by Casey Winter
Which is a damn lie. Every day we spend together is the best day of my life, that’s the unavoidable truth. And every day we spend together is a big middle finger to my little brother’s memory. That’s another unavoidable truth.
“You’re thinking about him,” she comments a moment later. “I can tell. Every time you think about Noah, you go all distant.”
I clench my fists. Last night, I had one hell of a vicious dream. It was the usual PTSD stuff, only this time, Noah was over there with me. He was bleeding, gasping, begging for my help. And I couldn’t do anything. I could only watch.
I was just glad Hannah wasn’t there to see me. When I woke, I was already pacing, a fully-fledged nutcase, fists clenched at my sides as I growled military jargon under my breath. It was time to get some. It was time to send it. It was time to cover-and-move, gentleman. I was pushing the left flank, over and over, until I woke up and stilled my too-energetic lips.
“Let’s not talk about that,” I growl.
“Luke, can you please look at me when you’re talking to me? Jeez.”
I turn to her slowly.
She’s pulling on her hoodie. She slips out of bed, giving me a glimpse of her as she bends over to pick up her panties. She does it naturally, like we’re a couple, no self-consciousness at all. Not that I can talk. I’m standing here butt-ass naked like I’m on a nudist’s beach.
I grab my underwear, pull them on. “I just don’t see why we need to talk about that,” I say. “I don’t see what good can come of it.”
She hops deftly into her yoga pants, and then spins on me. “Because it’s the biggest elephant in the room in the fricking history of elephants in rooms, maybe?”
“Just build a box in your mind and lock it away,” I snarl. “It’s not as hard as you’d think.”
Another lie: it’s getting way, way harder to keep those dark, twisted parts of my past secure when I’ve got Hannah pounding against my emotional walls. I didn’t even realize I still had any humanity left in me, anything other than surface level, but now Hannah’s showing me horrifying, tempting depths.
“I do have a box in my mind,” she whispers bitterly.
We’re stood across from each other, neither of us closing the distance. I move to the desk, dropping into my chair, as if that width of wood can protect me from what’s about to come. I’m guessing she’s been stewing on this all week, because she looks ready for a fight.
She stands on the other side of the desk, laying her hands down, leaning forward. I resist the urge to smooth her whirling hair from her forehead. “A box where I keep what Noah did to me locked away.”
“Don’t,” I warn her. “You broke that kid’s heart, Hannah. Don’t twist it.”
“He broke me,” she yells suddenly. She storms to the other side of the room, fists clenched like she wants to break something like Noah apparently broke her. She returns, fuming. “You have such a warped view of what happened between us. Nobody knows the truth. Nobody knows what he did to me.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I snap, trying to keep my voice calm. And failing. “You broke up with Noah and he was so busted up he went to join the Marines. He thought he was going to build a life with you, a family, and you betrayed him.” I leap to my feet. “So what the hell are you talking about?”
She blinks away tears. Suddenly I feel like an asshole. “Do you really want to know?” she whispers, voice trembling. “I don’t want to make you see him differently, Luke. He’s your brother. He’s passed. You’re grieving. It’s not fair. But if you really want to know, I’ll tell you.”
I stand up, a pit in my belly. I feel adrenaline coursing through me like lava. I feel like I’m under attack. “What, Hannah? Just … what?”
“I’ll tell you.” She wipes away her tears. “But you have to let me tell it, from start to finish, okay? I don’t think I’ll be able to if you interrupt me. Can you agree to that, Luke?”
I nod, curiosity getting the better of me, Hannah’s sadness too potent for me to ignore. “And you might want to sit down,” she whispers.
I slump into the chair, and wait.
She talks slowly, quietly, and I find myself drifting into the past with her.
—
Hannah had been nervous and jittery all week, withdrawn, not even able to lose herself in skating. Sixteen years old with plans either to go to college or pursue a skating career, this could not have been a worse time.
A worse time to get pregnant.
Noah had made her pregnant, because they were young, and stupid, and didn’t always take the proper precautions. She took five pregnancies tests in total.
“I didn’t believe my eyes,” she tells me. “I just kept staring down at the tests, shaking my head, waiting for them to disappear in puffs of smoke. But, nope, there they were, every time. They wouldn’t go away.”
She didn’t tell anybody: not her best friend and basically sister, Penny, not her mother, not her dad in Florida, and definitely not Noah.
“But I was an idiot, Luke. I kept the pregnancy tests in my bedside drawer, wrapped in tissue. Listen, I’m not saying Noah was evil or anything like that. But he could be a bit … controlling. Sort of like he had this life mapped out for us. He’d had it mapped out ever since we were little kids, and any change to that plan annoyed him. He was always telling me what to wear, how to act, stuff like that. Especially when we were teenagers.”
They got into a vicious argument when Noah found out. He point-blank told her that she had to get an abortion. They wanted kids together—at least, he did—but not now, not like this. He told her he’d drive her there right now: she had to do it. “You’re sixteen,” he said. “In Maine, you don’t need to tell anybody, not your mom or anybody. I know because a girl in school got one, a cheerleader. Nobody else has to know. This doesn’t have to change anything.”
But Hannah persisted. She wasn’t sure she wanted an abortion. She wanted to think about it more. She wanted to decide for herself. Noah, though, he wouldn’t stop. He pursued her through the house. Hannah’s mom was out, so when Noah started pounding on the bathroom door—where Hannah had hidden herself—nobody heard.
When she finally opened up, he was raging, fists clenched. He stood in the doorway, his face twisted ferociously. “You have to do it,” he growled “You know you have to. There’s no other choice, Hannah. It’s for the best. It’s the only way. You have to do it.”
On and on, for hours, it went like this: Hannah saying she needed more time, Noah bullying her into making the decision he wanted her to make.
“He didn’t physically force me into the car,” she whispers. “He didn’t put a gun to my head. But several times when we were driving there, I told him I didn’t want to rush into this. I told him I wanted to wait. And when we were outside, he warned me that if I said any of that in there, there’d be horrible consequences. He said he’d spread rumors that I was a slut and I’d cheated on him, and that was how I’d gotten pregnant. I was sixteen. I didn’t know what to do. I was scared.
“So I went in there, and I pretended that I wanted the abortion. I played the role he had for me. I was just … I was just so terrified, and so used to doing what he wanted me to do. I was sixteen.”
Hannah walked out of there feeling hollow, immediately regretting how she’d rushed into it, immediately regretting how she’d let him manipulate her. She spun on him, slapping him across the face.
“We’re over,” she yelled. “Forever, Noah. I don’t want anything to do with you. You’re a controlling asshole. I hate you. Do you hear me? I hate you.”
Noah laughed, clearly thinking this was just her overreacting. He told her she’d get over it, and they drove home. But she didn’t get over it. She ended things with him, officially, the next day. She told him he could spread all the disgusting rumors he wanted. She wasn’t going to be blackmailed. But Noah did something worse than spread rumors.
“He played the victim card,” she mutters grimly. “He
made it seem like I broke his heart for no reason. He made it so Evelyn could never be normal with me again. Oh, she was a good woman, and she wouldn’t let it show most of the time. But I could tell she resented me for how I’d apparently broken his heart. And he knew I was too ashamed to tell the truth. So he won. I guess. If you can call any of this winning.”
—
I want to tell her she’s lying, but the way she describes Noah, the subtle way he had of trying to manipulate people, I recognize it. And why would she lie? I know Hannah. I trust her.
“I think he almost told me once,” I mutter. I can’t look at her. I’m just so damn confused. “We were drinking, and he was blackout, really messed up. He kept moaning, almost crying, telling me he was so sorry for what he did to you. How he wished he could take it back. But he wouldn’t tell me what he was talking about. I forgot about that until now.”
“So he was sorry.” Hannah rubs at her face, sniffling. “I guess that’s something.”
“It’s evil,” I whisper. “What he did, it’s evil.”
She shrugs. “He’s your brother, Luke. He was a Marine. He’s not evil.” She stands up, walking over to her bag. “I need a couple of days. I’ve never told anybody that before. I don’t know if this can work. How can it? I shouldn’t have told you. I …”
“What, Hannah?” I say, voice choked. “What is it?”
“I never loved him,” she whispers, tears sliding down her cheeks. “That’s the really horrible part. The whole town talked like we were this cute lovey-dovey couple, but I think it was more just habit for me, because we’d been together since we were kids. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anybody, not like that.”
A pause, and I know I could tell her I loved her, I know I could just say those words. But those are big, lofty words, and I would never say them lightly.
“No,” I snarl. Angry. At Hannah for telling me. At Noah for doing it. At the world for being such a malformed place. “I don’t think I have, either.”
She laughs, strange and strangled, and then makes for the door. I could chase after her. I could plead with her to stay. I could tell her it’s not her fault, because it isn’t.
But I don’t. I let her go.
—
Lately, I’ve been sleeping about two or three hours a night.
But now, I don’t even get a single second. I lie awake in my childhood bedroom, wondering what the hell I’m even doing here, the whole thing seeming ridiculous. The person who started me on this task, my little brother, basically forced Hannah to get an abortion …
How is a man supposed to process a thing like that?
I don’t even have the fire in me to workout. Instead, I wander over to the window, looking across at the Ortiz household. All the lights are off, and there’s no sign that anybody’s awake. She said she needed a couple of days, and I respect that. I’m not about to force myself back into her life. But, dammit, I find myself wanting to give her some sort of sign.
A sign that I’m here for her, maybe. Or maybe not. I don’t know.
I’m running on no sleep, and the sun is rising. I feel dog-tired and stretched out, like there’s too little Luke to go around.
I don’t let myself think too deeply about what I’m doing as I pull on my boots and walk into town, not wanting to drive when the world is all blurry and wavy with no sleep. I head toward the florist, which has the same name it did when I used to live here: Mother Earth Florist, with an illustration of an Eve-like woman on the front, shrouded in flowers.
The bell above the door rings when I go inside. I wander over to the counter, to the short woman with a bob of blonde hair. She has eyes you can’t help but notice, because each one is a different color: one blue, the other a greenish sort of brown. “Hey, can I help you?” she asks
“I need some flowers with a message,” I tell her.
She smiles at me strangely. “Okay, sure, Luke. I can help you with that.”
“Do we know each other?”
“Oh,” she says, mysterious. “Everybody knows everybody round here. Any flowers in particular?”
I shrug. “Pretty ones. Ones a woman would like. You choose.”
“Okay, sure. I can do that. How much are you looking to spend?”
“However much they cost,” I say. “Unless they go into ridiculous territory, obviously.”
“What about a hot pink basket? I can do you a really special one for a hundred bucks.”
I nod. “Okay, that sounds just fine. Leave the message blank, though. I want to write it myself.”
The woman goes into the back, singing softly. When she returns, she offers me that strange smile again. “You really don’t know who I am, do you, Luke?”
“Ah …” I search my mind, but nothing jumps out. “I’m sorry. Apparently this town isn’t small enough.”
“I’m Bella Hanlon. Well, Isabella Hanlon.”
“Isabella,” I say, nodding. “Seems I’m more tired than I realized. Yeah, I remember little Isabella Hanlon. Though you’ve grown up now.”
She smiles tightly, nodding at herself, clearly to indicate how short she is. “Not as much as I’d like, maybe,” she laughs. “I thought you’d be … uh, frostier with me. Considering the Hardware Wars and all, considering how Jock just about hates your guts.”
I sigh. “Yeah, well, just because your brother’s an asshole who vandalized my business, it doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.”
Bella shakes her head slowly. “Whatever happened to Family Roller, Luke, Jock didn’t do it. Will, neither. We were raised proper, and we respect other people’s property. Just because they get a little … uh, rambunctious sometimes, it doesn’t mean they’re criminals.”
“I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree there, Bella.”
She whistles softly, turning back to the flowers.
When I’m on my way out with the hot pink basket in hand—feeling only a little foolish—Bella clears her throat. I can tell she wants to say something. I turn, expectant.
“I know you and Hannah have been seeing each other,” she says. “I’m assuming those flowers are for her. It’s okay. I saw you two at Family Roller, giving each other eyes. It’s obvious you care about each other. I just wanted to say, I think it can work. I think it can be great. And I won’t tell Jock or Will. I know they’d try to use it against you.”
I pause, taken aback. There’s lots I could say, I suppose, but nothing comes to mind. So I just mutter, “Thank you, Bella.”
I leave just as it starts to rain.
Chapter Fourteen
Hannah
Okay, so I must be living inside a Hollywood tearjerker, because when I wake up, it’s fricking raining. Like, properly bang-bang-banging against the window. Now all I need is for somebody to start playing some OTT sad music, and I’m set.
I go downstairs to find Mom sitting at the kitchen table. There’s a giant, pretty bunch of flowers in a basket in front of her. In her hand, she’s flipping a piece of paper around and around, biting her bottom lip. She flinches when I pull a chair out, clearly not hearing me come in.
“Have you read the note?” I ask, seeing it’s folded over. She could have read it and re-folded it, or she’s not opened it yet. “Mom?”
She shakes her head, looking worried. It breaks my heart. I feel like a terrible daughter, because we both know these flowers are from Luke, and we both know Mom hates Luke and that whole family. “No, no,” she says in Spanish. “Little monkey, I wouldn’t do that to you. They are for you, of course. They are from your Luke.”
“He’s not my Luke, Mom,” I mutter, taking the note when she hands it to me. “He’s just … Luke.”
“He’s a polite boy,” Mom says quietly.
I sit back, stunned. “I thought you hated him.”
“There is more to that story,” Mom says. “More than you know, sweetness. But it is not Luke’s fault. He’s a good boy, I think. A SEAL, a polite man, a courteous man.”
Her words do some
thing funny to my insides. I’m not really sure how to take them. Because she’s right. Luke is all of those things, and more. But what did she mean, there’s more to the story? I want to ask her, but she looks so exhausted and down-fricking-trodden this morning.
I open the note read it: I’m not saying it’s easy, but I’m not saying it’s impossible, either. Luke.
Simple and direct, just like the man who wrote it. I hand the note to Mom.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to …”
“It’s okay.”
She shrugs, reads it. “He’s a realistic man,” Mom whispers. “A man like that … He’d make a good husband, a good father. A reliable man.”
“Mom, you sound tired,” I comment, ignoring the whole husband-father thing. It’s just so fricking confusing. “Did you sleep last night?”
She smiles sadly, tweaking my nose. “Sleep, little monkey? What is this sleep of which you speak?”
“Oh, Mom. I’ve been a terrible daughter, haven’t I? I’ve been leaving you alone too much, spending too much time … away, at the roller rink, doing my own thing.”
She makes a tsk noise, shaking her head vehemently. “I hope that is your idea of a joke,” she says. “You’re with me all the time, Hannah. You only go to the rink when I’m with Alejandra. You’re being silly. This isn’t your fault. It’s just the cancer, the vicious, ugly, cruel cancer.”
I blink away tears, shocked by the sudden emotion.
“Don’t cry,” Mom says. She shifts her chair around, putting her arm around me. “Oh, Hannah, you’re a brave and wonderful girl. I couldn’t ask for a better daughter. Please don’t cry.”
“It’s just so unfair,” I rage. “One second you’re fine, and the next … You didn’t even smoke.”
“Just the occasional one here and there,” Mom agrees. “But that’s life. What are we to do, spend all our time crying about things we can’t change? Come on, little monkey. You’re infecting me with your sadness now.” She laughs away her own tears, and we embrace.
“Can we have a day for just us, Mom? Can we draw together and watch bad movies and eat too much ice cream?”