by Angie Martin
James shrugged. “For some reason it fascinated me in elementary school when we learned about the Presidents and it stuck.”
“What are your thoughts on Senator Robbins?” Mark asked.
“He’d make a fantastic President,” James said. “He makes friends with everyone, no matter their political persuasion, and he figures out a way to make everyone happy on issues. Since his friend died, he’s done so much with crime control and...” James scrunched up his face and scratched his head. “What was that guy’s name?”
The bell announced the entrance of a customer. “This is real exciting,” Rachel told James, “but I need to steal Mark away from you now. I’m starving and he owes me dinner.”
They said goodbye to James and Mark took her hand. Halfway to the back exit, he stopped walking. “I forgot my keys.”
“We’ll be here all night,” she said.
“Come here,” he said. He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. He brushed the hair away from her face. “I promise I won’t let James sucker me into a daylong conversation and if he does, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but it’ll be good.”
Rachel laughed, and he kissed her. He turned and headed back into the office. Her smile fell from her lips. If he was more than a minute or two, she’d have to go in and get him. Anything to keep him away from the topic of the news story.
She glanced around the bookstore, studying each patron she could see as she walked up the center aisle. To her left, a young woman with several books tucked under her arm read the synopsis on the back cover of a romance novel. Sarah headed toward two teenagers flipping through magazines on the back wall.
Somewhere in front of her, Greg conferred with an older couple about travel books. Jason, a young college student who worked in the bookstore part-time, collected money from a middle-aged man at the register.
The bell on the front door rang out through the store, and Rachel’s nerves jumped. Lead lined her stomach and blood pumped through her veins with unusual vigor. Her claustrophobia closed in the walls around her, and the store seemed to get smaller with each passing second.
“Look, Mommy!” a girl’s voice exclaimed.
Rachel walked toward the voice coming from the children’s book section, as if drawn by an invisible force.
“This is the book where Cinderella goes to the ball,” the girl continued.
Rachel stopped walking. Her throat constricted against the quick breaths she drew of thick, hot air.
“Her dress is pretty and she dances with the prince, but has to leave before she turns into a pumpkin.”
The piano’s keys tinkled in Rachel’s mind, beginning its haunting melody, unaware that it was only supposed to play in her dreams.
“Please, can I have that book, Mommy?”
Rachel fought the darkness that enveloped her vision.
“Excuse me, miss?”
The panic attack ended with the man’s words. Rachel turned to him and forced a smile.
A return smile peered at her beneath his trimmed moustache. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, “but do you work here? I’m having trouble finding a book.”
“No, I don’t. He should be able to help you,” she said, and pointed in Jason’s direction. Jason waved to let her know he was on his way. The stranger insisted on small talk about the hot weather and high humidity until Jason reached them. Jason greeted the customer and steered him in another direction.
Mark appeared next to her, dangling his car keys by his side. “There you are,” he said. “I’m sorry I took so long. You were right about James starting another unending conversation.” He studied Rachel. “Is everything okay? You’re a bit pale.”
Rachel shrugged and gave him a quirky smile. “It’s probably my blood sugar dropping since you’re letting me starve to death,” she said. “I could pass out at any moment.”
Mark smiled again. “We can’t have that happening here in the store. We’d lose some customers for sure. Let’s go eat.”
Rachel accepted his hand and let him lead her out of the store. He always made things better when he was by her side, and it made leaving him that much harder. Lying to him was soul wrenching, but the greater her paranoia, the more abhorrent her dishonesty became. Her actions in his office, albeit necessary, were inexcusable and deceitful.
If she stayed with him, Mark would discover her motives, and he would never forgive her once he did. It solidified her thoughts that she needed to end what they had now, before her heart refused to let her go.
Chapter Twenty-one
Mark reached his hand through the soap bubbles and pulled a plate out of the sink. Armed with a sponge, he scrubbed the soap over the plate and handed it to Rachel. She rinsed it off in warm water and laid it on a towel spread across the counter.
“I can’t believe you talked me into letting you help with dishes,” he said, “especially after your dishwasher incident.”
“Quit complaining and get busy. I’m way ahead of you in the rinsing department.” With a mischievous grin, Rachel flicked some water from her fingers onto the side of his face.
“Don’t start a water fight if you can’t finish it,” Mark said with a laugh.
Rachel raised her hands up in the air. “Then I surrender before you decide to retaliate,” she said. “By the way, you were right. That was the most incredible lasagna I’ve ever had. How did you learn to cook like that?”
“I started cooking out of necessity. Greg and I were stuck having to fend for ourselves half the time, with Dad being on the road and Mom being knee deep in vodka and prescription narcotics.”
Rachel rinsed a glass, and contemplated his words. Mark endured serious neglect and trauma as a child, and survived much more than most people do in a lifetime. Yet he adapted to his misfortune and never let it overcome him. Rachel craved that ability, and she wondered if it was too late for her to be more like him.
“Greg’s culinary skills were zero,” Mark continued. “He burnt anything and everything. I guess I got sick of eating peanut butter and jelly, and I taught myself how to cook.”
“I wish I knew how to cook,” Rachel said. “I burn things, too. I think I get that from my dad, because I remember my mom’s cooking wasn’t that bad.”
She laughed at a memory, and took a soapy dish from Mark’s hands. “One time my mom had to work late and Dad was stuck cooking dinner. He got this brilliant idea he could make meatloaf. He even put on one of Mom’s aprons. I laughed at him and he kicked me out of the kitchen.”
The words rolled off Rachel’s tongue without thought as to how much information about her life came out. In that moment, she did not care about the secrets she held under lock and key.
“About an hour later,” she said, “I went to check on him. I opened up the door between the kitchen and living room and all this smoke rolled out. He had burned the meatloaf. All the windows in the kitchen were open, and he had snuck out the other door so I wouldn’t know what happened. I found Dad in his bedroom and he looked crushed. As soon as he saw me, his expression changed. He ushered me back in the living room, telling me not to worry, he would fix it.
“Another hour passed and I was ready to eat the black meatloaf. Then the doorbell rang and it was the pizza delivery guy. I don’t remember ever having pizza that tasted so good. As we were eating, Dad said, ‘Now you can tell your mother what a wonderful cook I am.’ We laughed until we cried.” Rachel paused, and sorrow flooded her heart. “A few months later, he was dead.”
“You still miss them, don’t you?”
Missing her parents was a weak phrase for what she felt, but it was the best way to describe her emotions with words. “Yes, all the time,” she said. Confused by the surprise in his voice when he spoke the question, Rachel asked, “Don’t you miss your parents?”
Mark shrugged. “Your parents really loved you when they were alive. I can tell by how much you still love them. I never experience
d that. They were my parents, flesh and blood. I should miss them, but I don’t think about them much. Sometimes I feel guilty, but it’s hard to miss parents that were never there in the first place.”
He yanked the plug out of the sink’s drain, and water whooshed down the drain. He rinsed the soap off his hands under the running water Rachel used to rinse silverware. As he dried his hands on a dishtowel, he asked, “Why is it always like pulling teeth to get you to talk to me?”
It was a question Rachel expected at some point, but she still feigned ignorance. “What do you mean?”
“I think the story about your dad is the most you’ve ever talked about yourself at once, and I didn’t have to ask.”
She took the dishtowel from him and rubbed her damp hands against the material. She shrugged and answered the best she could without saying too much. “I don’t like talking about myself. There’s nothing interesting to say.”
“Everything about you is interesting to me.”
He wasn’t going to let the topic go, Rachel realized. “I guess I don’t ever have to talk about my life, so I’m not used to it. Danielle’s the only person I’ve been close to for so long and she already knows everything there is to know. I’ve never had anyone else besides her to talk to.” Rachel reached over and took Mark’s hand in hers. “At least, not until I met you.”
“So what’s the difference between talking to her and talking to me?”
“I imagine there’s some sort of comfort level I reached with her after knowing her for a long time. As I came to know her and trust her, it became easier to talk to her.”
“So what will it take for you to reach that comfort level with me?”
Unsure of how to reply, Rachel took a deep breath and let go of his hand. The turn in the conversation once again upset her plan for the night. Yet that was how it always went with Mark. Every time she thought about leaving him, he reminded her of how much more she needed him.
“Rachel, how can I convince you it’s okay to talk to me about anything?”
“Those are some loaded questions,” she said.
“Ones that I’d like the answers to.”
She picked up the last plate in the sink and focused on the circular motion of the towel over its damp surface. “You’re making this sound long-term.”
He stepped closer to her. “I’d like to think it is.”
She put the towel down and raised her eyes to his face. Inches away from her, warmth radiated from his body onto hers. She opened her mouth to say something, and then changed her mind. She creased her forehead and bit her bottom lip hard to stop from saying anything at all.
Mark lifted his hand and brushed her hair out of her face. “Rachel, what is it?”
Rachel could no longer hold her thoughts to herself. “I am so in love with you.” Before he could say a word, she raised herself on her tiptoes and touched her lips against his in a tentative kiss.
Mark placed a gentle hand high up on her arm, and kept the kiss sweet and pure. Rachel wanted more. She pressed into him, and intensified the movement of her lips over his. Mark’s hands wrapped around her back and he pulled her closer to him.
Without looking, she set the plate on the counter and ignored the shatter when it fell back into the sink. She put her hands on his face and rested her thumb on the corner of his mouth. His hands journeyed around to the front of her shirt. The buttons came undone with ease, his mouth never straying from hers. Her shirt dropped off her arms to the floor, and the heat of her body counteracted the chill that caressed her skin.
Mark broke away from her and moistened his lips. Desperate to get back to where they left off, she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. She needed to be with him more than she needed anything else. She didn’t want to stop now and risk never allowing herself to get back to this point with him.
Mark brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and Rachel trembled under his touch. She watched his eyes through a haze of desire. A large smile crossed his face. “I love you, too, Rachel,” he whispered, “more than you could ever know.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Rachel floated through the strange fog as if walking on clouds. She smoothed down the silky material of the black dress she wore, and stopped walking to admire its simple beauty. She lifted her eyes and saw a shadowy figure at the other end of the room. Her eyes adjusted, and the person moved toward her.
Mark came into view and held out his hand. “Come with me, Rachel. I have something to show you.”
She smiled and took his hand. He led her down a shadowed hallway that seemed to have no end. The dark curtains covering the windows allowed minimal light to pass through. The thick fog clinging to her ankles covered the cold tiles beneath her bare feet.
The piano started playing the same song she remembered from long ago. The tune brought vague images to the front of her mind, but she couldn’t grasp onto any of them to see what they were.
“Why does that song sound so familiar?” she asked Mark.
“All songs are the same in fairy tales.”
“Who’s playing the piano?”
“Prince Charming. Every fairy tale has a Prince Charming.”
“Where are we going, Mark?” she asked. She frowned when he didn’t respond. “Mark?”
A slight breeze chilled her skin. She looked down the hallway, and when she squinted she could distinguish the outline of a door. “Mark, where are we going?”
Mark turned toward her. A sadistic grin crawled across his mouth and into his eyes. “I’m taking you home.”
“No!” She willed her legs to stop, but an unseen power forced her to continue down the hall. “Stop it! Don’t take me there!”
“Rachel, are you ready to go home?” Mark tugged her arm and pulled her through the fog, closer to the door. “It’s time to go home. Time to go home.”
“I don’t want to go!”
He chanted faster. “Going home Rachel is going home you’re going home going home—”
“No! Please, Mark, make it stop!”
“Going home going home going home home home home.”
The door materialized in front of them and they stopped walking. The sound of her labored breathing filled her ears. Her head swam and when she turned to look at Mark, her movements were in slow motion.
He smiled. “Don’t worry, Rachel. It will be over soon.”
The hallway disappeared and she was transported into another room, the one behind the door. A dim light glowed in the background, outlining the silhouette of a man in a chair. Her eyes fell on his hands and the red rag he held. Fear gripped her as the man spoke. “Welcome home, Rachel.”
She screamed.
Chapter Twenty-three
Fear spilled over from the dream and paralyzed Rachel when she woke. She remained frozen until reality washed away the last of the images from her mind. She repeated to herself that it was only a dream, though she wasn’t entirely convinced.
Disoriented, she forced her head to move so she could glance around the dark room. The silhouette of Mark’s shoulder disturbed the shadows and she remembered she was at his house. In his bed. The events of last night reentered her mind. What was she doing? When she told Danielle she would get Mark out of her life, she meant it. Instead, she allowed their relationship to escalate.
She didn’t sit back helpless while they took their relationship to a new level. She instigated it. She couldn’t explain her actions, couldn’t figure out why she let it happen. All she knew was she needed him more than she needed the air in her lungs. She needed to touch him, taste him, feel him. The passion, the fire, it all seemed so right.
But it was so wrong.
The oversized, red numbers of the alarm clock on his bedside table displayed 6:14 am. She turned her attention back to Mark. He faced toward her, his patterned breathing controlled by deep sleep. Her hand reached for him. Her trembling fingers hovered above his bare shoulder for a moment before she retracted her hand to her mouth.
&nb
sp; A range of emotions surged through her, the most prominent of which was sadness. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t deserve him or the innocent love he brought into her life. Though he had never seen the hidden side of her, the tainted and broken side, the moment he realized she was not the girl he loved, he would run away and never look back.
She needed to sneak out before he woke up. Once she was alone at her house, she could figure out the best way to end the relationship. As much as she wanted a life with him, as much as she loved him, she had no choice but to leave him. If it came down to it, she would leave him without a goodbye.
Rachel leaned over and touched her lips against his. She inched herself sideways across the bed, but stopped when she saw the movement was waking Mark. He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Have you been awake long?”
“A few minutes.”
He looked at the clock and yawned, then turned his eyes back to her. “Are you always up this early?” he asked, still grinning.
His innocent, almost playful question reminded Rachel of his naivety. She bit down on her lower lip in an attempt to hold back tears.
Mark studied her face, and his expression changed to one of concern. “Did you have a bad dream?”
“Yes,” she said.
“What was it about?”
“I can’t remember now.” She cringed inside with the lie. She remembered every image as if it were a real memory and not a dream. The uneasiness trailing in the wake of the nightmare still disturbed her.
At his coaxing, Rachel moved closer to him and laid her head down on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and his lips brushed her forehead. His warm skin reassured her of his presence, and the sound of his slow and steady heartbeat comforted her.
She closed her eyes and drifted toward a dreamless sleep, wishing she could stay like this forever.