My Heart For Yours

by James, Ella

I get up. Follow Breck out some door, till we’re outside underneath the roof’s edge with our backs against the brick wall. Fuck, it’s cold and snowy. Everything looks glittery and crystalized.

  Breck hands me a smoke. I pull a lighter out of my pocket. Breck hands me one. I frown until I realize I’ve been flicking mine, and it’s not lighting.

  “Thanks,” I mumble. My hands feel heavy and numb, but they remember how to light a Marlboro. I inhale.

  “Hey, man.”

  Breck’s arm comes over my shoulders—heavy. “I’m gonna go back home. Wanna come with?”

  I frown, trying to understand. For a second, my muddled mind can’t even place us on a map. The snow brings back a flash vision of Moscow.

  Home, he said. “Like—your parents’ place?” My voice sounds weak and raspy. I swallow.

  “Yeah. I might go back out later.” His hand slaps my shoulder. “Let me get ya home, brother.”

  So Breck thinks I’m a mess. He lifts his arm off me. I watch him light his cigarette. I should go with him. Just end this shitty fucking New Year’s.

  “Who’s the girl?” I ask instead.

  Breck frowns, and I realize I should clarify. “The gorgeous one.”

  He’s still frowning. I watch him pull his phone out of his pocket. Oh. He got a call.

  “Ma,” he says affectionately. His face rises slightly in a smile that falls fast. Puzzlement twists his features. “Dammit. Okay—just sit down. Let me talk to Nic. I’ll call you right back. Don’t move.”

  He huffs as he hangs up, and turns to me. “My fucking father and his fucking dick.”

  “Damn,” I manage.

  “I’ll be back in a few. Nic will go.”

  Go home, I guess. That sucks for Breck’s mom. I’ve met her a time or two—not this trip, since I flew out by myself and got here later than everyone else. But she’s a nice woman. Acts like a mom to me, too. Breck’s dad is a dipshit.

  I hear a creak and look over my shoulder. My stomach lurches and I have to blink my bleary eyes.

  She smiles, looking so clean and sweet and shy. I watch her snap the buttons on her jacket. The fog of her warm breath surrounds her face, making her look ethereal. I watch her lips pinch as she digs into a pocket. Her mouth twists downward, then she laughs softly.

  She holds something up: a broken cigarette.

  “Could I bum one?” she asks, smiling sweetly.

  “Sure.” With some effort, I manage to extract an almost-empty pack from my pocket. I don’t really smoke, but I got some after I left the cabin in New York and I held onto them.

  I hold out one to her, and then the lighter.

  “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.” I lean slightly against the wall. The glittering snow all around us makes me feel as if we’re standing in a snow globe—that someone’s shaking.

  I feel something on my arm and blink down to find her bare hand. My gaze shifts to her lovely face. “You okay?” Her voice is quiet and soft, beautiful and delicate as snowfall.

  She asked if I’m okay. Fuck, that feels kind of good.

  I smile for her. “I’m fine.”

  She smiles, too. A melancholy, thoughtful smile that pierces through the numbness, prickling my heart. “You look sad,” she says quietly.

  I try to laugh, and nudge her with my arm. “Why do you care?”

  It’s a teasing tone I use and normally it works. Gets people off my back and makes it hard for them to see…the things I wouldn’t want them to. Of everyone I know, Breck and maybe Dove: they are the only ones that see through it. This girl isn’t fooled, either. Her face is still drawn up in what looks like pain. When her eyes lift to mine, I find them rounded with sincerity.

  “I’m not having a very good night either,” she tells me. “And,” she blows some smoke out, arching her eyebrows self-consciously as she smiles slightly. “I care about everyone. It’s just the way I am. For better and worse.” She takes another drag. I watch her blow it out.

  “There was this article one time. About Saddam Hussein. In some magazine. And these American soldiers who had taken care of him when he was in prison somewhere. It said he had a thing for Cheetos. Saddam.” She laughs wryly, shaking her head. “I found myself feeling bad for him. Like, sympathetic. It’s a curse.”

  I open my mouth, because I want to tell her she shouldn’t feel bad for that POS, she should feel bad for all the innocent civilians he murdered.

  But I look at her face, I see the sadness that’s still there, and all I think to ask is, “Why are you sad?”

  My voice is rough and raw, and even through the scotch, I feel…exposed. I’m not up front like this. I don’t talk to anyone, about anything. It’s how I am. I guess I’m this girl’s opposite.

  I definitely am, I decide as I watch her face twist up in pain. “I don’t even know,” she says, blinking at the snow-caked firs in front of us. “I just feel a bad vibe I guess. Also, boyfriend trouble.” She blows a trail of smoke out. Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

  “Is it just me, or is smoking lonely? Inherently lonely. And bumming one off someone, what is that? Here, have some cancer.” She grins. My chest throbs a little as her brown eyes thaw me.

  “No, you’re right,” I offer her. “It’s kind of lonely.”

  I exhale a cloud of smoke, and the girl blows her own stream toward mine. The gray smoke mixes. “There.” She smiles.

  My drunk brain makes a note: learn more about her. Anything, I scribble desperately on the dry board of my mind. My throat is tight. My lungs ache. Want.

  I turn toward her, noticing her beautiful, bare throat. She draws her shoulders up toward her ears. I want to put my arm around her. I don’t want to scare her, though. Invade her space.

  She smiles at me, a little smile that’s just for smiling’s sake. For me. A fucking gift.

  “I bet your boyfriend is an asshole,” I hear myself say.

  She laughs. “Why?”

  “Assholes always get the good ones.” I give her a sloppy smile as my head buzzes. “All the nice guys know.”

  “Are you a nice guy?”

  “No, snowflake.” I throw my cig down and cover it with my boot. Then I take my scarf off. I drape it around her neck, our eyes holding like magnets as I lean away. “Stay warm.”

  I press my lips together so I don’t say more, and go inside.

  * * *

  Gwenna

  December 11, 2015

  I used to like December. Years ago, it was my favorite month. I loved Christmas. Reindeer. Crackling fires. Snow. I adored the evergreens, the way your breath in cold air makes that little cloudy puff. I thought the winter sky, a sheet of black with burning white pinholes, was simply magical.

  I used to have almost an entire drawer of holiday socks. I’d start wearing them before Thanksgiving. I still try. I try to like the holidays. I put out Christmas early most years. Decorate a tree.

  But in my dreams, I see that black sky, with its fever-black white stars, and I am haunted by the moaning coming from a place I can’t see. I can sometimes feel the weight of the ambulance crunching snow beneath its tires, the way a large vehicle shifts and slips on fresh powder.

  My last memory before the accident is of Jamie and me on the plane to Colorado. We shared a Rudolph fleece as the plane started landing. I remember how the round window was icy-cold. I remember getting in the car that came to pick us up: a black Tahoe with chilled wine in the backseat. I think maybe I remember the Madisons’ sprawling wood chateau, with its wrap-around porch, sharp, high ceilings, and three levels of art, alcoves, faux fur rugs, and plush armchairs. The huge stone fence around the place. But my neurologist tells me that’s from other visits. Previous years. Because of my brain injury, I don’t remember anything beyond a snippet of our laughter and the wine in the SUV.

  I think about the wine as Barrett and I take communion. This is our second week coming to church together. He suggested it last week, thinking maybe it would help with my nightmares.r />
  “Are you a churchgoer?” I asked him.

  “No. I always liked the chaplain with our unit, though.”

  “Perfect,” I teased.

  But—it really is. Now on Sunday mornings, I get to see Bear in a suit. He takes communion with me even though he knows I don’t care if he does, and I think he honestly likes the priest. It’s…funny. Funny strange. But nice.

  Back in our pew, he leans his arm against my shoulder and plays with one of my pigtails as the priest clears away the chalice and paton and the Eucharistic ministers stack the kneeler cushions at the altar. I think about the wine again. Do I remember what kind it was? Probably Sauvignon Blanc, one of the only wines both Jamie and I like. Her mom would have known that. Would have stashed it in the car for us.

  I try to think about the drive. What did the roads look like? I can’t remember.

  Soon we’re standing up, singing the recessional hymn , then filing out with everyone else during the organist’s vigorous postlude. Barrett and Father Ryan exchange words as we leave the church. I’m glad they seem to get along.

  By the time we get into his Jeep, I’m tired.

  “You still want barbeque, Pig?”

  I can’t help giggling. “That sounds super weird.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  I straighten my shoulders. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

  When we get into the booth at Ed’s Barbeque Pit, he slides in beside me, wraps an arm around my back, and pulls my head against his arm.

  “Gwennie.”

  “Mmm.”

  His lips find my head. “I love you,” he murmurs.

  “I love you too.”

  I can feel the question that he doesn’t ask. Can feel him want to ask me. What’s wrong? I know I’ve been more distracted lately, but I’m not sure how to explain it to him. I’ve talked about the accident a few times, but there’s no way I’m telling him how scared I feel lately. Scared that whoever hit me has found me and came here to “talk.” I don’t want to make an issue of this, telling Bear all about what happened to me. I want my feelings to go away. Also, I’m not sure my fears are rational.

  So I keep my mouth shut, silently thankful for the way he keeps an arm around me on the sidewalk, never leaves my side when we’re in public, even for a moment; for the fact that he hasn’t pushed us to move back into my place. I think Barrett knows my fears without me saying, and I love him for it.

  I love everything about this man.

  SEVENTEEN

  Gwenna

  December 19, 2015

  I wake up one morning with the knowledge that I have to go. Back into the enclosure. It’s been more than a week. I’ve put off my usual hibernation-season walks through the land inside the fence, telling myself the bears are all doing well, staying in their little nooks, so clearly nothing’s wrong. That’s irresponsible. It’s not okay.

  When Barrett leaves to go see Doc, he tells me to keep the doors locked and the new alarm system turned on. I tell him I will. When his Jeep disappears down the sloping driveway, I go up to his room and dress in boots, jeans, and a brown fleece, then take my handgun from the nightstand drawer and strap it to the waist of my jeans.

  Back downstairs, I scribble a quick note letting him know where I’m going and what time I left, so if something happens to me, he’ll know where the clue trail starts. Then I check the cameras via my phone one more time. After what happened, I had four more cameras installed, and had the infrared capabilities for all the cameras turned on. It costs me an additional $400 per month, but for right now, it’s worth it. No one’s in the enclosure.

  He could jump the fence again.

  Who does that?

  I’ve been wanting to ask Barrett—is jumping a tall fence some special secret agent skill, or might my attacker be a “normal” guy?—but I just hate to bring it up at all. Maybe I don’t want to know.

  Correction: I don’t want to know. I never considered myself someone who would hide like this, but that’s what I’ve been doing. Hiding at Barrett’s house. Hiding like a child.

  My mom and Rett have both offered to come and stay with me, as has Jamie. Even Nic offered to spend the night, or hire additional security if I needed it, which I thought was really sweet. I haven’t wanted that, though. I just want to be with Bear, but even that is strained because I’m such a zombie: paralyzed by fear.

  Barrett knows it. I can feel his tension, too.

  I say a quick prayer before I step onto the porch, and then stuff my fists into my jacket pockets and start into the woods between our houses.

  Who could it be?

  Who?

  I want to know. I want to know so badly. God, it’s driving me insane. Who did that to me? What did they want to talk about?

  The police have called a few times, letting us know they’ve been patrolling the area and also that they don’t have any leads. They seem to think my attacker was someone interested in the bears. Maybe someone who wanted to take and sell one, or some enviro freak who thinks keeping even injured bears in captivity is somehow wrong.

  Detective Anderson, the guy we’ve seen the most of, says the public meetings about the property zoning probably drew a lot of new eyes to my little operation here at Bear Hugs—and I know that’s true, because I’ve seen an uptick in donations through the web site.

  I sigh, and then cast my gaze around the woods. The wind is light today, meaning the leaves are fairly still except the crunching of my boots, so that’s a positive. I tell myself that I would hear him coming.

  As I move toward the enclosure gate, I sing hymns in my head: songs my grandma used to sing, and some I sang back in the day when I would play piano or guitar sometimes at bars. I always wondered if it was sacrilegious, but I would put a haunting sort of twist on one or two old hymns, and people used to love them.

  By the time I’ve reached the gate, I feel a little calmer. As soon as I step inside, my pulse begins to race, but I breathe carefully and check my phone and no one is around. I see that. There’s no hazy red splotches from a person’s body heat.

  I do an hour-long walk around, texting Barrett when I think he’s almost back to his house, so he doesn’t have to deal with the anxiety of finding the note and wondering if I’m okay.

  I walk past Aimee and Papa and vow that tomorrow, I’ll do walkbys on the others.

  It’s almost Christmas, I think, as I sit down on a stump near the gate. Barrett texted back and said he’ll be here in a minute.

  What should I get him for Christmas? Will he want to go somewhere? To Kellan? I’d love to be with him. Is that clingy?

  I wrap my arms around myself as the breeze picks up. I talk to Helga tomorrow, and it’s a good thing, I guess. All this cold is getting to me.

  I look down at my boots and notice that I’m humming “Pumped Up Kicks” by Foster the People. Geez, that’s random. Old song. Inappropriate, but catchy. I always feel wrong for liking it when I hear it. Not that I’ve heard it much in the last few years.

  “It’s like a fish bowl, but with beer, and it’s craft beer. Really good shit.”

  My body freezes, muscles seizing, as I hear that same voice say, “What do you think of your friend’s new dude?”

  What the fuck does that mean?

  Barrett’s arms are wrapped around me, and I’m shaking. He’s gentle and strong and sweet, but he can’t shield me from this.

  Craft beer.

  Gemütlichkeit.

  Beer bar.

  I was at a beer bar New Year’s Eve 2012.

  The realization stops my shaking. I manage to pull myself together before Bear calls Helga.

  I know now. I know now. I’m not crazy. I’m…remembering.

  * * *

  December 20, 2015

  ‘Blue is in D.C. now. With the G. Have him tracked if you don’t believe me. It wasn’t him, Bear. Thank you for the dream catcher, by the way. I keep forgetting to say so.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. You’re welcome.�
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  I blow on my numb fingers, then slide my glove back on and take aim one more time. The .38 is steadier in my right hand than it used to be. I hit the target this time. My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  ‘Why would he? We’re brothers, man. Remember that. You and me, we’re out now, but we’re still bros. We protect each other.’

  I see the little bubble indicating Dove is typing, then he sends another message.

  ‘I’d think you would know that, Bear.’

  Rage billows up inside me, followed quickly by remorse.

  ‘You know how Blue is. He’s scared of the fucking G.’ We try not to say General in text transmission, no matter how encrypted these messages are supposed to be. General Broomfield of all people can probably take a peek whenever he wants.

  ‘Blue’s still batting for you, brother.’

  ‘Bear…’ another message says. ‘His father’s guys know what you’re doing. He’s working his ass off to keep yours safe.’

  I call right away, turning around toward my car, in the gun range parking lot, as if keeping my eyes on it will help me reach it faster. I start running. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “They watch you, Bear, like common fucking sense would dictate. You knew they might. We all knew.”

  “What do you mean, smart ass? They watched me and what, Dove? Goddamn it!”

  “They know that something’s going on with you and her,” he says quietly. “It’s like we thought it would be.”

  “Meaning what?” I snarl as I throw my driver’s side door open.

  “Meaning they’ve been eyeing both of you for the last week or so. Blue wanted to learn a little more before we told you. No one’s on you right now, Bear. They peeked in, botched that shit with Gwen that day, and left. Blue’s on it.”

  “Blue is fucking on it. Like hell. FUCK!”

  I hit the wheel so hard it groans and the airbag light starts flashing.

  “Oh, fuck. Fuck, Dove. Do they think I told her?”

  “They don’t know. Your correspondence with both me and Blue is being watched by more than one set of eyes. Blue told me that today. You should answer his calls, you know.”