Free Storm: Book 3 by Evelyn Rosado

Chapter 1
    Nobody makes good decisions at 3am. Nobody. But it feels like there’s no other option.
    A couple hours after Tessa finally went to bed, I slapped open my suitcase and grabbed a black garbage bag from the living area and threw most of my stuff in it. I was right about this city all along—it chewed me up and spit me out.
    I walk a tightrope out of the door, turning the lock gingerly so it won’t make a sound to wake Tessa. I look over at the desk to the left of me and see a framed picture of us. It was from the first day we met. We’re wearing sunglasses, making funny faces at Manhattan Beach. I hold my gaze, taking one last good look at it. Tessa’s grown to be a really good friend to me. I’m going to miss her. Maybe I can come and visit after I get settled back home. Probably not. I doubt I’d ever step foot on campus again after I leave here. I fight the tear that wants to fall from my eyelid and walk out the door. It’s better this way. I hate goodbyes.
    I sit at Louise’s Diner, a couple of freeway exits east off campus. Aside from a trucker with a black and white bandana on his head, I’m the only person here. The red lights of a big rig semi flickers onto my table repeatedly as I sip my coffee. Or at least as I try to sip it. One sip is enough for me. The bitterness makes me jut my tongue out. My face scrunches and I slide the cup away from me.
    My waitress comes to my table. She has eyes that at first glance look like everyone else’s but as I look closer, her doughy grey eyes are surrounded by speckles of crimson, like she just got off the phone with a sick mother and excused herself out back for a cry and a couple of drags from a Marlboro Red. But I think her eyes always look like this, droopy and hardened. The name Deb is on her nametag. Typical waitress. Rail thin with lobster skin, worn and leathered from years of tanning on top of baking under the southern California sun. Her teeth are the color of sunflower cornflower.
    She greets me with the typical, “Wuddle it be hun? Anything besides coffee?” She leans on one hip chomping on the same piece of gum that she started her double shift with. She has a southern drawl that she’s kept despite her years of living on the west coast. She’s still charming.
    She yanks out her notepad from under her apron, smeared with what looks like dried egg yolk.
    “No food. Just a water, no ice please,” I say.
    “Comin’ right up,” she says. I lean back and exhale deeply, conflicted about if this is the best idea for me. I hate being a quitter, but after this morning, I can’t take any more drama. I know when a situation isn’t in my favor. And all the signs I’ve been given since I’ve stepped on campus have shown me that.
    In the corner of the window next to me is a fly that had been buzzing around my head since I got here. It lands on a spider web and gets stuck. Its tiny limbs flailing and flurrying in frenzy. It knows its doom is coming, but still hasn’t given up. The web shakes repeatedly from the fly’s desperation. The harder it fights, the more entangled it becomes, rolling around deepening the prison, strands of white threads blanketing the fly and its struggle finally fades. I hear the faint buzzing like it’s panicking. The buzzing stops. Its fight is over.
    “What am I doing?” I ask myself under my breath. The door opens snapping me from the attention of the fly. I can’t give up like this. A cool sweat dots my back. I can’t give up. I’ve come too far to do so. I feel a confidence pour over me and I smile slightly. I throw a crumpled five-dollar bill on the table and dart off to my car.
    I pull up to the student athletic complex and the parking lot is deserted. I grab my cleats, my lacrosse stick and shorts out of the trunk and head to the gym.
    I bench press until my shoulders and chest burn. I squat to the point that the muscle fibers in my quads want to burst out of my skin. Sweat is dripping from my chin to the tips