The Complete Irreparable Boxed Set: Irreparable #1-2

by Sam Mariano

  There were still articles about her online, and they had attached pictures, which she didn’t appreciate. Not like everyone at her school didn’t know what had happened to her—or some version of it anyway—but having her face plastered all over the internet so some douche named Bob in Nebraska could remark on how he’d like to kidnap her, too…oddly enough, it didn’t help.

  The article contained lines like “the family is asking for privacy at this time,” and “the police have declined to discuss specifics of the investigation.” There were some generally nice comments, offering thoughts and prayers, then one guy talking about if she would have had a gun, that wouldn’t have happened to her; some unhappy looking woman commenting that she was probably in on it and lying, because she looked like a criminal, and because the photo they chose to use of her in that article showed her in a mini-skirt (which seemed like an odd choice, given that she could count on one hand how many photos there were of her in a mini-skirt); one asshole saying they probably just thought she was a hooker and they should “go easy” on the guys; another valiant gentleman remarking “I bet she got gangbanged.”

  There were more comments, but Willow was too thoroughly disgusted with humanity to read any more of them.

  Just because she knew herself well enough to know she would look it up again later out of morbid curiosity, she crawled under her desk and unplugged the power cord.

  When she first got back, her friends were all eager to show their support. As time passed and she failed to return to normal or “get over it,” they began to lose interest. Their lives hadn’t changed, but Willow had, so they started calling less and less.

  Her boyfriend was the only exception, and it seemed that nobody in the world annoyed her more than he did. Mostly she suspected it was because he seemed desperate to pretend that it hadn’t happened and everything was normal, and she couldn’t do that.

  Consequently, she spent a lot of time by herself. The temptation to look up articles on her phone was still there, and seeing her friends leaving inane comments and statuses all over the place was frustrating her, too, so she finally just turned the internet off her phone altogether.

  She could feel herself withdrawing from everything. Her tennis lessons had gone on without her, because she never went back. She didn’t care about any of the things she had cared about when she left—that would require caring about something, and she didn’t.

  More time than she expected was devoted to reliving what had happened, piece by piece, every single day. Even when she slept, different versions of the same things would happen, sometimes mixing in people that she knew in real life, sometimes sticking to the real cast of characters. The previous night, she had dreamed of watching Ethan make out with one of the other girls, wanting to tell them not to do it, but she had no voice and no real reason to tell the girl what to do, other than the fact that she considered it unwise.

  It was still difficult to think about the sex. She didn’t want to think of it as anything else—didn’t want to think of it at all, but she couldn’t help it.

  Since she hadn’t reported it, she hadn’t gone to the hospital for any testing. He had used a condom, plus he was married, so she assumed he hadn’t given her any diseases.

  It wasn’t like she would be having sex with anyone anytime soon anyway, so she saw no urgent need to ensure her sexual health. Logically, she knew that she should go get checked out, but the idea of going to a gynecologist and having someone poking and prodding at her made her feel senselessly rebellious.

  It was one thing she could control, and as stupid as it seemed, she didn’t care.

  She felt like her life was never going to be normal again. Like she was never going to be normal again. And not even knowing who to blame did not help matters. Sometimes she felt angry at Ethan; other times, after thinking it over, she felt like he had been a victim, too. The latter made her feel worse, so she tried to think of him as a bad guy, just without intent.

  It was very complicated, but it made her feel like she had some power, choosing whether or not to forgive him.

  Her mothers were on opposite sides of the reaction spectrum. Lauren was determined to remain cheerful and positive, ignoring Willow’s surly moods and trying to cycle through all of the suggestions she had read about in some online article about how to reclaim your life after surviving a kidnapping. Instead of dealing with it, she wanted to distract Willow, to sweep her up in the present in some foolhardy expectation that one night in the city going to dinner and seeing one of Willow’s favorite plays might simply wipe her memory, at least for the night.

  When it didn’t, the ride home was quiet, Lauren’s disappointment palpable.

  It made Willow feel even worse.

  Instead of trying to ignore everything that happened and get Willow back to doing the things she used to enjoy, Ashlynn suggested the opposite. After the dinner with Ethan, Ashlynn became very pushy about Willow seeing a counselor. Willow resisted. She went on to suggest maybe Willow should try something new to get out of the house—not her old activities, but something completely different. Maybe a kick-boxing class or Zumba.

  Needless to say, Willow didn’t want do any of that, but the weight of their expectations grew heavier each day.

  Then one night Scott wanted to come over for dinner and bring one of her favorite movies to watch. The bastard was smart enough to suggest that before leaving, standing inside the house within earshot of Lauren. So when Willow said she wasn’t up for it, her mother came in and insisted, saying that sounded nice, and reassuring Willow that she would love it, that it would be just like before.

  As Willow sat on her bed, watching the movie resentfully, she did not love it. Not at all.

  “You don’t seem like you’re enjoying the movie,” Scott remarked.

  “I told you I didn’t want to watch it. My mom is the one who thought this was a good idea; maybe you should go watch the movie with her.”

  “Why are you being like this?” he responded, scowling.

  Willow’s eyes went wide and she stared at him for a second. “Are you serious?”

  He sighed, raking a hand through his chestnut hair. “Okay, forget it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Since apparently the thing to do after a not-quite-fight and failed at-home-date was to make out, Scott went for it. It was brave enough that she let it go, plus she figured if she kissed him for a few minutes he might be satisfied and he’d go home.

  For a moment, the thought pained her; before she was taken, she had liked Scott. A lot. Getting a text or a call from him had elicited a girly smile; she enjoyed running her fingers through his hair while they kissed, and she would have loved to curl up in her bed and watch a movie while cuddling with him.

  She didn’t know why she seemed to resent him so much; he hadn’t done anything.

  Of course, realizing how little control she still had over her emotions did not put her in the mood for kissing, so when his hand slipped between her legs without any encouragement on her end, she clenched her legs together in hopes that he would get the message.

  He didn’t.

  And she was wearing a fucking dress.

  So while she waited for him to realize she was saying no and pull back, he plodded on ahead, somehow ignorant of the meaning of her leg clenching, until his finger slipped up under her underwear.

  “Stop it,” she finally murmured, feeling slightly pissed off that he wasn’t taking her nonverbal cues.

  Whether he didn’t hear her or for some reason just didn’t take her seriously, he did not stop. His stupid mouth was on her neck and his finger clumsily attempted to push inside of her. Once she felt the intrusion, she shoved him away with considerable force.

  He caught himself, scowling at her as if in confusion. “What?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you? I said stop!”

  Looking all put out, Scott said, "What?"

  "I told you to stop."

  "I wasn't doing anything!"<
br />
  Willow rolled her eyes and climbed off the bed, not even wanting to be near him.

  "Willow, what's going on with you? Ever since you've been back, you've been...so different."

  "Yeah, well, I wasn't on a fucking Caribbean cruise, now, was I?"

  She heard the bed creak behind her, indicating he had climbed off the bed as well, and she tensed in anticipation of him being stupid enough to try to touch her.

  "You said you were fine."

  He was right, she did say that, all the time; since she had returned home, it was basically her mantra.

  And he didn't see through it. Even though it probably wasn't fair, she resented him for that.

  "I think you should go home," she said, fiddling with the bottles of nail polish lined up on her dresser instead of looking at him.

  "You don't even want to hang out now?"

  "No, I don't want to hang out at all, to be perfectly honest. You don't get it, and I'm not going to spoon feed it to you, so... I think you should just go."

  "Are you breaking up with me?" he asked in disbelief. "Willow, just tell me what I did wrong. I won’t do it again. I wasn't trying to piss you off, I was just trying to be affectionate with my girlfriend."

  Rounding on him, she said more loudly than she intended, "Yeah, well, I don't want your affection. I just want to be left alone!"

  Hurt flashed across his face as he stared at her, then he nodded, turned around, and finally left her bedroom.

  She suspected he wouldn’t be back, and strangely the thought didn't make her sad.

  Instead she felt relief.

  Ethan crouched down behind his couch, one hand on his gun, his other hand closed except for his index finger, moving to his lips, signaling silence.

  Beside him, his daughter nodded and pressed her back up against the back of the couch.

  An obnoxious beeping noise sounded from across the room and Alison’s eyes widened. Then, producing a blue and silver walkie-talkie from her side pocket, she pushed the button, making its own loud beep, and stage-whispered, “Are you in position?”

  “Yep,” the boy on the other end said simply.

  “Agent Gru, can you see the suspect?” she asked Ethan.

  Stealthily leaning around the edge of the couch, he stayed there for a few seconds before dramatically jumping back behind the couch.

  “I’ve got eyes on the suspect,” he verified, his voice dropping gravelly low. “He almost spotted me.”

  Her eyes went wide with an exaggerated look of horror. “We’ll have to be more careful.”

  He nodded his agreement, extracting a little green disc from his pocket and sliding it into his colorful weapon. Then he pulled back the neon chamber and angled his Nerf gun upward. “I’m ready when you are, Agent Jessie.”

  Nodding solemnly, she said, “You go first, I’m right behind you.”

  Creeping up to the edge once more, he glanced back at Alison, giving her a nod, then jumped out from behind the couch, aimed his Nerf gun, and shot the little disc at the empty diaper box across the room, a dastardly face drawn on a piece of computer paper and taped to the front.

  The little disc, unsurprisingly, did not knock the box over.

  The little boy on the other side of the room “tackled” the box, and “Agent Jessie” went charging over there, her plastic hand cuffs at the ready.

  To the side of the box, a row of 6 Barbie and Ken dolls were seated, piles of play money in their laps.

  “You’re not robbing these nice people today, Dirty Dan,” his daughter stated, holding her handcuffs up victoriously. “Where’s your accomplish?”

  “Accomplice,” Ethan corrected, chuckling lightly.

  “I see her!” her playmate said, pointing at the giant My Size Barbie doll propped up against the opposite side of the couch.

  “Dirty Debbie!” Alison exclaimed, running over to the doll, and calling back to the boy to “contain the witness.”

  “Detain…never mind,” Ethan said, letting it go.

  Alison was slapping the cuffs on Barbie, who of course smiled unapologetically.

  Ethan made his way over to retrieve the little green disc before that one got lost like the other one had. They were little and plastic, but they still packed a punch, so the kids weren’t allowed to play with them unless they were being closely supervised.

  The little boy, ready to move on since they busted the criminal, jumped up and down and said, “Now what should we play?”

  “I still want to play cops,” Alison stated.

  “Okay. But not another bank robber. What else should we do?”

  Alison brightened and ran over to grab her My Size Barbie. “I know! Let’s rescue this girl, she got kidnapped like those little girls you saved, Daddy.”

  Feeling the color drain from his face as his daughter thrust the giant doll at him, he couldn’t even respond.

  “Here, you hide her, you can be the bad guy, and we’ll come find her and arrest you.”

  “No,” he said, averting his eyes and putting his hand up to cover the doll’s face.

  A lump sprung up in his throat unexpectedly, and he knew playtime was over.

  Alison frowned up at him, her little mouth turned down unhappily.

  “Why don’t you guys go get a snack,” he suggested. “Your mom’s in the kitchen.”

  “She’s making dinner, she’s not gonna let us have a snack,” Alison said.

  “Just… I have to go in my office,” he said with less patience than he intended. “Go see your mother.”

  The furrowing of her little brow deepened and she gave him her angriest pout. When it achieved nothing, she sighed loudly and stomped over to put Barbie on the couch, then she said, “Come on, Braden.”

  “But I thought we were gonna play,” he whined.

  “My dad said no,” she said accusingly.

  Ethan sighed, closed his eyes, and passed a hand over his face, swearing under his breath.

  Since it was the only place he could retreat to without leaving the house, Ethan hid out in his study, closing and locking the door behind him.

  Collapsing into his big leather chair, he let his head fall back, closing his eyes and letting out a world-weary sigh.

  A minute later he touched the mouse, moving it to wake his computer monitor up and leaning forward to type in his password. Once everything was loaded and his desktop popped up, he stared at the black screen—it used to be a picture of Amanda and the kids, but ever since he got back, he found the picture too distracting. Too depressing. A nice black screen didn’t judge him.

  He navigated to his bookmarks—he had the fucking page bookmarked—and located the folder and page that he wanted.

  A moment later, the news story loaded with the picture of the girl sitting on a picnic table, a blue binder and her cell phone beside her, a big smile on her beautiful face, her gray eyes clear, happy, everything a 17-year-old’s should be. She wore a denim mini-skirt with a blue and black V-neck top (which several dickheaded commenters had some fun with—obviously the only way the putrid little pissants could feel good about themselves) and she looked so…young. Not child-like by any means, but still…young.

  He didn’t know why he kept looking at her goddamn picture. It wasn’t like he needed visual reminders; he thought about it all the time. Thought about her all the time. Wondered how she was coping, if her life was returning to some state of normalcy, hoping that she didn’t see the same news stories he’d seen.

  It wasn’t uncommon for him to check out her social media accounts when he had a spare minute, just to see if there was any indication, but she had no online presence whatsoever. Since she had updated them once every day or two before the kidnapping, he took that to mean she was still in a bad place. Even her friends had stopped leaving her comments, and just the night before, he noticed the boy who had been listed as her boyfriend no longer had a visible relationship status, though Willow’s still said she was in a relationship. Whether or not that meant anything
, he didn’t know.

  It wouldn’t surprise him if the relationship had crumbled. She was a teenager in a relationship with another teenager trying to cope with everything; he was a grown-ass man in a long-term relationship with his wife, the mother of his children, and he could barely keep his own relationship afloat after everything that had happened.

  Amanda was a patient woman, or else he would already be in the dog house.

  Finally he took one last look at the happy girl in the picture and closed the window, leaning back once more, still feeling restless.

  The little black corded phone on his desk caught his attention. For no good reason that he could come up with. He had a separate line in his office, obviously, since he needed privacy for the business-related calls he made.

  Over the years he had successfully reunited so many missing girls with their families, helped put an end to the horror they were facing—those that had actually been kidnapped, and a couple of times, even those who hadn’t, but weren’t as street-smart as they thought they were—and it felt like all the good he had done was wiped clear by the one unforgivable instance where he had harmed instead of helped.

  For a few minutes, he took turns alternately staring at the phone and staring out the window. He needed to get it together. Get the girl off his mind so he could go have dinner with his family and pretend to be a normal person.

  Instead of doing that, before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed his phone off the desk, set it down in his lap, and dialed the girl’s number.

  His heart pounded faster; he knew he was making a mistake. He needed to leave her alone. It wasn’t like he could ask her how she was doing.

  After two rings, just before he was about to hang up, she picked up the phone.

  “Hello,” she answered, her voice light, normal, like he would expect any other 18-year-old girl’s voice to sound.

  He didn’t say anything. He wished that he could tell more by her tone—how she was doing, if she was reasonably okay.

  “Hello?” she said again, more forcefully that time.