The night was a blur of cold air and regret. Cherry walked the pavement, clutching the straps of her high heels, her long black sequin gown with the high slit fluttering against her legs. Her ten toes hit the ground, exposed and freezing. Tears had already done their work, carving two black mascara tracks down her cheeks like war paint.
She couldn't stop the flashback: Detective Monalisa snapping the metal cuffs onto her father's wrists. The way he glared at her—that look of pure, agonizing betrayal. He should've known she was siding with the police, but the reality was bloodier than the plan.
She had fired twice. One shot to his rib cage, the other to his chest. As the gun barked, Cherry had trembled, her hands flying to her lips to stifle a scream. She wanted to run to him, to hold him, but the official's voice on the radio stopped her cold.
"Hello, we need an ambulance pls hurry we got a suspect," he'd said, giving the address while Mr. Rodrick's injury was suppressed with a towel to slow the heavy bleeding.
Cherry didn't even remember exiting the building. She just found herself trekking toward her old neighborhood, sobbing openly. This wasn't the deal. Monalisa hadn't said it would end with her father being shot. If she'd known, she never would have gone through with it.
The Bar
The small light of a dive bar was the only thing illuminating the street. Inside, a 70s track played on the stereo—sad rhymes and slow vocals that made her heart ache even more. Most customers were gone, save for a wasted couple and a man smoking a cigarette whose stench filled the room.
The waitress, a middle-aged woman cleaning glasses, looked at Cherry. To her, Cherry probably looked like something out of a spooky movie—smeared makeup and evening wear in a place like this—but the glistening in her eyes proved she was just a girl who was broken.
"Are you okay?" the woman asked.
"Far from that," Cherry exhaled, sitting on a barstool.
A blue box of tissues was pushed toward her. "I will make you clean shots," the waitress offered. "That's the least I can do."
Even though Cherry usually dreaded alcohol, she nodded. "Thanks." She snorted into the tissues and cleared her throat as the woman grabbed a bottle of Jameson and lined up the shots.
The peace was broken when the lady at the other table yelled. Her friend had thrown up.
"Shit!!!" the waitress scoffed, serving Cherry her drinks before turning to the couple. "You better get the fuck up because you're ruining my night."
"He's drunk ma'am, help him home," the waitress intervened, but the woman spat back, "No way I'm touching him," and stormed out, leaving her snoring date behind.
"How much are these?" Cherry gestured to the row of shots.
"Two thousand. Cash or credit card."
Cherry pushed a note across the counter and swallowed two shots. The burn hit her throat, and she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to suppress the fire in her chest.
"You might want to slow down," the waitress warned.
"I can take care of myself... you sell food too?" Cherry asked sharply. The numbness was already starting to settle in, and she wanted it to stay.
"No food, but there's a pizza joint four blocks away," the woman said, her eyes shifting to the door.
Travis
Cherry followed the waitress's gaze and froze. Travis was walking toward the counter. Her heart raced, her lips parted in shock. She tried to look away, focused on her drinks, hoping he was just there for a random stop.
"You two know each other?" the nosey waitress asked.
"Yeah," they both chorused.
Travis sat on the stool next to her, his eyes locking onto hers. "You don't have to stop drinking because of me... two energy drinks please," he ordered.
"I'm fine and I didn't stop," Cherry snapped softly, gulping another shot.
"I don't think you're fine. Saw you walked in holding your shoes," Travis said. Cherry looked down at her bare feet on the stool and her heels lying on the floor.
He opened a cold Monster for her. She took it and gulped it in one go.
"Do you want anything before I get you a cab?" he offered.
"You don't have to, Travis. I can take care of myself."
"I'm not letting you go into the street alone. It's dangerous," he said, concern etching his face. He looked effortlessly good in his beanie, baggy pants, and slippers. Cherry felt a surge of anger. He'd ignored her for weeks at VHS, and now he was playing the protector.
"You can't be serious, Travis. You don't care about me."
"I didn't mean to upset you... I just want to take you home," he pressed.
"I don't want to go home!" Cherry flared up, the alcohol making her head fuzzy. She ordered another row.
"I think she's had enough," Travis shouted at the waitress, but the woman gave him a dead glare that made him back off.
"You don't have the right to babysit me," Cherry growled.
"I think he's right," the waitress chimed in, pointing at the drunk snoring on the table. "You don't want to end up like him."
Travis gave a smug smile. "You're unbelievable," Cherry shook her head.
"My mom is at work," Travis finally said, his voice softer. "You can sleep at my place if it's okay with you."
The Interior of the Glass House
Travis's mind was racing. He'd seen the campaign ads; he'd watched her leave the hall devastated. He'd been focused on her since his first week at school—her tidiness, her outfits. He even liked that she wrote about him.
"Why are you helping me? I thought you hated me," Cherry said, swaying on the stool.
"Why would I hate you? I'm trying to help," he managed to say, looking flustered. He led her out to his car.
Inside the expensive black leather interior, Cherry rested her head against the window. "What are you doing walking the street at this hour?" Travis asked. "He stood you up, didn't he?"
"It's not some guy. It's personal."
"Your girlfriend then? You can be Bi," he chuckled as they pulled up to a massive black gate.
"I'm not a lesbian, Travis."
The gate opened to a stunning, modern glass building. Cherry gasped. "Is this where you live?"
"My step-father does," he said shortly, taking her shoes before she could reach for them.
Inside, the luxury was overwhelming. Sculptures, a fountain with a glowing angel, and a pool reflected the light. Travis opened up about his dad—how he was a drunk and how his mom and lawyer step-dad had fought for custody.
"That must be hard on you," Cherry said, sinking into his king-sized bed. Travis began pulling out clothes for her—lotions, a gray polo, biker shorts.
"Get a shower. The water is warm. I'll get the pizza and ice cream," he said.
The Morning After
Cherry woke to the sun streaming through the window. She felt better, though the memory of her father still stung. She heard voices downstairs. Travis was arguing with his mother.
"Mom, what are you talking about? How long are you planning on staying?"
"God, honey! You act like you don't want us around."
Cherry walked down the stairs, catching the eye of Travis's mom—a beautiful woman with a massive diamond ring and 32-inch hair.
"Hi, didn't know you had a girl over," she smiled warmly.
"It's not what you think," Cherry said quickly.
"Travis, how about Cherry comes over for dinner next weekend?" his mom asked, packing her things for a trip to Cuba. Travis tried to argue, but she was already heading for the door. "Honey, do some shopping! Invite friends over!"
The door shut hard.
"Is your mom always in a hurry?" Cherry asked.
"Always." Travis looked at her, then softened. "You want breakfast? The chef can whip something up."
"My dad is in jail," Cherry said, her voice trembling. "They took him last night."
Travis came over and took her face in his hands. "I'm so sorry, Cherry. I thought that detective lady was your mom."
"She was great to me... but she was after him. It's all my dad's fault," Cherry sobbed.
"You can stay here," Travis assured her.
"No, Travis. I have to go back to my old house. If you can just take me there."
The Displacement
They reached the old house, but it wasn't empty. A man stood in the doorway. "Sunday morning... don't you lovebirds have church to go to?"
"What about my stuff?" Cherry asked, her heart sinking.
"Ask the landlord. He told us to direct anyone asking to him."
They drove to Amole's father's house. Amole was outside washing cars and hissed a whisper to Cherry, "What are you doing with him here?"
"Your father put the house on lease! When were you going to tell me?" Cherry yelled.
"Son! I prefer washing the car than talking to Miss Cherry. Come inside," the old man called from the patio.
Inside, Amole's father showed them the news on TV—her father in handcuffs. Cherry asked about her things.
"A friend of your father... a woman in her mid-thirties offered me money to lease the house," the old man explained.
"Who?"
"Monalisa, she said. She put all your stuff in boxes. She should know where it is."
Cherry sat in silence. Monalisa hadn't just taken her father. She had taken her