.”
    Abby’s nose wrinkled. “Mick? Why would he call them?”
    America raised her eyebrows. “Your mother kept hanging up on him.”
    “What did he want?”
    America pressed her lips together. “To know where you were.”
    “They didn’t tell him, did they?”
    America’s face fell. “He’s your father, Abby. Dad felt he had a right to know.”
    “He’s going to come here,” Abby said, her voice swelling with panic. “He’s going to come here, Mare!”
    “I know! I’m sorry!” America said, trying to comfort her friend. Abby pulled away from her and covered her face with her hands.
    I wasn’t sure what the hell was going on, but I touched Abby’s shoulders. “He won’t hurt you, Pigeon,” I said. “I won’t let him.”
    “He’ll find a way,” America said, watching Abby with heavy eyes. “He always does.”
    “I have to get out of here.” Abby pulled her coat tight, and then pulled at the handles of the French doors. She was too upset to slow down long enough to first push down the handles
before pulling the doors. As tears fell down her cheeks, I covered her hands with mine. After helping her open the doors, Abby looked at me. I wasn’t sure if her cheeks were flush with
embarrassment or from the cold, but all I wanted was to make it go away.
    I took Abby under my arm, and together we went through the house, down the stairs and through the crowd to the front door. Abby moved quickly, desperate to get to the safety of the apartment. I
had only heard about Mick Abernathy’s accolades as a poker player from my father. Watching Abby run like a frightened little girl made me hate any time my family wasted being in awe of
him.
    Midstep, America’s hand shot out and grabbed Abby’s coat. “Abby!” she whispered, pointing to