A new message flashes. The little icon with her photo, all Bambi-eyes and dimples, sets his heart racing. And then there’s that other feeling. The one he shouldn’t have for someone her age. The one that twists his stomach and clamps his jaw tight.
The curtains are drawn, as always. His secrets fester like bacteria in the stale air, seeping into the furniture. They clutter every surface, filthy as the plates that litter his room. He cannot risk them spreading beyond the confines of this house. Not like they did in the old neighbourhood.
These new neighbours seem friendly. They posted that ‘Welcome’ note through his door, with the link to the community Facebook group. That’s where the fireworks display was advertised. And where he found the laughably easy to access local youth chatroom. Honestly, this lot could do with some internet safety training.
His fingers, slick with sweat, begin typing a response. They’re moving almost automatically, as though fate is steering him.
“Hi Lucy,” it makes him write. “Still going to the fireworks on Sunday?”
He clicks ‘send’, a fifteen-year-old boy beaming from his profile. It bears a striking resemblance to him thirty years ago. He was chuffed when he’d found it on a friend’s Instagram account. ‘Guy’ was exactly who Lucy was looking for. She’d messaged him immediately.
“Yes! You coming?”
He bites his lip. “I’ll come if you’ll meet me first. Just you.”
“Cool! The woods by the park? I’ll be wearing a red hat.”
“Ok.” He adds a blush-face emoji. No, maybe not. His niece said only old people use emojis. He deletes it. Presses send.
She replies with a blush-face emoji.
*The twilight air is smoky as he approaches the clearing. It casts a romantic filter over the evening that he hopes will soften his harsh adult edges. In the distance, a firework screams.
There she is. Leaning against a tree, the light from her phone illuminating her red hat like a beacon. This is his last chance to change his mind. He tells himself that if she doesn’t look up in the next five seconds, he’ll turn and walk away.
Her head raises on the count of three. It’s kismet.
“Lucy?” He tries to shrink his voice and body.
Her eyes widen. In shock or excitement?
He doesn’t have time to decide. Out of the shadows steps a man. Taller than him. Bulkier, too. In a red hat. He stands in front of the girl and folds his arms.
“I am Lucy,” he says. His voice is violent.
“I am Lucy.” More gravelly words launch at him from behind a tree. A second man, also wearing a red hat, stands beside the first.
They emerge from all directions.
“I am Lucy.”
“I am Lucy.”
He spins, looking for an escape route. But the red hats have formed a ring as tight and angry as fire.
“I think we’ve found our Guy,” he hears one of them say.
Behind him, someone strikes a match.
