Reason - L.K. Secrist

Jon stared down at the snow-dusted streets, the city lights below flickering like dying embers. What memories, he wondered, were supposed to surface in your final seconds? He waited. Nothing. No reel of lost love. No pang of regret. Just the faint blur of headlights crawling up and down 31st Street.
 
He breathed deep, shut his eyes.
 
The steel muzzle of his .38 pressed cold against his right temple. His finger tightened. The cylinder turned slowly. The hammer eased back—ready to fall.
 
Click--
 
Jon lowered the revolver. “Not today, my friend,” he muttered. “You live to see another day.”
 
He thumbed the release and flicked his wrist. The cylinder swung open, heavy and slow. The bullet—just one off. Damn shame. He snapped the cylinder back with a sharp clack that echoed off the brick walls around him.
 
He slid the piece into its shoulder holster. Something clinked faintly in the inner pocket. He nudged it aside while glancing at the rooftop door.  He grabbed out a pack of Marlboro Reds, pulled the flap back, took one out and tucked it between his lips. He dug around his other pocket for his lighter. The old silver Zippo sparked on the first try. The butane hissed into a steady flame. He dipped in, took a drag, and let the smoke and warmth fill the hollow.
 
“Can I have one of those?”
 
A voice. Female. Calm. Unshaken.
 
Jon jerked his head. Ten feet away, a girl stood watching him.
 
“Jesus,” he said.
 
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said. “Had to get out of that place.”
 
Jon looked her over—long red wool coat, pulled tight. Straight brown hair catching the ambient light. Pale skin. Sharp blue eyes. Curious. Careful.
 
“I guess that makes two of us.”
 
She stepped closer, pulling her coat tight. Her boots scraped the rooftop gravel. The way she moved, measured, unhurried, eyes peeled—didn’t match her age.
 
“Well?” she asked.
 
“Well what?”
 
“Are you going to spare a cigarette?”
 
He paused.
 
“Why not,” he said. “Might as well burn my lungs in company.”
 
“Good company,” she said.
 
“Good looks and good company aren’t always the same. For all I know, you’re only one of the two.”
 
“Wow,” she said, arching a brow. “Aren’t you the charmer.”
 
“Yeah. That’s what they call me.”
 
He shook one loose, handed it over, lit the Zippo again. She leaned in. The flame lit her face just long enough for him to notice how young she really was. They smoked in silence. Wind tugged at her coat. Their breath and smoke twisting into the February air.
 
“So,” she asked, “what’s got you all worked up?”
 
“Worked up?”
 
“You’re sweating.”
 
He wiped his forehead with the back of his glove. “Maybe. I get nervous around women.”
 
“Doubt that. You were already dripping when I came up.”
 
“Just working through a few things,” he said, shifting his stance. “You always talk this much, or only when you’re bumming cigarettes?”
 
“They’re not cheap these days,” she said, grinning.
 
“That’s the damn truth, kid.”
 
“Evan.”
 
He turned his head. “What?”
 
“My name. It’s Evan.”
 
“Jon.”
 
She held out her hand, bare and cold. He took it.
 
“Figures,” she said with a smirk.
 
“Yeah?”
 
“You seem like a simple guy.”
 
“You sure like to make quick judgments, don’t you, kid.”
 
“Evan.”
 
“Right. Evan.”
 
Jon leaned against the wall, one boot braced. He cast a glance at the windows below. Music thudded faintly. His eyes lingered on one window that hadn’t shut all the way.
 
“I’m not great company right now. After this smoke, I’m heading out.”
 
She frowned. “I can take a hint. I know I jabber too much. But geez, no need to be rude. Didn’t you call me pretty?”
 
“I said good-looking. Don’t get the wrong idea.” He straightened a little. “You caught me off guard. I’m not some creep. We clear?”
 
Evan chuckled. “You’re funny, Mr. Macho.”
 
Jon looked away, pulled a long drag without responding. Closed his eyes.
 
She reached out to flick his shoulder, then thought better of it. Just smoked.
 
He turned back. Opened his eyes.
 
“Heading back inside?” she asked.
 
“Not a chance.”
 
“How you planning to leave?”
 
“Off the side.”
 
“Jump?”
 
He shot her a look. “No. Not jump. The fire escape.”
 
“My question is perfectly valid. You had that gun to your head.”
 
His eyes narrowed. “You saw that?”
 
“I was going to say something,” she said. “But I didn’t want to spook you.”
 
Jon said nothing. His gaze drifted toward the street again.
 
“So why?” she asked softly.
 
“Why what?”
 
“Why do you want to die?”
 
Jon scoffed, tugged at his collar. “Listen, Dr. Phil—it’s just something I do. Shit, you talk a lot.”
 
“That’s not something people just do,” she said. “And for the record, I don’t want you to die.”
 
He laughed. “That’s a first.” Another drag. “Someone who doesn’t want me dead. A stranger, no less. And a kid to boot.”
 
“I’m nineteen.”
 
“Still a kid. Pretty sure I just punched my ticket to hell giving you that cigarette.”
 
“Smoking’s legal at eighteen. Anyway, I can tell.”
 
“Tell what?”
 
“You’re not a bad guy.”
 
He shook his head, exhaled smoke through his nose. “You’re either wise beyond your years or dumb as bricks. Don’t be naïve, Evan. People will eat you alive.”
 
“You think?”
 
“I know.”
 
“Well,” she said, kicking a pebble across the rooftop, “I can tell you care.”
 
“Care?”
 
“You didn’t pull the trigger.”
 
“I pulled the trigger,” he said. “That was fate.”
 
Then—boom.
 
A loud crack in the distance. Lights blinked out—buildings, streetlamps, the whole skyline swallowed by black. Tires shrieked. Crashes echoed. Chaos spilled below.
 
Evan yelped and grabbed him, arms wrapped tight around his chest. He froze, scanning the rooftops and the street. Only the beams of car headlights lit the dark.
 
“How’s that for timing,” he said, wishing he didn’t like her warmth. “You can let go.”
 
She stepped back, cheeks flush. “Guess you’re not going down now, huh?”
 
“Not at the moment.”
 
They stood together in the dark calm above the noise, both hoping the stir didn’t invite others out to them. He lit another pair of Reds and passed her one.
 
“Thanks,” she said.
 
“Yeah.”
 
Muffled voices rose through the rooftop door. A thud, a laugh. Someone cursed.
 
“I don’t want to go back in,” she whispered.
 
“Don’t blame you, Evan. But someone’s probably looking for you.”
 
“Nope.”
 
“No?”
 
“You’d think so. I’m just visiting. But they’re probably more focused on their stupid party.”
 
“You’d better go in when you’re done.”
 
She shrugged. “They’re drunk. I’ll do what I want.”
 
“Not like you haven’t had a couple drinks yourself,” Jon said.
 
“And I could go for a couple more.”
 
He sighed, glanced toward the windows. “Usually the smart thing to do before driving.”
 
“Getting lectury again, but I’ll let that slide since you’re proving me right.”
 
“How so?”
 
“You care.”
 
A pause.
 
“You don’t even know me,” he said.
 
“I know enough.” She took in a small drag. “Nobody’s driving in that mess. Doesn’t matter. I’m not going anywhere.”
 
“No?” he asked.
 
“Nope. This is my parents’ place.”
 
Jon stiffened. A flick of his eyes toward her, then back to the windows.
 
“Is that right?”
 
“Yeah. Don’t worry though.”
 
“About what?”
 
“The jewelry.”
 
He stopped breathing for a second.
 
“I saw you sneak out the window. You must’ve cased the place pretty well. That’s what they call it, right? Cased?”
 
“Yeah, listen…”
 
“You didn’t know I’d be here,” she said.
 
He exhaled slowly. “I knew the Pattersons had a daughter, but thought you’d be off at school like usual.” His jaw flexed. “And whatever you said your name was, it wasn’t the one I  found.”
 
“Evangeline,” she said. “Friends call me Evan.”
 
“Guess I missed that detail.”
 
“Just your luck,” she said. “College daughter comes home the night you try to lift hundreds of thousands in jewelry.”
 
“So now what?”
 
“You give it back, walk away, I keep quiet.”
 
“How do you know I won’t throw you over the edge or shoot you?”
 
“Because you aren’t that guy.”
 
A beat.
 
“Anyway,” she added. “I was kidding. I don’t want you to give it back. They don’t deserve it. My stepmom’s an idiot. My dad’s worse. Blind and spineless. So split it with me—I’ll never say a word.”
 
“Listen, kid…”
 
“Evan.”
 
“Right. Evan. You start down this road, it doesn’t end well. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”
 
“I don’t need a lecture.”
 
A loud pop. Buzzing. The streetlights flickered back on.
 
“That didn’t last long,” he said.
 
“You’re gonna leave now, aren’t you?”
 
“Yeah. About that time.”
 
She looked at him. Thought about hugging him. Didn’t.
 
“Just don’t do it, okay?” she said.
 
“Do what?”
 
“That stupid gun game.”
 
Jon looked at her. She meant it. Those eyes—too old for nineteen. Sad, but kind.
 
“Can I be your reason?” she asked.
 
“My reason?”
 
“Yeah. Your reason not to die.”
 
He studied her for a long moment. Then stepped forward, hands on her shoulders, and kissed her forehead.
 
“You might be the best damn stranger I’ve ever met.”
 
“We’re not strangers anymore.”
 
He smiled. Winked. “Gotta go, kiddo.”
 
“No—wait—”
 
Cheers from inside echoed as the building lit back up.
 
She turned back—he was gone.
 
“Jon?”
 
No answer.
 
She heard boots on metal. Leaned over. Saw him halfway down the fire escape. Then gone.
 
She turned back—and saw his Reds and Zippo on the rooftop. Picked up the smokes, flipped open the pack. Something glittered between the filters.
 
A diamond.
 
Big. Bright. Real.
 
She smiled. Reached for the Zippo. Lifted it.  Something small fell to the gravel.
 
She knelt down, picked it up.
 
A bullet.
 
His bullet.
 
She closed her fingers around the bullet, shut her eyes, and saw him again—his eyes, that quiet smile, the wink.
 
She slid the bullet and the diamond into her coat pocket. Flicked open the Zippo, lit the cigarette and took in a long deep drag.
 
Be safe, stranger Jon, she thought as she walked back to the door.



L.K. Secrist writes literary fiction, suspense, and quiet horror. A Korean American writer and Marine Corps veteran, he lives in Virginia. More at lksecrist.com.