Precise by Rebecca Berto, Lauren McKellar Read Free Book Online Page B

Paul’s slit-like eyes rolling back when I’m not shivering.
    The silhouettes of houses and traffic lights change to long windy roads and street signs that point to different towns across the state. Now that the stars are brighter where the city lights don’t reach, and there is looming bushland ahead, there’s less commotion to keep me occupied.
    My fingers hover over the window button, but I snatch them back moments before they touch. I need to keep thinking about being cold.
    Mom was so vulnerable in our old bedroom before. That’s what I keep seeing: her, heaved over, quiet, so unlike herself.
    I feel a stir in my chest. Although I wheeze, cough too, the pressure settles. Snickering, I pull Johnny from under my seat because fuck everything and I need something.
    We accompany each other as the bushes thicken, signs become obsolete, and everything blurs. A sign indicates I left Melbourne fifty kilometers ago, so I decide it’s about time I turn back .
    My phone goes off when I’m five minutes from Mom’s party. Gee, does she have cameras installed here? I twist in my seat. Teeth gritted, windows unable to go further down, I silence the call.
    She’s just earned herself a bit more waiting: a slight detour from her damn party .
    It goes off again as I drive down a side street. One new message. I ignore that, too.
    It seems familiar: telltale nature-strip trees, earthy paint colors, and houses with outlandish front yards appear.
    It’s only now that I see them sway. There’s one house nearby that Ella waits for to point out as I drive by and we laugh at how silly all the dozen garden gnomes look lined up, but when I realize where it is, I’ve already passed it. Feeling agitated, my fingers are buzzing again and drawn to Johnny.
    The rumble of voices starts to sound—giggles, deep voices, and the like. It surfaces some old memories of Saturday night house parties from my teenage years. In fact, the music that rumbles through my car is identical.
    Bitch. Her son-in-law must be thrilled from “up there”. What a fantastic party. A boring one wouldn’t have satisfied, huh? I drive in the direction of the music, praying she hasn’t sunk this low. I hope I’m wrong.
    Dizziness stirs in my head, and I gulp, realizing I’ve spent too much time with my bottle of Johnny while also behind the wheel.
    I kill the car by the curb not a moment later, retrieving my heels from where they’d been rolling near my feet. I hate people like me. If Liam had been here, he’d have stopped me earlier. If only he didn’t smother me, I might actually like it because it’d mean he cares.
    Thank God he’s not here. I hate the idea of admitting he’s right. And thank God I haven’t harmed anyone.
    Way to go, Katie! You’re real responsible.
    Dispersed cars, balloons and signs in rainbow colors stand out the suspect house like a Daewoo in a Ferrari showroom. I step out of my car and my heels catch on the rough surface of the road, courtesy of my inability to walk on pinpricks.
    As I cross the road to the musical house, the beat rumbling drowns out the clinks of my heels. There is a littering of cars that gather over the yard and surrounding area.
    If I hadn’t drunk so much, I would have realized immediately that this isn’t my parents’ house, but, yes, I’m drunk. There. I thought it.
    I turn to leave but one of the cars parked meters from the house stops me. I squint to read the registration plate: brentd. The personalized plate is unmistakable; Brent Dayle has carried it down from his first car.
    The double-story rendered house in front of me is bold in its own way, not smothering the other properties on the street but clearly a standout. A double garage, two thick pillars stretching both levels, and moist, muddy earth. No plants.
    Shaking my head, I tell myself how stupid I am for coming here. What if I’m seen? I don’t want him to know I’m here.
    Do I care to see Brent? Hardly. It’s not anything he’s done.
    All I