Pull Out My Insides

A few days later, I’m doing my usual thrifting (thrift store shopping, that is) when I spot a wild Asher at the cash register, looking quite distressed. I move up closer to him so that I can hear the conversation.

“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s nothing we can do. You have to take the rest of the clothes back. I—“

“No, please!” he whispers. “You don’t understand! My brother works nearly three jobs and I work two, and this is all I have now, and I’m nearly running out of clothes, but if I can just pay you back or something…”

“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work like that, no matter how much I wanted to help you.”

“O-okay… I’ll… put them back. Thank you.”

But before I can hear him walk back and put them back, I rush up and throw some money on the counter that he’s at.

“No! Is this enough?” I ask desperately.

But Asher takes the money off the counter.

“No, Zara, I won’t let you pay for me,” he says sternly.

I glare at him. “You shut your damn mouth and let me pay for your clothes. You need them.”

He glares back at me. “Zara! I don’t want you to think I’m just some damn charity case!” he says angrily.

I give him a sympathetic glance. “I don’t think you’re a charity case. You’re my friend… just let me pay for you,” I say softly.

But he just crosses his arms and looks away. Damn stubborn ass. So I go ahead and put the money on the counter again and pay for his clothes, taking the bag and Asher’s hand while thanking the lady at the counter, walking out of the store and dragging him into my car and shoving the bag into his arms. I start the car a minute later and we drive along the road in silence.

“Look, I’m just trying to help you out…” I start. “You’re not just some charity case, you’re my friend. Everyone needs some help sometimes…”

“I don’t need help. I’m doing fine on my own.”

I give out a bitter chuckle. “You seemed to be doing very well back there at the thrift store. So just shut your damn mouth and say ‘thank you.’”

“Fine. Thank you,” he mutters.

And a little while later, we arrive to a small beach in a stubborn silence.

“Where are we?” he asks finally.

I shrug. “Just this beach I found a while back. I think you need a little break… so you can stop being a little bitch,” I finish with a chuckle.

“Zara Randall? Calling me a bitch? What happened to little innocent, angry Zara?”

I shrug again. “I don’t know… sometimes she just… disappears.”