The Speed of Light

by Elissa Grossell Dickey

  “Oh God, honey, are you getting sick?”

  I whip my head to the right, and I see Arielle standing on the other side of the screened-in patio. I shake my head, lowering my hand.

  “You can’t take any more of that shit downstairs, either, huh?” My shoulders sag, and as she slides open the screen door, I catch a pungent whiff from the cigarette in her hand. “Well, come on. It’s a hell of a lot better out here.”

  I step out and gasp at the grand canopy of stars that lights up the black sky. The water is still, and the stars are mirrored in the lake so you can’t tell where the sky ends and the water begins. My feelings, too, are a mixed-up jumble inside me. I love Connor and he loves me.

  He loves me. I’m sure he does. But when does love become obligation?

  I sigh, leaning forward against the railing of the deck, wishing I had the answer.

  “Does the smoke bother you?” Arielle asks.

  “No,” I say. “Just . . . tired.”

  She nods without looking over. “So when were you diagnosed?”

  I pause, unsure for a moment, then give in. “About eight months ago.”

  “How long have you known you had it, though?”

  I glance at her in surprise, but she keeps her eyes on the stars. Then I sigh. “The first signs were about nine years ago—bad headaches; my eyes wouldn’t focus. The funny thing is, I’d almost forgotten about it. Isn’t that stupid?”

  “It’s not stupid to try not to think about the bad stuff,” Arielle says softly. “So when did you know for sure?”

  “This time around, my foot went numb, and then I had some muscle spasticity. That’s how I was eventually diagnosed.” I narrow my eyes, turn toward her. “Do you know someone with MS?”

  “My aunt.”

  I swallow. “How is she?” Please be okay. Please be okay.

  She shrugs. “Same old feisty Aunt Maria.”

  She meets my eyes and smiles. I smile back, my shoulders sagging in relief. Arielle is definitely my favorite in this family.

  We stare out at the stars again until I clear my throat. “I’m really sorry, by the way. About Cam.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is it . . . is it hard being around them all the time?” I motion back toward the house.

  She sighs. “Oh yeah. Especially with this shit. I thought they weren’t going to do it anymore, but Irene is a stickler for tradition. But it’s her way of dealing with it, so I get it.” She drops her cigarette and crushes it underfoot. “Sometimes I wish I could just go, you know? Just me and Ella, and nobody else. We don’t need anybody else, you know?”

  I nod vigorously.

  Arielle laughs bitterly. “But who am I kidding? Ella does need them.” She stares at the stars again, her voice so soft I almost don’t hear it. “Maybe I do, too.” She gives her shoulders a little shake and then turns back to me. “I do need a change, though. Something different. Christ, even just a new piercing, or blue hair—or maybe another tattoo. Anything to show I’m still here, you know. I’m alive and I’m still in control of my own goddamned life.”

  I want to hug her, to comfort her, to thank her, this woman I just met who is making so much sense—who has experienced an entirely different tragedy and yet endures the same emotions I can’t seem to express. But she turns toward me and abruptly changes the subject. “Let me guess: you’re out here because they got to the ‘Connor and Diana Montage of Love.’”

  She says it in such a mocking, sickeningly sweet tone that I have to laugh. But it quickly fades. “I . . . he never told me they were engaged.”

  Her eyes widen. “God dammit, Connor.” I say nothing, and she sighs. “I’m sure it’s because it’s painful to talk about, you know? It all ended pretty abruptly. I mean, she called from her internship in Boston to say she wanted to break up. Pretty sure she was already with somebody else.”

  I’m not sure how many more surprises I can take. “So, do you . . . do you think he’s over her?”

  “Oh yeah, totally.” Arielle doesn’t hesitate, which should be more of a comfort than it is. “Don’t let that shitty slideshow fool you. Diana was the queen of looking perfect, and maybe she was, sort of, but she was a little too perfect, if you ask me. You know what I mean?”

  I don’t know, but I nod anyway because I desperately want her to be right. I need the nagging doubt planted in my mind to stop growing.

  We stare into the stars again, and I wish they could tell me my future. Whether I’m making the right choices about my health, my relationship. Whether delaying treatment will be worse for me in the end.

  And whether delaying the inevitable conversation with Connor will only make things hurt more in the long run.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  We’re on our way home at last, and in the darkness of the truck I make a point to stare out the window, refusing to make eye contact with Connor. We don’t speak at all for the first thirty miles, but he doesn’t seem to notice until about mile twenty. I can tell that he notices because he starts to fidget with the music, ask random questions. I’m able to respond with one-word answers, so I can prolong my silence.

  “Need to make a bathroom stop?”

  “No.”

  “Should we stop for gas at the truck stop in Summit?”

  “Sure.”

  Finally, after forty-five minutes, he sighs. “Look, since you’re not talking to me, can I tell you about something?”

  I frown but I’m curious, so I look over. His eyes are twinkling. “Uh, sure.”

  Connor takes a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, about how I could still finish my degree, even open up a bar, and I was kind of coming around to the idea, and, well, I was talking to Dr. Fritz today—did you meet him?”

  He was the jerk who thought I was drunk. I nod, biting back the sarcasm.

  “He’s a professor at a private college in Saint Paul, and he was telling me about their online business degree. He convinced me to apply.”

  I suck in a breath. “Wow.”

  “I know. It’ll mean that I’ll be really busy between work and homework and everything, but we’ll make it work, right?” He doesn’t stop to let me answer, his mind buzzing. “Everything is online, but they do require an on-campus visit one week during the summer, for orientation.” He stops, glances over. “It’s next week.”

  My eyes widen. “Next week?”

  “I know, it’s so soon—obviously they can’t process my application that quickly, so I’m not technically enrolled yet, but Dr. Fritz said I could sit in on this current session. It’ll give me a head start, help me make some contacts for possible internships—get my foot in the door.”

  His eyes are pleading, and God, he is glowing with excitement. I can’t help but smile. “That’s amazing, Connor.”

  He beams and reaches for my hand, but then he sighs, his smile fading. “Look, I am so sorry about the stupid slideshow.”

  “You never told me you were engaged.”

  His head whips over. “What?”

  I meet his gaze. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He looks away, shrugs, but his face is red. “You never asked,” he says quietly.

  “How would I have known to specifically ask that?” My voice rises, and he flinches. “It seems like something you would’ve volunteered.”

  “I just . . . didn’t think it was important. Not anymore. Ancient history.” He looks over again, his eyes sincere, but I wait for those magic words. “I’m sorry.”

  My shoulders relax and I nod. He reaches for my hand. “Honestly, I forgot about that part of the slideshow because I haven’t watched it in years. Cam and I would usually skip out and keep drinking. But I have to say, it was really nice seeing all those old pictures of him.”

  I squeeze his hand. “You were pretty cute when you were a kid.”

  “Right? I mean, overall it wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  “Oh no, I truly enjoyed the ‘Connor and Diana Montage of Love.’” />
  He sighs. “Look, I asked Mom to take those pictures out of the slideshow. Next year will be better, okay?”

  Next year. I try to cover my apprehension with a strained smile.

  He narrows his eyes. “Okay, what else did I screw up?”

  I take a deep breath, but I can’t do it—I can’t bring myself to repeat what his mom said. How she made me fear he is with me out of some sort of obligation, out of some need to help, to be a fixer.

  I’m also afraid of the answer, of seeing the truth in his eyes.

  “I’m just tired.” I turn toward the window and stare into the darkness.

  Soon the bright lights of Sioux Falls twinkle ahead of us. When Connor pulls into the parking lot of my apartment building and shuts the engine off, I clear my throat, stare up at the tan three-story building, aging but sturdy. “You don’t need to come in.”

  He looks over in surprise. “Oh. I thought I would stay tonight?”

  I shrug, but it’s stiff. “It’s late. We both have to work in the morning.”

  His eyes are hurt now, and somewhere deep down I want to comfort him, but I fight it.

  “I was thinking we could watch The Phantom Menace,” he says. I wrinkle my nose, and he quickly continues. “Okay, we can skip to The Force Awakens, if you don’t want to watch those episodes—”

  “Connor,” I say, cutting him off. “It’s late, and I’m tired.” The truth, but not the whole truth. Without meeting his gaze, I step out into the darkness, the rush of the cool night breeze tickling my face, and walk to the back of the truck. Connor meets me there, eases open the back, and reaches underneath the truck-bed cover for the extra-large beach bag I packed for the day. “I got it.” My voice is sharper than I intended, and he stiffens.

  The bag is heavy—I’m a chronic overpacker, dammit—and it takes effort to lug it out and onto my shoulder.

  I look up at him, and he’s eyeing me. “I can carry that up for you, you know.”

  I raise my chin, my insides churning with ugly words. Fixer. Burden. “I can do it myself.”

  He blinks, nods, then leans over to give me a quick kiss. I don’t stop him, but I don’t return it. “Okay then.” His voice is flat. “I’ll call you tomorrow, I guess.”

  I don’t say anything, don’t turn to wave as I walk inside. Instead I drag my exhausted body up to my apartment, straight into bed, and try to drown out the sound of his mother’s voice in my head, try to quell the doubts swimming through my mind, the knot of fear lodged in my gut.

  I try to pretend everything is going to turn out okay.

  PART NINE

  REALIZATION

  Monday, December 6, 10:14 a.m.

  Everything will be okay. It has to be. I’m willing myself to believe this even as I listen to the footsteps of the shooter approaching the closet.

  Another footstep, then another. My heart beats in my ears—it’s fight-or-flight time, and I blink around the darkness until I see a small plastic tray on a shelf that contains extra office supplies.

  “Hayley,” I whisper, pointing, and she sees it and grabs the large pair of scissors on top. Then we both wait here in our hiding place, cramped and covered in blood, fearful eyes on the door.

  The footsteps stop and I hold my breath. Suddenly the door bangs against the bookshelf again, and a second set of footsteps scuffs in. Hope surges within me—someone else is here, maybe to save us. But there’s no commotion, only the sound of two voices now, speaking softly to each other.

  My stomach drops. They’re not here to help. They’re working with the shooter.

  This person’s sound is different, though, their feet clomping around the room rather than taking measured footsteps like their counterpart—one voice murmuring at a near-frantic pace, the other clipped and contained. Their voices get louder, and I lean forward, straining to hear. It’s two men.

  Then the calmer of the two voices rises, and the hairs on my arms prickle.

  “I had to start sooner than expected because you didn’t secure upstairs like you were supposed to.”

  My eyes meet Hayley’s in the darkness, and I wonder if she feels it, too—the icy shiver of recognition and dread.

  Because it’s her boss out there. Chet is the shooter.

  The picture solidifies in my mind now, a puzzle coming together. The smug little man who craved control, whose calm facade hid a monster all this time. An entitled, violent monster.

  “Did you really think we were just going to scare them?” Chet asks now, his voice even louder, crueler. The clomping pacing stops, but the other voice stays low, and I can’t hear their response. Chet screams again. “You weren’t even going to fire the gun, were you? I swear to God, if I hadn’t come up there, they would’ve overpowered you and it would all be over. Pathetic.”

  His words slice through the air like razor blades, and the room falls silent, the air heavy with a terrible expectancy.

  At last the other shooter speaks up, and it’s as if his words steal my breath, pierce right through me.

  Because I recognize the second voice, too.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  July 12, five months before

  The next week is a whirlwind for Connor—I recognize that and play the dutiful girlfriend as he rushes to pack, to beg out of work by promising to take extra shifts when he returns. I smile and wish him luck when he leaves for his week of orientation in the Twin Cities, but the echoes of fear and doubt still reverberate within me from our strained argument after his family gathering on the Fourth—and from the words his mother said that I can’t get out of my mind.

  “So he’s gone all week?” Nikki asks as we walk together down the long hallway toward the Student Union for the—finally scheduled—active shooter training session.

  I nod. “It’s required, plus it’s an incredible opportunity for the professor to introduce him to some contacts.”

  She scrunches her face. “Why did you say that so weird? Like, your voice got all high and fakey.”

  “What do you mean?” I squeak.

  She smirks and I bristle. I haven’t told her about any of the tension between Connor and me yet—the slideshow, his mom’s “fixer” comment, the way I brushed him off when we got back. I’m putting off telling Nikki about it because I know what she’ll say: talk to Connor. And she’d be right—we need to talk about a lot—and I’m approaching my promised deadline of discussing my illness, the future, our future.

  But now more than ever, I am afraid to.

  I’m saved now by my phone buzzing, and I glance down. Connor. “Do I have time to take this?”

  Nikki waves a hand. “Yeah, I’ll save you a seat.”

  I plop down on a cushy mauve sofa outside the conference room, where coworkers from various departments are already filing in for the training. “Hello?”

  “Hey, beautiful.”

  The connection is scratchy, but somehow hearing his voice manages to push back the fear and doubt for now, and I can’t help but smile. “Hey, yourself. Are you counting down the days until Friday?” There’s a pause, and at first I think I’ve lost the call. “Connor? Are you there?”

  He groans. “Well, that’s why I called. I just found out I need to stay a few more days.”

  “Why?”

  “Dr. Fritz set up another meeting this weekend—I might be able to get an internship with a major liquor distributor next year, and it would be great to see that side of the business.”

  I pause, the fear creeping back in. “Oh.”

  “Oh, what?”

  His voice is scratchy, and it’s more than just the connection—I’m not used to hearing an edge of tension in his voice. I swallow. “I just . . . I thought you were going to be here Friday is all.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. I’m figuring things out as I go here.” Connor sighs. “It’s all kind of overwhelming, honestly.”

  A surge of guilt hits—he’s stressed. I should be supportive. “I understand. So when do you expect to be home?”
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br />   “Sunday. And then I promise we’ll spend some—”

  His voice stops abruptly. I stare at the phone, screen dark and silent in my hand, until I’m sure that I’ve lost him.

  “Is everything all right, dear?”

  I look up in surprise into a kind smile and worried eyes behind thick glasses. “Charlene, you’re back!” I shove my phone into my pocket and return her smile. “Everything’s fine—just dropped a call. How was your vacation?”

  “Oh, it was wonderful.” She pats her cheek and chuckles. “I even got some sun.”

  I cluck my tongue. “I’m so jealous. The weather was good for the wedding, then?”

  She gives a relieved nod—Nikki and I heard all about Charlene’s concerns about her daughter’s outdoor wedding venue at coffee a couple of weeks ago. “Yes, thank heavens. And the reception was beautiful—so much space for the grandkids to run around and work off all that sugar.” She chuckles. “Isn’t it funny how something that seems all wrong can actually be just right?”

  Her words jolt me, but I keep my smile. “So true.” I stand. “Well, I’d better get in there. Are you going to the active shooter training?”

  Charlene shudders. “No, I’ll be sure to read up on it afterward, though. Your office usually posts a summary, right?” I nod and she smiles. “You take care now.”

  We part ways, and as I walk toward the training room, I remember her words—and I hope that even though things seem wrong with Connor right now, everything will be just right after all.

  I scramble into the training session at the last minute, apologizing as I bump into people’s knees as I make my way to the seat Nikki saved for me. My eyes scan the room, and I frown. “Where’s Stan?” I whisper.

  Nikki shakes her head. “He was here, but then Louise called, and he stepped out.”

  As Officer Jackson begins the session by firing up a PowerPoint and welcoming everyone, my thoughts begin to drift between Stan’s mysterious behavior and my own problems. I stare out the window at the sky, squinting to blur the grayness, to blur my thoughts.