I Know What Love Is by Whitney Bianca Page B

clenched up immediately, my fingers gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles went white. For a long time, I couldn't move. I could only watch him.
    He still seemed the same. He still moved the same. He was just as dangerous as ever, his body as lethal as I remembered. His face was still chiseled and ruggedly handsome, but the mask had lost a little of its luster. He no longer looked like a normal, everyday Joe. There was something dark and twisted lurking under his skin, just itching to get out. The other guys kept their distance and he kept his distance from them. He didn't smile and he didn't joke around.
    He looked like a ticking time bomb.
    I should have driven off. I should have never been there in the first place. But I didn't move. I just sat there, like a sitting duck. I watched him for at least an hour, until he strolled away from the site, his white T-shirt stained brown with dust. He headed across the street toward me and my muscles sparked to life. I started the car and peeled away from the curb. My foot was heavy, and I put the pedal to the metal as I sped past him. He stopped in the middle of the street to let me pass and I couldn't stop myself from glancing out the window at his white shirt, bright in the sunlight.
    Then I took a quick right and drove as fast as I could, wanting to get as far away as possible. Sweat dotted my brow and my heart was racing as I got back on the highway toward Dallas. I was sure he hadn't seen me. Even if he did, I would be far away and untouchable. The whole car ride back, I told myself I was never going to return to Austin. I told myself that it was all over and that I had to stop obsessing. I told myself it would all be okay and that I would be fine.
    Looking back, all the shit that happened after that sunny spring day in Austin was completely my fault.
    I can admit it —I was a fool.
    Because of my foolishness that day, I will always have blood on my hands. There's nothing I can do about it.
    After all these years, I've finally given up on trying to get clean.
     
    *****
     
    I drove home to Austin without incident, thinking I'd dodged a bullet.
    I didn't realize how much I'd fucked up until about three weeks later.
    As I stood on the porch and waved good-bye as my parents' BMW slowly drove down the driveway, I felt a wave of unease wash over me. The gate closed automatically behind them and I dropped my hand to my side, my smile fading. The sky was cloudless and sunny. The day was beautiful and warm. I should have felt peaceful and relaxed. My parents were going away for the weekend, so I invited my fiancé over for a romantic date. I should have felt excited that Trace was coming over. I had a big night planned for him. I had a three course meal to make and a pretty sundress to slip on. I was going to put on my face and do up my hair. I was going to look real pretty for him. I was going to smile and laugh and be his fiancée. I was going to be normal.
    Being normal was exhausting.
    I stood longer than I should have on the porch, looking down the expanse of our manicured green lawn. Our house stood on an acre of property at the end of a cul de sac in an old-wealth neighborhood. I could see our neighbors' mansions across the way, nothing out of the ordinary. The street was empty of cars. I didn't know why I felt a shiver of anticipation run down my spine, like a fingertip. Running my tongue over the roof of my mouth, I swept my eyes across the perfect grass once more, then forced myself to go back into the house. I locked the door behind me and punched in the alarm code, like I always did.
    In my mother's professionally designed kitchen, I arranged a whole chicken in the roasting pan, stuffing the cavity with lemon wedges, thyme, and garlic cloves. I shoved it into the oven at 350 and made my way upstairs to shower. The house was silent and still, more so than usual. I froze in the hallway, my ears perking up. I listened to the air in the house for a full moment, then