Gas Station Roses
Hair of the Dog - Chapter 6
Previous Chapters:
Davie resurrected on a friend’s couch, peeling her cheek from the cracked leather. The television buzzed blue on a paused game screen. A half-eaten Crunchwrap slouched on the coffee table beside an ace of spades ashtray where cigarette butts floated like pale worms in mystery liquid.
“Ughhh, fuck.” Davie hoisted herself upright, coughing hard. She watched the pitbull sprawled across a threadbare rug, its barrel chest rising and falling in sync with her headache.
Business as usual. Another day in my pathetic life, courtesy of my pathetic choices.
She ransacked the couch cushions with the desperation of an archaeologist on a doomed expedition. No phone. Dread coiled low in her stomach. She needed to know the hour of her blackout, whether she’d sent nudes, and what damage she’d inflicted on Daddy’s sacred Amex.
At last, her fingers closed around the device wedged in a crease like a dead rodent. The black screen reflected nothing but her disheveled silhouette. She yanked a charger from the tangle on the floor and jammed it into the wall. When it finally blinked awake, notifications flooded in so fast the phone froze trying to keep up.
This can’t be good.
She squinted at the screen. The texts from Silas told the story: hope at 9:11 PM, confusion minutes later, resignation by 9:48 PM, and, by 10:12 PM, anger distilled into five words: Don’t text me back pls.
The words blurred. She dropped the phone into her lap and sat perfectly still, as if movement might make the truth worse. At the same time, her reflexes kicked in—deny, deflect, blame anyone but herself.
Whatever. At least she hadn’t endured whatever the fuck I did last night.
Just then, Kenzie shuffled in from the kitchen—swaddled in an oversized tee that read VISIT OMAHA and striped pajama shorts, cradling a mug of bitter coffee. “Crazy night, huh? We tore that shit down. The Hennessy is done for! And I swear Becca even found my secret stash of peppermint schnapps in the basement,” she smirked.
“I wish I could corroborate the night, but that would mean remembering it. All I can say is that I want to shit, vomit, or pass out,” Davie said.
Kenzie snorted. “Cease and desist on the whining, babe. We had a blast! You taught me to twerk, then we practiced in front of Arbor Market!”
“Stop fucking with me.”
“I’m not, Dave! It was insane!” She laughed. Davie couldn’t tell if she meant it or if the migraine was skewing what she heard.
Kenzie read her desperate, bewildered look. “It’s all good, though! No harm, no foul. You know what to do: electrolytes, ramen, a tall boy, then a nap. You’ll be back in action by tonight.”
“For once in my life, I can say without a doubt that’s not happening.” Davie leaned back, eyes clamped shut. “Let’s consider last night the swan song of my drinking career.”
No, really. It has to end. This is so fucked.
“Oh, shut uppp! You pull this every time. Get it together! Anyway, I’ve gotta drop you off, right? We should go soon.”
The ride was a blur. The little town—all drab storefronts and cracked sidewalks—drifted past in a haze of late-morning light. Some twangy ballad about lost love whispered from the speakers while Davie pressed her forehead against the passenger window. The texts in her pocket radiated heat like contraband.
Kenzie glanced over, one hand draped casually over the wheel. “I know you’re hungover and probably contemplating your own mortality, but Christ, you’re looking like someone just ran over your childhood pet.”
Davie grunted. “My face isn’t doing shit.”
“You fighting with somebody? Looks like you’re mentally drafting and deleting the same text message seventeen times. Been there.”
Davie cracked her knuckles one by one, the small pops satisfying in their tiny violence. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just a deep thinker. A philosopher trapped in the body of a degenerate. Your vote.”
Kenzie laughed, “Oh, someone’s definitely in deep shit. Haven’t I warned you a million times about drunk texting? Nothing good comes after 2 AM and a bottle.”
That was just the problem—she hadn’t been texting.
Davie didn’t reply to Kenzie’s chiding; she just kept her eyes on the road, awaiting the appearance of her father’s vacation house.
Johnny was waiting in the kitchen when she pushed through the door. He took one look at her and grinned. “Hello, Prince Charming! That sweet girl with the boots was here last night,” he said, savoring the reveal. “Green eyes, polite as hell. Way too good for you.” He shook his head, “And you stood her up. You royally fucked up, kid.”
Davie froze. The irony wasn’t lost on her—Johnny K., patron saint of broken promises had suddenly appointed himself moral compass.
When she attempted to slip past him, his towering frame blocked her path, an immovable obstacle of studs and leather.
He took a long drag on his cigarette, smoke unfurling from his nostrils like a dragon. “Don’t get all prickly now. I’m not wrong. You messed this one up.”
“Appreciate the pep talk,” she muttered sharply.
Johnny tapped ash into the sink and looked at her. His face went serious for once. When he spoke, the swagger was gone. “Hey. I’m not trying to get on your case. You know how I raised you—the drinking, the shit-talking, treating people like they’re disposable. That’s on me. But I still want you to be happy.”
He leaned against the counter. “I’m not saying you gotta settle down. Hell, there’s no such thing if you ask me. You know, your mom and I split, and we never looked back. Don’t blame you for not wanting the whole fairy tale either. But...” He jabbed the cigarette toward her for emphasis. “At least find someone who gives a damn about you.”
She exhaled sharply. “I barely know her. Met her yesterday when the Bassett twins were terrorizing the QuickMart like the inbred hyenas they are. Since when is offering to hang out a grand romantic gesture? I’d party with a sentient houseplant if it could hold its liquor.”
His smile resurfaced, though he swallowed the laugh. “Fair enough. But I’ve spent decades watching girls with their hopes up. She was nervous as hell. Smoothing her shirt every thirty seconds.” He took another drag. “And if I were betting? She cried on the way home.” He paused for a beat. “She’s into you. That’s what I got.”
“Christ, spare me your romantic analysis.” Davie rolled her eyes, though something in her chest tightened. “When did you become so emo? Drunk already?”
“Possibly,” he said, opening the Jack Daniels with a practiced twist and pouring the amber liquid into a rocks glass. He continued, “Maybe it all sounds like a bunch of bullshit to you, but I don’t think I’m far off.”
The silence stretched between them—broken only by the refrigerator’s low drone and the occasional tick of ice settling in the freezer. The kitchen smelled of grease and Johnny’s cologne—sandalwood gone slightly rancid.
“Fine. Fine, fine, fine! Yeah. I screwed up.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “I’ll try to make it right, I guess.”
Her dad clapped her shoulder—quick and heavy. “That’s all I’m saying, babygirl.” He downed the shot and stubbed out his cigarette in swift succession, then padded down the hall in socked feet, leaving her alone with guilt that sat in her chest like wet cement.
Davie remained in the kitchen long after Johnny’s footfalls faded. The image of Silas materialized with terrible accuracy—perched on that hideous velvet couch, worrying the hem of her shirt while Johnny held court with his endless stories. The secondhand embarrassment made her skin crawl. She let the shame and discomfort sit until it pushed her to move.
She stopped at a gas station and bought the sad roses by the register for $9.99. Back in the truck, she tossed them into the passenger seat and pointedly avoided their gaze, as though they were judging her. Her fingers drummed against the steering wheel while she rehearsed half-assed excuses. “My phone died. I was with friends.” Too flat. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to hate me.” Too vulnerable. Each version felt wrong.
By the time she got to Silas’s street, she still hadn’t crafted anything worthwhile. But that was quintessential Davie—hurling herself into the void and assembling her parachute mid-fall.
She hammered the door until the frame quivered. In her hand, the plastic sleeve of roses was already bruised by the relentless heat.
The door cracked. Purple hair cut into a bob, a gleaming septum ring. The roommate’s lip curled into a slow, cruel smirk. “She doesn’t want to see you.”
Davie shoved the roses through the gap. “I know, I know—”
The roommate laughed, flat and mocking. “Gas-station flowers? Really? You think that fixes anything?” She started to shut the door.
Davie jammed her boot against the wood. Heat burned her throat, but she forced calm. “One minute. Give me one minute, I swear.”
The roommate cocked her head, amused, then hollered down the hall. “Silas! The asshole’s here!”
Footsteps scraped the floor—slow, deliberate, followed by silence. Silas emerged haloed in shadow. Her hair spilled in dark waves around a face that was puffy from crying. Her skin looked paper-white and sickly against the black hoodie, like she’d been drained of blood and propped up in the doorway.
Her voice was flat. “Get the fuck off my porch.”
Davie tightened her grip on the flowers. “I’m terrible, I’m so awful. My phone died, I was with my friends, I—”
“Obviously you were with your friends,” Silas snapped, pitch rising. “Meanwhile, I sat in your dad’s house like an idiot. I was watching the clock the whole time. Do you have any idea what that was like?”
Davie’s smart mouth failed her—no comeback could land here.
Silas shook her head, eyes flashing. “You don’t do that. You don’t welcome someone in, then disappear.”
“I meant—”
“You meant to text, but didn’t. And that tells me everything.” She edged the door forward, shrinking the space between them. “Thanks for stopping by. Really. Now have a nice life.”
Once again, she held out the roses like a plea. “Please. Let me fix this.”
Silas raised an eyebrow and folded her arms across her chest.
Davie stepped closer. “One day. One day of my undivided attention—no bullshit. If I don’t make you laugh, if I don’t earn every second of your time, then you never have to see me again. I swear. But just let me try.”
Silas held her gaze, jaw clenched, the silence a living thing between them. Finally, she scoffed, “A mess doesn’t even begin to describe you.”
Then came a smile Davie couldn’t contain. “Yeah. But at least I’m a fun mess.”
—M