No Damaged Goods

by Snow, Nicole

  Blake, caring that he hurt me.

  To care, and to actually apologize like a man, and mean it.

  Right here tonight in front of the whole town.

  I take a hitched breath, smiling fit to crack. “So you had to tell me that live on the air, huh?”

  “Yeah, well. You know.” He laughs faintly. “We were low on callers tonight. Figured it was either give folks some fireworks to keep ’em happy or else blabber away all night about more Fuchsia conspiracies.”

  I burst out a startled laugh. “Dick-butt. Uh, can I say that on air?”

  “Yeah. And I kinda am.” His voice softens. “But I really am sorry, lady.”

  “I know,” I whisper. “And I know you were acting out of fear. It’s okay. I’m not mad at you. I’m just glad you’re ready to try to let go of old hurts. It won’t be easy, but I know you can do it, Blake.”

  “You’ve got that much faith in me, huh?”

  “I do.” I’m hugging the phone like it’s his hand, holding it so close to me, scrunched up with my eyes so tightly closed until it’s just me and him in the darkness. “You heard me singing tonight, didn’t you?”

  “Sure did.” It comes out of him raw, gritty with something I’d swear was appreciation, and I flush. “Your voice is something else, songbird. Prettiest thing I’ve heard in a good, long while.”

  “It’s a song my dad taught me. I don’t know the name, just the sound and the words.” I swallow hard, my throat so tight. “It’s this song about birds, and how they’re made to fly. They’re not made for the earth, just for the sky. The only time a bird comes down is when its wings can’t hold it up anymore. So hey, maybe you and me, broken people like us...maybe we were meant to soar.”

  I’d slipped into the lyrics without meaning to.

  It’s such a sweet song, embedded forever in my heart.

  And it feels like it could belong to his heart, too, if he’d just let it.

  Maybe I could belong too, if he’d just let me.

  “I didn’t get to hear all of it,” he admits. “But I’d love to hear it now. Will you sing it for me again?”

  I make a soft sound in the back of my throat. “Right here? Live?”

  “If it’s okay.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Maybe you could sing this old town off to sweet dreams, Peace Rabe. Send them off real lovely. Send me off.”

  “O-oh.”

  Oh, wow.

  I’m glad we’re not face-to-face right now.

  Because if he’d said those things to me with those dusk-blue eyes cutting through me, I’d never be able to make a single sound again. I’d be too lost in him.

  “I’ll try,” I whisper, but I can’t quite get a sound out just yet. My throat’s too tight with emotion, too tight to draw the breath needed to actually produce a clear note.

  But after a few calming breaths, I hold the phone closer, as if I’m kissing it, and let loose.

  I sing.

  No guitar this time. No Ember on her violin. No audience I can see.

  Just me and Blake Silverton.

  Two souls wrapped up in one sunny voice and the shadow of an ear.

  My voice starts shaky, and yet I’ve got it, this song so much a part of me that I could sing it even if I’d lost my words forever.

  I used to sing it in Dad’s memory.

  Now I sing it for Blake and Heart’s Edge by proxy.

  I’m asking if he’ll soar with me.

  He doesn’t make a sound until it’s over, and I’m trailing off with my breath and heart both going just a little too fast. The silence that follows makes me nearly hurt with the awareness of the wild riot of noise and feeling inside me.

  He finally breaks the stillness with a low, appreciative mm-hmmm.

  “Don’t think I’m ever going to forget that,” he says. “The way you sound when you’re putting all your heart into notes like raindrops.” He pauses, then adds, “Guess I’d better get on those Fuchsia stories and this caller who Mario says swears he played tag with Sasquatch...but maybe you’ll sing for me again some time?”

  “Maybe,” I whisper. “Goodnight, Blake. Thanks for taking my call.”

  “Goodnight, darlin’,” he rumbles against my ear.

  The line goes dead, and I’m alone.

  Except for the millions of butterflies taking flight in my belly.

  * * *

  I barely get any sleep that night.

  It’s hard to pass out when I’m all twisted up, thinking about Blake.

  About the way he teased me.

  About the soft words of apology.

  About the intimacy in his voice, the warmth, the gentleness, the tease.

  All the little things that tell me this push and pull means something.

  Something more.

  And maybe I’m not just insane for losing myself in his magnetism.

  I finally drift off, though, long after midnight.

  In the morning I oversleep a little, but I wake up zinging—and I don’t even need coffee to make my morning appointment with the rich folks who tip amazingly well, and then an older woman vacationing here at the inn. She says she used to be a silver medal skier, but time and age and repetitive stress injuries knocked her off her feet.

  She’s sweet. Teases that she likes places like Heart’s Edge because they don’t even tempt her to ski, with the trees walling off all the good slopes. And I’m full of laughter as I work around her joints and calves to loosen things up so she can walk and enjoy the cold beauty in peace.

  I’m feeling good by the time I pack up.

  I always feel good after a positive session, when I can leave people just a little happier, a little more free of their pain.

  But who does that for you?

  Oh—no, nope.

  I’m not letting that thought in.

  I know I had my little existential crisis a little while ago, but I’m not letting it come back today to chase my buzz away.

  If I putter around the cabin, I’ll either start brooding or thinking about Blake too much. As forward as I’ve been, I’m a little too embarrassed to give in to the urge to run and find him and hope that warmth he shows over the mic will be there in his face when he sees me.

  God, what am I? A giddy teenager with a crush?

  I need to get out.

  So I bundle myself up, strap on a good pair of boots, and go.

  I’ve got a little pocket brochure, courtesy of Haley and Ms. Wilma. They keep them for the tourists, showing all the best places for a scenic view. Haley mapped them herself with her hubby, looking for the best places to paint. I trust her judgment.

  So I pick a spot on the map.

  It’s exhilarating to set out under a bright sun and yet still feel so cold, like all the wonderful things that energize me are bundled up in one: the crisp snow, the brightness of the day, and the beautiful blue sky.

  Everything smells like frost, dry leaves, and something starker like ozone.

  I love it.

  And I love the little hidden trail in the woods I find by meticulously following little markers in the brochure—a broken signpost, a cairn of rocks, a poplar tree that looks like a praying woman.

  It’s like a scavenger hunt.

  And it’s a delight when I spot the smooth, flat rocks set into the earth, turning the trail into a set of steps leading up into the woods.

  I park my rental car on the last bit of paved road before that hidden trail, get out, and slip up to mount the first step. It takes me up a winding path through tall, skinny trees with their leaves stripped off, giving me some footing on the ground in the snow.

  Dead leaves crunch under my boots as I hike up and up and up until my breath burns, and suddenly the trees open up on a peak that makes me feel like I’m on top of the world. I look out over stretches of mountains that seem to march off forever in the distance.

  The brochure has a story in it, too. One variation of the lovers’ cliff legend everybody seems to know around here.


  It says that way back when the town was founded, the mayor’s daughter and a farm boy fell in love.

  But the mayor said the boy was too poor, so they couldn’t be together. He forbade them to fall in love.

  So they went to the half-heart-shaped cliff behind the Charming Inn, and jumped.

  It’s not as morbid as it sounds.

  In the story, they turned into a shower of flower petals and blew away into the pretty mountains I’m looking at right now.

  The legend says their love lives on, these strange creatures forever with the wind, and all their generations upon generations of children. Wood-waifs guarding every impossible love that blossoms in this town.

  And that’s why when people in the town fall in love, they go to the famous overlook and toss flowers over the edge.

  They make a wish, with all their hearts, hoping their love will last forever.

  I wonder if I can work that into the song I’m slowly piecing together. My tale of the wandering desperado, protector of a town he can never call home and yet always watches over.

  Maybe there’s a fire in him that can’t burn out.

  A fire in his heart, a love as lasting as wishes cast on petals in the wind.

  I feel lyrics starting to take shape, so raw and real that I can almost smell the fire on the chilly midday breeze.

  Wait.

  It’s not my imagination.

  I smell smoke.

  Again.

  Lord, it’s like fire follows me everywhere. I’m kind of getting sick of it—even if it summons the hottest man in town.

  I’d rather have an excuse to see Blake that doesn’t involve something smoldering.

  I turn, scanning the horizon, then back to the forest.

  There.

  A plume of smoke rises against the trees, thick and black and oddly slender.

  Probably a small, controlled fire. Burning brush or something.

  I sigh.

  If those kids are messing around again, though, or some idiot tourists...

  Hold up. The last time I snuck up on kids playing with fire, I almost made it worse by startling them as soon as I stepped on that twig.

  So this time I’m quieter, making my way through the trees, keeping the bigger ones in front of me as a shield, placing my steps slowly. I’m careful to avoid crunching down in the snow and leaves as I make my way down the slopes.

  I stick to the path where I can, but as I get closer, I break off and crouch down behind some bushes as I sneak closer.

  Movement. I freeze.

  That’s not the kids.

  That’s definitely not the kids.

  I don’t know who this man is, but considering he’s dressed in black from head to toe and wearing a black ski mask that completely covers his face...

  I think he might be trouble.

  Especially since he’s pouring water over a big pile of wood, making it flare with thick black smoke as the flames choke out.

  He’s tall. Imposingly high off the ground, but kind of wiry and lean.

  There’s something weird and dangerous about him.

  I won’t lie.

  He scares me.

  I feel like I’m seeing something out here I’m not supposed to see.

  Time to get out of Dodge.

  I take a wary step back, then freeze as my heel comes down on a twig.

  And it snaps, the sharp sound as abrupt and harsh as the manic thud of my heart.

  His head jerks up immediately.

  Now, I’m cursing my love for bright colors. Even through the brush, he spots me instantly.

  All I can see are his eyes, but they’re oddly blank.

  Strange.

  Angry.

  And they glaze in the coldest way as he cranes his head slowly to the side, staring dead at me.

  Then he’s charging forward, moving like a pouncing cat, from statue stillness to cheetah motion in less than half a second.

  I scream and tumble back, scrambling onto my hands and knees with cold slushy snow flouncing up around me, soaking my clothes.

  I think it’s only the distance and my head start that saves me.

  I barely risk glancing back—he’s too close, this black blur rocketing at me—before I go flying down the slope.

  It’s a miracle I don’t break an ankle on the stone steps, racing and tumbling and falling over myself, breathing harshly and painfully as I shove through the trees.

  My car. I have to get to my car!

  I clamber a few more steps, stealing another glance back.

  But he’s gone.

  I fling myself onward, pelting down the path.

  He might’ve just ducked out of sight, and I can’t dilly-dally. I have to go now.

  I can see the bright purple of my rental through the trees, and I dive off the path. Shortest path is best, right?

  I’m snatching my keys from my pocket before I’m even at the door, and I nearly drop them as I trip off the edge of the slope, onto the road, and slam right into the side of the car.

  Struggling to breathe, ears pricked to a new sound.

  I stare blankly through the clouds of my own breath.

  An engine comes growling from higher up the slope, around the bend in the road.

  Don’t look, I tell myself.

  I look. I can’t not.

  A big, dark truck comes tearing around the curve, its engine roaring like a hell-beast.

  Oh, God, it’s him.

  I can barely make him out through the windshield, the outline of his shadowy mask behind the wheel.

  And those cold, glassy eyes locked right on me.

  That truck is big enough to crush my little car.

  Big enough to kill me, swatting me like a gnat.

  And it’s bearing down fast.

  Ask me later, and I won’t be able to tell you what takes over, what lets me escape.

  Animal fight or flight instinct, maybe. Raw survival.

  Suddenly, my fumbling fingers pop the door, and I’m behind the wheel.

  Car started.

  Foot on the gas.

  And gone.

  I tear off just as the truck comes up on my bumper, almost kissing my car’s butt before I spin away with a little skid on the slick roads.

  Oh, crap.

  Slick roads!

  I clutch the steering wheel hard enough to hurt, holding my breath, pushing the gas pedal harder and harder as I go ripping down that winding road, one eye on the rear-view mirror, one on the road.

  Tight spirals of pavement coil every time I careen around, lose him for a second, then see him nosing around the curve seconds later in my mirror.

  I’ve never been more thankful for tiny, shitty, cramped rental cars.

  Because the truck’s too big.

  It tries to take the corners too fast, so I’m gaining ground. I feel an elated spark of hope as I see the break in the trees up ahead that spills out onto the main highway.

  It’s my only chance.

  Because even if the truck’s too big to take the corners, it’s still faster, more powerful.

  Gaining ground.

  And coming up on me like he’s about to steamroll me right off the road.

  He almost does.

  The second the last stretch of road to the highway opens up, I floor it—but so does he, and I feel like I’m being hunted by an angry bull charging down. Fear and adrenaline flare hot in the back of my throat.

  I lean my whole weight into the steering wheel like I can make this crappy little snozzberry of a car go faster, faster, faster while he’s racing closer—

  And I swerve onto the highway, taking a sharp right, right as he comes slamming up on my bumper.

  He clips my rear end, just enough to make me half fishtail.

  But I screech and grab the wheel. He goes rocketing across the highway behind me, almost ending up in a field.

  He grinds the truck to a halt at the last second, while I wrench myself straight on the road.

  I stomp on
the gas.

  Town’s not far. Charming Inn, even closer.

  I just need to get somewhere safe, somewhere around other people, and I’m trying not to cry as I beg the rental car to go a little faster, a little harder, just take me where I need to go, where I need to be, please...

  That growl rises behind me again, just as I catch the peaked roof and columns of the inn up ahead.

  I dart a desperate look in my mirror.

  He’s still there.

  Hot on my tail, but...

  Is he slowing down?

  I can’t.

  I can’t slow down on the off chance he might be easing off, so I just keep breaking the speed limit with every hair on my body standing up.

  But no—that growl’s slipping now.

  He’s falling behind.

  When I check the mirror again, he’s even more distant.

  I don’t know what he’s doing, but I don’t want to risk getting close enough to catch his license. It might be my last mistake.

  I don’t even know.

  I need to be somewhere safe.

  And I can’t bring this nut to the Charming Inn with Ms. Wilma and Haley and Warren and their kids.

  There’s only one place where I’ll really feel safe.

  I don’t even slow as I overshoot the inn and go rabbiting right into town.

  * * *

  Even if I knew subconsciously where I was going, I’m still a little surprised as I pull up in front of Blake’s house.

  I don’t think I’ve breathed the whole way here.

  Not even when that truck slipped out of sight, and I was back in the middle of a sleepy small town, surrounded by people, buildings, normalcy.

  I kill the engine and stare at Blake’s sprawling house.

  I’m okay.

  But I won’t feel okay until I’m not alone anymore.

  It takes more effort than I can believe to peel my clenched fingers off the wheel, my knuckles aching and ligaments sore.

  I manage, pushing out of the car. I scramble to the front door, darting nervous looks around, feeling far too exposed in the open.

  And I’m grateful when he answers mere seconds after my frantic knock on the door.

  Grateful, yet frightened as I look up into his confused frown and blurt out, “Blake, I think I just saw the man who set the clothing shop on fire.”