Tragic Love by M. S. Brannon Page A

knowing what he wants, but I can’t help being captivated by the anticipation of what will happen. The man is tall—a few inches shorter than Drake—he’s wearing black cargo shorts and a gray t-shirt. His black baseball cap is pulled down close to his eyes, making it impossible to see his face until he stands directly in front of me. Then I really look at him and he’s very good looking. His eyes are the color of golden topazes, his body is thin, though muscular, and he smells of cigarettes.
    Without saying a word, the mysterious man sits down on the swing next to me and starts to match my speed. My hands are trembling and I am trying to make myself leap off the swing to make a run for it, but my body refuses to budge. Why am I so intrigued by this guy? This is completely out of character for me. I’ve never once spoken to anyone without Drake, Darcie or even Jake by my side. Now, here I am, willing my body to move, yet it won’t.              
    The man leans into his bag and pulls what looks like a cigarette from a small metal tin. Grabbing a lighter from his pocket, the mystery man puts the fire to the end and inhales the tobacco. All I smell is a sweet, rich earthy scent before I realize that it’s not a cigarette at all, it’s a joint. I’ve been around plenty of people who’ve smoked weed before, especially in Memphis, but I’ve never had the nerve to try it.
    This man is reading my thoughts without even looking at me, knowing I need to take the edge off my hurt. After he takes another puff he puts the joint in his left hand and then extends his arm, handing me the tightly rolled weed. I’m not sure why, but I pinch the joint between my thumb and index finger, watching the smoke snake through the air. I have to admit, the smell is intoxicating, tempting me to press my lips to the paper. Slowly, I squeeze my thumb and finger tighter on the joint and then move it slowly toward my lips when the vibration of my cell phone tickles me from my pocket. Still holding the joint in between my fingers, I manage to pull my phone from my shorts and read Darcie’s text message.
    Where the fuck are you? What the hell happened to Drake?
    Guilt replaces anything else I’m feeling knowing Drake’s current state of emotions. I lay my phone back on my lap and look at the burning emotional suppressor in my hand. I can’t do this. I need him in my life and I know he needs me. I have to fix this. As much as I don’t want to have this baby, I can’t risk losing the one person who matters most to me. “Sorry…I have to go.” I hand the joint back to the guy and quickly exit my swing.
    The mystery man looks up from under his ball cap and meets my eyes. “I understand. I’m always here if you ever need to unwind.” His voice is low and quiet, full of mystery, just like our brief interaction.
    “Thanks,” I say as I run from the park and out to the main road. I stop on the sidewalk and turn to look at him sitting on the swing. His back is to me and the smoke is dancing around him as he takes another hit of his joint. My pocket vibrates again interrupting my staring.
    He’s trying to fight Reggie. Get your ass to the bar NOW!
    My feet start to move quickly as I travel down through old buildings toward the bar. In a few short minutes, I make my way to the parking lot where I need to stop to catch my breath. The heat is sucking all the air from my lungs along with my guilt for what I’ve done. When I pull open the door I can hear Darcie screaming at Drake at the same time that Reggie is restraining his arms, pinning them behind his back. His eyes meet mine and they break all over again. I have to save him. I can’t bring him down with all the ugliness growing inside of me.
    I slowly walk through the bar and keep my eyes solely on his. Darcie is turning her anger to me, but I shut it down because only Drake matters in this moment. No one else. I reach into my pocket and pull the small white pill from its