I Hate to Stand Alone

by Casey Winter

  “But I haven’t told you what I want yet.” He’s close enough that the spray might hit him now. Or it’ll miss, and he’ll dive at me and grab me. “Do you know what happened to Porter Kemmler, my partner?”

  “You mean your accomplice?” I whisper. “Yes, I know. He was stabbed and died in prison.”

  “And I’m guessing you didn’t mourn him?”

  I scoff. “Just go, Mr. Shilts.”

  “Mr. Shilts? Penny, please. We’re closer than that. Call me Dirk.”

  “No,” I yell.

  He sighs, looking genuinely offended. “Yes or no, did you mourn him?”

  “Of course not,” I stammer.

  How can a heartbeat pound so loudly? I feel like it’s about to erupt from my chest.

  I want to leap at him and dig my thumbs into his eyes, which is violent and sickening, but he did way, way worse to my family. I want to hurt him. But I’m also close to crying. That would kill me: crying in front of this monster, giving him that satisfaction.

  “Of course not,” he repeats, pacing. “But I did. You see, Porter is the only person in this twisted life of mine who I ever felt understood me. He was the only friend I ever had. He was cruelly stabbed and murdered and he was only there—in a position to be murdered—because of you, Penny.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I croak.

  He stops pacing, staring at me coldly. “That’s how Porter saw it,” Dirk snarls. “As he was bleeding to death, he told me to make it right. He told me that he blamed you for putting him in that prison. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, little Penny?”

  “You’re telling me you’re crazy,” I whisper, trying to put some fire into my voice. I just wish it would stop quivering. “You’re telling me you blame me for something which you can’t possibly say is my fault.”

  “Porter took the brunt of the fall for me,” Dirk says. “I wouldn’t be out if it wasn’t for him owning up to the majority of the crimes. He was a good man … a good partner. And, as far as he was concerned, you killed him. So you see the position I’m in.”

  “I’ll spray you,” I yell, gesturing with the canister. Suddenly, it feels so small and pathetic. “Do you understand me? I’ll blind you and then, and then I’ll smash your goddamn face in with a chair. I don’t care, Mr. Shilts.”

  He raises his hands, frowning mockingly. “Oh, please, I’m scared,” he mutters. “Don’t hurt me, Penny Snow.”

  “Get out,” I hiss.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, “I’m going. But I’ll be seeing you. I have a place in Lorham now. I love the drive through Little Fall Forest. So peaceful. Would you mind if I came and said hello once in a while?”

  “Yes,” I snap. “I would mind. A lot.”

  “Hmm,” he says, backing right up to the door now. “I guess we’ll have to see about that. Because I’d like to see you, Penny. I’d like to see you very much.”

  Then, just like that, he’s gone.

  I stare at the empty doorway for a long time, wondering if I imagined the whole thing, wondering if he’s going to leap through the window and attack me. Seconds pass with excruciating slowness, and then become minutes. I know that my students will be arriving soon, but I can’t stop gripping the pepper spray canister so hard it digs into my palms, the metal greasy with my sweat.

  I try to be strong. I really do.

  But then I break down and cry.

  —

  I manage to get myself together as my students start to arrive. The last thing they need to see, when they’re supposed to view me as somebody who has their act together, is the exact opposite.

  I stand at the front of the class, saying hello as they file in. I recognize them from the photos next to their names on my list.

  There’s Chrissy with her dyed pink hair, tattooed from her fingertips to her neck to her ankles, with a friendly smile and a scent of pot. There’s Sebastian and Frankie, brothers with mops of red hair and unreadable smiles. Then Felicity walks in, an older woman with a dignified air about her, looking like a housewife from some bygone era.

  Finally, Andrew shuffles in, who I already know from the evening classes. He’s a short, nervous-looking man with greasy black hair and the habit of chewing gum so frantically his jaws must be in nonstop pain. “Hello, Penny,” he says, sitting down in his usual skittish way.

  “Andrew,” I smile. “How’s your grandfather?”

  “Better, better,” he says, not meeting my eye, but that’s just normal Andrew. He’s always evasive, especially when it comes to his grandfather who recently had a stroke. “Trying to soldier on, you know how it is.”

  I walk toward the door, meaning to shut it so we can get started.

  “Okay, everyone, if you want to talk and be disruptive, now’s your chance. Throw chairs, smash the windows, jump up and down on the desks. Because as soon as this door closes, I’m the judge, jury, and the executioner.”

  I laugh good-naturedly, and so does the class. It puts them at me at ease … and me, after what just happened. Pretending to feel normal helps like it always does. Make-believe is my refuge.

  “Seriously, though, interrupt me and there’ll be hell to pay. I’ve been known to—”

  I actually am interrupted when a brick wall walks right into me. I stumble back, confused. Then I realize that it’s a person, a man. Which is crazy because I’m six foot one and most men I meet are shorter than me.

  But this man …

  He’s huge. He must be at least six foot five, and muscular. He has stark blue eyes and ash-blonde hair, a Scandinavian look about him. If I wasn’t so freaked, I might find myself drinking in the way his shirt wraps tightly around his giant’s arms, or the very light stubble on his jaw, all man. Or the way his azure eyes glint slightly … and how I’d love to make them glint more.

  But, no, I’m way too freaked for that.

  And, anyway, even if his eyes are bright and full of life, the rest of him is pretty effing grim. He looks like somebody just stole his lunch and ate it in front of him. Not that I can imagine anyone getting away with stealing this hulking man’s anything.

  “Need to watch where you’re going,” he mutters, eyes roaming around the room, assessing everything. “Is this the creative writing class?”

  “Are you here for the class?” I whisper in disbelief.

  “Is that really so hard to believe?” he says. I can hear a smile in his voice—I think—but it doesn’t reach his lips. “And you’re the teacher, Penny Snow. Hannah’s friend.”

  “And you’re Morgan,” I whisper, finally remembering that Hannah mentioned he might be coming to the class. I guess, with everything that happened, I forgot. “Morgan Gunnarsson.”

  Hannah had a crazy, whirlwind romance last summer. She and the man who was supposed to be her arch nemesis, Luke Nelson, ended up falling in love and getting engaged. Hannah’s pregnant now, too, and they’re very happy, busy planning the wedding. Morgan’s Luke’s best friend. They used to work for a bigtime security agency together.

  I’ve heard about Morgan: Norwegian Special Forces, Sun-Disk Security’s top operator along with Luke. But hearing about him and meeting him in the taut, muscled flesh are two very different things. It’s so refreshing to look up at a man. I’m so used to looking down at them.

  “Okay, come in,” I say finally, sort of curious about the way he’s staring at me, into me. Or is he looking right through me? “We’re about to get started.”

  “Good,” he says.

  “And shut the door, please,” I call over my shoulder, as I return to the front of the class.

  “Only because you asked so nicely,” he says, again with that glint in his eyes. But no smile. I wonder if he’s mocking me.

  But I’ve got enough pin-balling around my head this morning without adding a giant Norwegian-American into the mix, with his hybrid accent and his Scandinavian features making him seem otherworldly and oh-so-appealing. It’s shocking how quietly he can move for such a big man. In his stee
l-blue shirt tucked into grey trousers and black shoes, he moves like a man half his size, silently sliding into the chair and taking out his book.

  “Okay, class, so what I like to do for the first lesson of the summer is have everybody introduce themselves. So we’ll go around the room and you can give us your name and maybe an interesting fact about yourself. I’ll start, just so everybody’s comfortable. My name is Penny Snow and I—”

  Routinely have panic attacks.

  Go to therapy once a week, every week, and have done for years.

  Find intimacy and relationships impossible because of how effed up I am.

  Was just confronted by a sadistic psychopath who basically said he’s going to make my life hell. Oh, and now I’m pretending it didn’t happen.

  “I once ate a whole tub of ice-cream with a fork because all my spoons were dirty.”

  Everybody chuckles, except Morgan. But he looks so oversized at the little high school desk that I almost laugh. He sees me looking and the corner of his lip twitches. What’s that, a half-smile?

  We go around the class: Andrew, who once skydived. Chrissy, who once did something strange with a banana she probably should’ve kept to herself. Felicity, who ran a marathon last year. Sebastian and Frankie: football players.

  Finally, we come to Morgan.

  “My name is Morgan,” he says coldly. “It’s nice to meet you all.”

  “And an interesting fact?” I prompt.

  His blue eyes get dreamy. It’s like he’s filtering through dozens of possibilities but deciding none of them are suitable for class. He’s probably thinking of his time in the Special Forces, when he went to war overseas, or maybe some crazy Sun-Disk Security job. Finally, he says, “Once, I was skydiving, and my parachute failed. I had a backup, though, and thankfully that one worked.”

  He says this completely calmly, as though it’s just a normal everyday occurrence. What’s even crazier is that he’s not bragging. Some men would say that to make themselves seem cool. With Morgan, he just states it, matter-of-factly, and turns back to his notebook as he writes the date at the top.

  —

  All through class, Morgan takes diligent notes.

  His eyes never leave me. Once or twice, I wonder if they’re moving over my legs. I’m wearing a pencil skirt with tights today, just my normal dress, but I swear his gaze devours me at certain points. Unbidden thrills move through me, but I should be focusing on teaching, not imagining that one of my students is mentally stripping me.

  I just wish his massive arms wouldn’t strain so much in his shirt, bulging the fabric like he’s trying to rip it apart. But I’m a professional. I don’t let any of this show. I just get on with the lesson.

  Finally, it comes to an end and everybody says their goodbyes.

  Morgan doesn’t hang around after class. He just nods shortly and then leaves. I watch him go, about a dozen sordid fantasies cycling through my head—curse of being a writer—but I ignore them all, of course, even if I’m debating saving some for later.

  After answering a couple of Chrissy’s questions about characterization, I’m alone in the class again. This is the part where usually I’d either head for the bus stop or start walking back into town.

  But, today, I keep thinking about Dirk Shilts, about how he could be waiting in the trees to leap out at me. The road between the high school and the town proper is bordered on all sides by Little Fall Forest. It’d be the easiest thing in the world for him to hide, lie in wait, and then leap out and grab me.

  I need to call the sheriff. I should have done that right away, but I was too scatterbrained.

  I reach for my phone.

  But then the door to the classroom swings open, whining on the hinges.

  I jump up, grabbing my pepper spray, heart thudding like it’s trying to break my ribcage.

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