by Ginger Scott
I gasp at the memory nearly pulled to the surface, but dash it away when he starts to talk.
“Trouble, yeah . . . no . . . I won’t be. That house, it’s in Paul’s name. My mom was a renter, but he bought it when they married.” His eyes glimmer at that bit of information, something in him pleased to see this land on his stepfather’s lap.
“He’s a shitty stepdad, I take it?” In my gut, I know he is. And I think maybe Paul isn’t only part of our dreams, either.
He nods to me and rolls up his sleeve to uncover the thick round scar that looks as if it’s from a burn. I trace the fading edge with the tip of my finger.
“He’s not the worst,” he says, and my breath catches, hurting for him.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, keeping my eyes on this old wound that will never heal. I lean down and press my lips to it, and when I sit back up, his eyes are glossy but still alert. And so very worried.
“The hospital will be exit four. We can cut through the mall. We’ll go back that way, too. Maybe see a movie, lie low,” he says.
I nod.
Every stop the bus makes ratchets up my pulse and makes me squeeze his hand harder. I focus on the way our fingers thread together, taking note of the little tender movements he makes, like running his thumb in short, soft strokes against the vulnerable inside of my wrist.
He’s done this before.
The suffocation starts about two blocks from our stop. I tug at the neck of my thick blue sweatshirt, feeling smothered and hotter than I can tolerate. I worm my hand loose from his and pull it up over my head, exhaling loudly and drawing eyes our way. He quickly takes my sweatshirt, balling it up and stuffing it in the corner of our seat. Then he turns his stare on two older women holding totes of groceries on their laps. He watches them until they get off at the exit before ours, and when they walk by our window and look up at us, he lets out a sharp sigh.
“Shit,” he whispers, barely moving his lips.
“They don’t know anything.” I try to reassure him.
“They know something, they just don’t know what,” he explains. As twisted as that thought is, it also does make sense.
We arrive at our exit, and I reach across his lap for my sweatshirt. He bats my hand away. “You leave that here. We’ll get you something different to wear and be seen in.”
I dart my eyes up to meet his. I get it. He’s right. The women saw me in the blue.
“Okay.” I nod and step into the aisle. He moves in close behind me, holding his hands at my hips as we walk down the narrow pathway together.
“Smile,” he whispers over my shoulder.
I do as he says, and he laughs into the back of my neck. We’re two seventeen-year-old kids out for a fun date, and that’s it. Any glares we get as we walk off the bus are innocuous, so I play the part of carefree girl with a crush until we arrive in the thick of the early evening crowds at the mall.
I tense at the sight of a security guard, and this time he genuinely laughs at me.
“Relax, those aren’t real cops,” he says, leaning in close to me.
His hand takes mine again, but this time not as part of the act or out of panic. This is just him wanting to hold it, a natural movement that I feel he’s done dozens—hundreds—of times before. I wait until we get to the coat section of the department store across the street from the hospital, and I stop him.
“It’s about to snow outside. I’ll need something,” I say. I hold our hands up when I talk, and I nod toward them.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” His thumb makes the familiar stroke along my wrist. I glance to it and nod.
“It is,” I say.
Someone enters through the doors nearby, sending a rush of wind tunneling toward us, and my arms almost immediately bead with chills. He tugs on my hand, leading me into the racks until we get to some simple canvas jackets. There’s an olive green one with fur on the collar, and I pull it off the hanger to try on.
“That looks like you,” he says, and I twist from my reflection in the mirror to look at him straight on and consider his words. I push my hands into the pockets and wonder if maybe somewhere else I have a coat like this.
I look down and touch the buttons, pulling the sides together to see if I can close it. He finishes the task for me, buttoning the two in the center and stepping back to take all of me in. The smile is subtle, but it’s genuine, even if it’s only on one side of his mouth.
I lift my arm and check the tag. It’s sixty bucks which is, like, four times the amount I’m allowed to spend on anything. I choke out a laugh when I see it and start to pull the buttons apart. He stops my hand, holding it against my chest with his own. I breathe and our touch moves with my intake of air.
“It looks like you,” he says again, the deep brown in his eyes catching the overhead lights and reflecting like golden glitter. “Besides, I have cash.”
He pulls a roll from his pocket, and I laugh with him. Seems fitting he should be allowed to spend the hit money on me, especially since he’s sorta not . . . dead.
“Fine.” I give in, rolling my eyes but secretly enjoying this odd break in our story. It’s a quiet moment, which makes me question everything Cowboy—I mean Kellen—told me. But maybe these quiet moments are the bits that are real, the fragments from our homes and actual lives. It’s the chaos that our brains fool us with.
I follow him to a cashier counter near the exit we need, and he reaches along the sleeve of the jacket until he finds the tag, ripping it off and handing it to the lady.
“It’s her birthday, and I ruined her other coat.” He shrugs and the woman giggles, finding his chivalrous gesture adorable. I do, too, even though it’s all bullshit.
He peels off one of the hundred-dollar bills below the counter so she doesn’t see the exact amount he’s dealing with, then hands it to her and tells her to keep the change.
“Well, thank you!” She blushes, and also tucks the extra thirty-something after tax into the front pocket of her dress pants. “That’s a good one you’ve got there,” she shouts as we head through the door.
This time, I take his hand. I take it because she’s right; there is something good about him. I’m just not sure what it is exactly. I can’t remember.
We wait for a pause in traffic and jog across the street, moving in through the main hospital entrance, several sections away from the busy ER, which is probably where Kellen is being taken right now.
“Smile,” he says, leaning into me as we clear one set of doors to move down a long hallway with nothing but locked rooms and signs directing us toward the emergency room.
“You need help?” A trio of nurses walk toward us, coffees in each of their hands.
“No, we’re good. But thanks!” His voice is confident, nearly jovial. The nurses all nod as we pass and continue on with some conversation about Trisha getting more attention from Scott than they are, and how they must be sleeping together.
“It’s all about believing you’re exactly what they need to see,” he says to me, turning and walking backward for a few seconds until he pushes open the final set of doors with his back.
We come in through the opposite side of the ER waiting room, the area broken up by several sections of chairs. Almost every seat is filled, except for a dark corner over by a magazine rack that I wouldn’t touch for all the money in the world. Not even hit money.
We move to the chairs at the end, our view clear in most directions, and then we wait. Several ambulances arrive, all within minutes of each other, but one catches both of our attention. I hear someone say “gunshot wound” and several people rush to help wheel the patient in. I look so hard from my periphery that I almost cause myself to throw up from dizziness.
“That’s him,” he says, resting his head on my shoulder so he can look inconspicuously.
We wait until Cowboy is pushed through the wide metal doors, then move to a nearby coffee station. We hold empty cups while we hover and, when doors open and close, peer through any
crack and crevice in an attempt to obtain a view.
“If they’re rushing him in, he must have a chance, right?” I examine his face to read his expression. It’s blank, a true bluff of his real feelings and thoughts.
“Maybe,” he finally says, his focus moving a few inches to the left, then freezing. If I weren’t staring at him so intently, I might have missed it. His pupils grow, widening until the brown is almost gone; the vein at his temple grows thicker, his pulse visible, easy to measure.
“What is it?” I ask, turning to follow his gaze.
She’s dressed differently, and her hair—it’s shorter. She seems to know where she’s going, and she knows whoever that woman is with her. I think that’s Mrs. Shipp.
“Gia.” We both utter her name in unison.
28
Villain
“We need to leave.” I take Damsel’s hand and force her to move without giving her much choice. I feel bad, I think I’ve dragged her nonstop for the last hour, but I know for certain we can’t be here right now.
“Why would she be here? That was her, wasn’t it? Where can we go?”
She’s asking so many questions—too many questions. I growl under my breath, fighting off the urge to scream because this situation makes my brain hurt.
I know with every fiber of my body that is my sister. I also know I left her and Mrs. Shipp on our street, in that house, away from this. Why the fuck they are here? I have no clue. And they seem relaxed, in no hurry and without care. They look different, too. Older.
“The warehouse, by the diner.” It’s the only place around here I can think of to hide. I have control there, or at least, I do when I’m asleep. But according to Damsel, I already am asleep—all the time. One big fucking sleep.
I’m not sure whether she comes with me because I seem so insistent or because she trusts me. It doesn’t matter, but there’s an odd craving in my chest for it to be the latter.
It seems we used up our bus luck the first time, because this round leaves us waiting almost fifteen minutes for the next one to pull up to the stop a block from the hospital. I waver between being paranoid and unfazed. I think she’s the only thing making me nervous. She asks so many questions.
“Did you leave a wallet or anything back at your place?”
I show it to her, then tuck it back in my pocket. She nuzzles against my chest with a soft sigh. For the last hour, I’ve put my arm around her and held her as if that’s a normal thing for us to do, but there’s something about the sight of her like this, right here, that makes me hesitate with my arm stretched out behind her. My fingers slowly curl toward her, as if this time, holding her like this means something different.
Her eyes shut against my chest, her lashes so dark against her pink cheeks. Her skin is flushed from the chill outside. Busses offer little warmth. The only people who feel truly warm here are the ones who have nowhere else to go. I guess that’s sort of us right now.
“You should call your parents.”
I’ve said that before.
Blood rushes to my head at the sound of my voice saying those words. The only thing to quiet my pounding heart is the feel of her palm now flattening over it. Her head shifts up, her gaze catching mine.
“What would I tell them?” Her voice breaks and she lowers her chin to her chest. Her hair has blown around in the wind, and several strands tangle over her eyebrow and cover her face. I gently run my fingers through it, not wanting to tug on the knots. Even like this, her hair is soft.
“You’d tell them you’re okay,” I say, sweeping more hair behind her ear. She reaches up and runs her hand over the back of mine, slowing it until she can press it against her freezing cold cheek.
“Am I?”
I don’t know how to answer her. An hour ago I thought we were all fine. I was settled on my path of darkness, and I was pretty sure she and that Kellen guy we all call Cowboy were full of shit. Then she shot him, and Gia was at the hospital. She’s in two places. Two Gias?
Rather than lie, I kiss the top of her head. She stills when I do, and I’m not sure it’s for the same reason. For me, it’s because this moment right here, we’ve lived it. I swallow hard, my lips still on her cool hair. Her hand bunches the front of my shirt until she has a fistful. I let my eyes close, but only for a second. If for some reason this isn’t the dream, I don’t want to fall into one.
There are fewer stops on the Metro line. We could probably take the trains, but I don’t know the stops as well as I do the bus. I take the bus a lot, in all versions of whatever the hell I am. A few people get off at each stop, until soon it’s only me and her left on the line. Rather than wait for my usual place, I pull the cord and we get off a block early. The streets are brighter over here. This neighborhood is one you want to see your way around.
“Loman Street?”
She knows it. I guess that’s not a surprise. Everyone does.
“It’s not far,” I say, keeping her a step in front of me and to the inside of the walkway. I’ve never been nervous down here before, but that was when I was my other self—the strong man who wears suits and has people lining up to obey his orders.
What a dumb dream and plan. I must feel helpless deep down.
“Wait . . . right here,” I say, tugging at the hood of her new coat. She falls into me and stays close while I work my hand in the sliding metal gate that blocks the warehouse. It usually rolls easily, even more evidence that there is not here, and vice versa.
Eventually, I wedge it open enough for both of us to slide through the tight space. The crunch of our feet seems decibels louder than I’m sure it really is, but I still feel an unparalleled sense of urgency to quit making noise. The door I usually use into the warehouse is locked, probably because right now it’s used to store strips of metal siding for some major supplier for the Midwest.
“We shouldn’t be here.” She’s right, but we shouldn’t be at my place either. And if she doesn’t want to call home, I’m pretty certain she doesn’t want to actually go there.
“It’ll be okay for now. I need time to think, and it’s starting to snow.” She cranes her neck to see through the alleyway all the way out to the river. The flakes are small, a light dusting, but you can taste it in the air. This is our winter. I know it well, and it is the same no matter what state of being I’m in.
I feel along the wall as we walk past the door, looking for another option, something that will offer us shelter. We round the building and climb up on the oversized concrete loading dock. I scan the side of the building, and my heart jumps when I spot the open window about eight feet from ground level.
“There,” I say, pointing.
She moves in front of me and looks up. “That’s impossible,” she says. Before she can object, I hold her hips and lift while she uses the traction of her shoes to climb. Her fingers scratch at the brick so I grit my teeth and raise her higher, standing on my own toes for those few extra inches we need.
“I’m there! I’m there!” Her fingers wrap around the metal siding, and I’m almost certain it’s cutting into her skin. She doesn’t hesitate, though, and as she kicks, I grab her ankles and lift until half of her body is inside. Within seconds, she pulls her knee up and one leg is through.
“Go to that door. Use your phone light,” I shout. The wind is so wicked here that there’s no way anyone hears us.
I retrace my steps to the doorway, and I’m nearly there when a bright light hits my body like a beam from heaven.
“You!” The voice is louder than normal, said through a megaphone or radio horn. The spot is so bright that I can barely see beyond my own cheekbones. I hold up a hand to shade my face so I can see what’s coming at me. That’s when I notice the strobes of red and blue.
Fuck. It’s the police.
“Justin Hawthorne, you are under arrest!”
I jerk back hearing my name. I’m Justin Hawthorne. The voice says it again. It repeats steadily, and I take a step back every time it penetrates my ear
s. The snow is coming down hard, reflecting the light, somehow making the world even brighter. It sears into my head, blinding me, until finally I cry out.
I scream.
The light dims until it’s completely black and I’m lying down, my body covered in sweat.
“She’s going into cardiac arrest!” I hear the voice again, only I can’t see it. It’s nearby, but for some reason my eyes won’t open.
“Who?” In my head, I’m yelling, but the sound isn’t there.
Who is going into cardiac arrest? Who?
Nothing.
I want to kick at the world. I want to flatten anything and everything in my way. I want to run from this darkness and find light again. I want to feel her—her arms. I need to feel her heart, to touch it and know it beats.
Dominica! I know her whole name, and I know her. She’s my everything, and I—
I fall through the doorway as she yanks it open. Her giggles break through whatever terror still scorches through my head, and I crawl to her legs, wrapping my arms around them and pulling her down to me. Her playful laughter instantly stops.
“What’s wrong?” Her concern is real, but it’s based on this delusion that cops are waiting for me in the alleyway. That’s not what’s there at all. Nothing is there, because this place isn’t real. The only real things are me and her, and right now, in the physical world, we are dying.
I grasp at her face, crying tears that spark moisture to pool in her eyes. I shake my head because no, I cannot lose her. No.
My forehead falls to hers and I struggle to find my voice, my breath—to find the villain who is oh, so very brave. I hurt, every single bone aching, skin bruised and cut. I feel it all now, every remnant of the truth. I don’t want her to feel it. I don’t want her to ever feel it.
I kiss her, a hurried and hungry kiss that starts at her chin and slowly connects with her mouth. Her lips open as they’re meant to, her teeth grazing along the familiar spots she’s worn from hundreds of earlier kisses.