Flash Fiction
A Hit-and-Run Story
Love, Trust, and Forgiveness
I rolled up my plaid polo shirt sleeves and stood on the balcony, where woodstoves filtered burning pine wood from neighborhood homes. A diner down the road, grilling steaks, made its way to the cabin. I shielded my face and lit a cigarette, promising this would be the last. I scratched the back of my neck. I had a ring in my pocket, and I rehearsed what I’d say and how I’d say it, but it all came out wrong. The tall pine fence kept people at bay. The birch tree branches moved in a light breeze. The tire swing beneath the maple tree twisted and untwisted. The trimmed grass stretched across the spacious yard — stacks of evergreen trees clustered behind the fence. A silver thread weaved through the emerald tapestry of the forest. I put out my cigarette.
This autumn evening is a reminder that even as the days grow shorter and the colors fade, there is an inherent beauty in letting go, embracing the transition, and finding inspiration in the quiet resilience of nature. It is a time to gather strength, nurture our inner light, and step into the unknown with a heart full of hope, much like the seeds that slumber beneath the earth, waiting to burst forth with the promise of spring.
The television above the crackling fireplace illuminated the room as the news broadcasted a harrowing story. The report detailed a hit-and-run incident that had shaken the community. The screen displayed Marcia and her childhood friend, Dean. Three nights ago, a car struck a woman, and stoplight cameras captured Dean’s license plate.
I paused and narrowed one eye as Marcia’s culpability released a gut punch. “Not again,” I said louder than I’d wanted to. “Where you with him again?”
“What happened?” Marcia said from the kitchen.
We celebrated Marcia’s thirty-ninth birthday last week. But she still hung around a high school friend that got her in trouble — and left me to pick up the pieces. I draped warm autumn hues, a tapestry of rich oranges, deep reds, and golden yellows. A cluster of plump pumpkins, some glossy, others etched with natural lines, sat on the glass coffee table, their stems twisted like miniature autumn vines.
I met Marcia at a crowded mall two years ago this Black Friday. Christmas pop played on the stereo, pushing Mariah Carey through the speakers. Masing through a sea of people, she and I went for the last tan Hurley shirt. We played rock, paper, scissors, and she won, but she gave me her phone number after a long conversation.
“Don’t tell me you believe this?” Marcia said, entering the kitchen with a cigarette simmering between her fingers.
“Three nights ago, you visited Dean, right?”
“Yeah, Bible study.” Marcia shrugged.
I gave her a deadpan stare. “It’s Dean’s car, isn’t it?” I said, pointing at the TV, not giving her the energy of my eyes to reframe lies. I fit summer decorations in brown boxes and moved down the crimson hallway.
Marcia followed me and opened the closet. I piled up the containers, clapped summer off my hands, and closed the door for another season.
We grew up in the same town but on different sides of the tracks.
Marcia attended a preppy high school. I went to a high school without books and graffiti wherever you move your eyes.
“I thought we talked about this,” I said, moving to the living room.
“Maybe you should sit down.” Marcia motioned.
I lifted my hands. “Fine, but this had better be good.” I sat on the burgundy sofa.
Marcia paced barefoot, lying her involvement bare over the mahogany floor. I leaned forward and lit a pumpkin spice candle.
“I…” Marcia stumbled over her words. “You were obsessed with a book. So obsessed that you forgot about me; you forgot about us.” She motioned.
“Oh, I get it.” I put my hand on my chest. “This accident is my fault.”
“Dean hit the woman, not me,” Marcia said, raking her fingers through her lengthy, black hair. “You’ve got to believe me!” Marcia nibbled on her fingernail. “You know me better than that.”
“Do I?” I twisted, studying her eyes. “How well do I really know you?”
“I wasn’t cheating,” she said.
“But you said — ”
“I was trying to find something,” she said, “something for you.”
“Whatever you’re going to do, we need to call the police first,” I said, like a parent scolding their child.
Marcia’s phone buzzed in her jeans pocket.
She pulled it out, unlocked it, and sighed.
“What is it?” I said.
“The cops arrested him ten minutes ago.”
“But you’re on the tape getting out of the car.”
“Yes,” Marcia said. “I didn’t run, and I wasn’t driving.”
“Why were you with a drunk driver?” I said.
“Why am I drunk over you?” Marcia stuck out her tongue.
My cheeks warmed. “Don’t answer a question with a question.”
“Then don’t answer a question if you don’t want to know the answer.”
“What is this all about?” I said.
“He wanted me to help pick out an engagement ring.”
“But you said — ”
“I know what I said, but you didn’t know what I meant.”
“You wanted anger?” I said, stroking my chin.
“When’s the last time you told me how beautiful I was?” Her words echoed as she went to the fridge to fetch dark beer. She returned and tossed me a chilled Rolling Rock. I twisted the cap for her and myself. We sipped and talked.
“I didn’t make love to Dean,” she said, taking another sip. “I only want to sleep with you.”
Marcia set her beer on the glass coffee table and sat on my lap.
Her deep green eyes waved a wild side with a side-eye.
“The pressure of impressing your father drains me.” I released the tension in my chest.
Marcia covered a chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Not even I can impress my father. But when you get it figured out, let me know.”
“You stayed with the victim, then?” I said.
“The woman suffered a broken leg,” Marcia said. “The cops got my side of the story and found no alcohol in my system.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” I said.
Marcia moved her head close and pressed her lips to mine. “I love you,” she whispered. “Will you marry me?”
“But you went with Dean to buy a ring for his girlfriend,” I said.
“Woah,” Marcia said, “I never said who the ring was for.”
“He wanted to help me pick out an engagement ring for us because he knows how much I love you.”
“I don’t have any feelings for him,” she said. “He went to our church as a kid, and that’s how I knew him.”
“I’m glad we met at the mall when we did,” I said.
“Two years ago, and I’ve got one thing to ask,” she said.
“What?” I arched a brow.
“Will you marry me?”
“It depends.”
“On?”
I reached into my jeans pocket and retrieved a small black box. I opened it. “It depends on whether you’ll marry me.”
Tears spread across her cheeks. “Yes,” she said, her lips trembling. She offered her pale hand with red fingernails. I slipped the ring onto her finger.
(© 2024 AC)
(Amazon Kindle, Spillwords, The Writers Club)
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