3
Nicholas
When there are complications…
The following morning, I take a cab from the bus terminal and spend the day in a hotel waiting for my flight. After a long nap and a big dinner at the downstairs restaurant, I feel somewhat rested and prepared.
No, prepared is not the right word. Just rested.
It’s one thing to cross over from Belize to Mexico on a fake passport and it’s a whole other thing to do so from Mexico to an international location like Thailand.
On top of that, there’s a warrant out for my arrest and they are showing my face on television screens across the country. If there is even one crime show junkie at the airport then I’m totally fucked.
I don’t want to think of today as the last day of my life, but just in case it is and I’m arrested I want to be well-fed.
“Was everything to your liking?” the waitress asks.
“Yes, it was excellent,” I say. “Where are you from?”
“Houston,” she says with a smile.
She has long golden hair and green eyes. Tall and thin, she looks nothing like Olive yet everything about her reminds me of her.
We flirt for a few minutes and I stay for a few more drinks. When she leaves to take care of her other customers, my phone dings.
It’s from my bank. The payment didn’t go through and they’ve cancelled my ticket.
Shit.
I re-read the email again, trying to figure out what could’ve happened.
I didn’t have a chance to set up a credit card yet under a new name, but there’s plenty of money in my bank account.
I put in my password and wait as the page loads.
My account has been frozen.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
I shake my head. No, this can’t be happening. This isn’t under my real name. How could they have this identity?
The waitress brings me the bill and I pause.
If I give them this card, the payment isn’t going to go through.
I search for some cash in my wallet, knowing full well that I don’t have any pesos.
“I’m so sorry, I’m having some issue with my bank right now.”
She stares at me.
“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have eaten here if I knew that but I can't access my account for some reason.”
She shakes her head.
“Can I pay you in American dollars?”
She laughs.
“What can I do?” I say, showing her the fifty.
She takes a deep breath as I wait. I have another card but I can’t risk using it in case it’s frozen, too.
I have to first check the account online.
She taps her foot on the floor before finally giving me a big shrug and tossing her hair back.
“This happens sometimes with our customers,” she explains. “I will have to charge you a surcharge for paying in dollars.”
“Yes, of course.” I let out a sigh of relief.
For a second, I thought she might call the police and then I’d be in the middle of a real shit storm.
I pay an extra ten dollars for the courtesy and give her a big tip on top of that. But I forgo getting another drink because I don’t have much money left.
When I get upstairs, I log into the computer and realize that all of my accounts are frozen. I don’t have access to anything. I have this room until tomorrow night but after that, I don’t even know how I could afford to pay for a night’s stay.
The doorbell rings.
My heart jumps into my throat.
I make a fist and brace myself for what’s to come. Turning around, I look out of the window. I’m on the eighth floor and the drop is straight down. If those are the cops, the only way out of this place is directly through them.
“It’s me,” a quiet feminine voice says through the door. “Mallory.”
“Hi.” I swing the door open to the waitress from earlier tonight.
“I don’t normally do this…” she says, looking down at the floor.
“Come in, please.” I lock the door quickly behind her. “It’s nice to have more time with you. I wasn’t sure if I was coming on a bit too strong there…at your place of business.”
She wraps her hands around her shoulders and says nothing.
“I wasn’t sure if you were just flirting with me to get a bigger tip,” I joke.
“Not exactly.” She laughs. “Though I did appreciate it.”
“Well, I appreciate you helping me out. I am in quite a little jam right now.”
“Oh, you are?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.
I nod, trying to decide how much I should disclose.
On one hand, it’s probably best to keep her out of it, but on the other she’s the only person that I know in this town and she’s probably the only one I could borrow a few dollars from before I can figure something out.
But that’s not why I had offered her a drink and that’s not why I want her to stay.
She flips her hair from one side to another and tilts her head toward mine. It’s undeniable, Mallory is quite easy on the eyes.
Besides, I started hating being alone after Olive. She tends to haunt me the most when I’m alone. It got so bad at one point that the only way I could get any sleep was with a stranger lying next to me.
“How long are you in town?” Mallory asks when I hand her a shot of tequila.
“Well, I was supposed to leave tonight but now I’m not sure. I have some things to work out with the bank.”
“The bank is closed,” she says, taking a sip.
“Yes, I know.” I give her a nod. “I can’t do anything until tomorrow.”
I move a few inches closer to her and put my glass down.
She looks up at me.
I press my lips to hers and she kisses me back.
We are hungry for each other and our clothes come off one by one.
I lose myself in the moment until she whispers “Eric,” the name I gave her.
When I glance at her below me, her face disappears and she becomes Olive.
4
Olive
When we disappear…
In the mornings, I dress in layers, which I slowly shed throughout the day.
I wake up around eight and after half an hour of lounging in bed, I get dressed and go on a walk. There are tall mountains right outside our house, one with a peak of about ten thousand feet.
The neighbors told me that in the winter, it’s covered in snow and down here in the valley the temperature is still in the seventies and the sky is as blue as it has ever been.
Palm trees line my two mile walk since almost every house has one or two in their front yard. This is an older part of the city, meaning that it was built up in the 1950s and the architecture is what they call mid-century modern.
All of the houses, including ours, are one level, about two thousand square feet, some much more. The backyards come with ample green space with hedges to ensure privacy from prying eyes. The majority also have pools and hot tubs.
The ceilings inside are relatively tall but not as cathedral-like as the ones in the older house back east. We have a vaulted ceiling in our rental with a big window looking out onto the street outside. The place is furnished with low to the floor mid-century style furniture to complete the look. Just about the only thing that makes it feel like it’s 2020 is the sixty-inch television mounted on the wall.
After my walk, on which I say hello to at least five dogs and their owners, I get straight into the pool.
This is one of the driest places in the United States, if not the world, with humidity often hovering around fifteen percent. We heat the pool to eighty-five, which sounds like it would be lukewarm but it’s actually not at all. Due to the dryness of the air, the pool is just refreshing enough and actually quite cold when you get out of it.
After swimming for a bit, I dry myself off with a towel, which takes about a few seconds, and
sit down with a book on the lounger. The cushion is incredibly soft and it’s curved to mold to the human body making it particularly comfortable. If there is such a thing as paradise, this is it.
When I first imagined going to California, I tried to brace my expectations. There is no way that it would be, or could be, as amazing as I had imagined it.
Yes, there would be sunshine.
Yes, there would be comfortable weather all year around.
Yes, there is not many bugs, nor is there any freezing black snow to clear off the car.
But everything couldn’t be that perfect, right?
Something would have to be off.
Little did I know how much more wonderful it would really be.
The food is better quality and the restaurants serve unique and delicious entrees.
The people are nice, and polite, and friendly.
Everyone seems happy.
It reminds me of one of the first days in May when it’s just warm enough for everyone to get outside and enjoy life and for that one brief day everyone in the city seems content and happy. Well, it’s like that here all the time.
When I get a little bit too hot in the sun, I change out of my bathing suit and grab my iPad. Our rental has a swinging chair in the corner of the backyard that is typically in the shade. It’s lined with pillows and a faux sheepskin rug.
I put my feet on the soft ottoman in front of it and swing myself as I read. Time passes slowly and yet quickly. Before I know it, it’s the afternoon and I’ve finished my book.
Later that evening, when the sun starts to set, I put on my running shoes and go for a little jog. Before I got here, I hadn’t run in years.
But the days are long and it’s nice to fill them with some physical activity. When I started a few weeks ago, I couldn’t even run a third of a mile but now I can do two.
My lungs are burning but I take my time and go as far as I can.
I used to get stitches in my sides, but not anymore.
I don’t run very fast but I’m proud of the work that I’m doing.
I meet the same dog owners that I’d met earlier that day only this time our interaction is just a cursory wave. I want to kneel down and pet each one but that would make me break momentum and I’ve learned that in this kind of thing momentum is everything.
Back home, sweaty and red-faced, I change into my bathing suit in the master bedroom with a sliding door that faces the backyard and jump into the pool to cool off.
“You swimming again?” Owen walks out with a beer in hand.
“Don’t you just love it?” I ask.
Owen shrugs.
When we first got here, he swam all the time but months later the novelty has worn off.
It hasn’t for me.
Actually, I doubt it ever will.
If I were to buy a house, I now know that a pool and a hot tub are a must.
“Can’t believe that you’re still swimming this much,” he says, shaking his head.
“Can’t believe you’re still drinking this much,” I point out.
When we first got here, we indulged a bit in having a few too many drinks but after a while I got sick of waking up with pounding headaches.
After I quit, Owen started drinking more.
Now, I hardly ever see him without a beer in his hand.
“At least, I don’t drink anything too strong,” he says.
“Yeah, I guess. But I’m not sure it’s such a good idea to drink during the day at all.”
He shrugs and hangs his head.
I know that he hates me bringing this up.
But what else do I do when I see him going downhill? Should I not try to stop him at all? Should I not try to put on the brakes even a little bit?
I climb out of the pool and wrap the towel around myself.
My skin gets covered in goose bumps until I dry off.
“You know that I don’t mean anything by saying that, right?” I ask. “I’m just worried. I don’t want things to get out of hand.”
“Don’t be,” Owen says. “What…do you think I’m going to become an alcoholic or something?”
“It’s possible.” I nod. “It happens.”
“Well, not to me.”
“It’s a disease, Owen. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. And it’s progressive so if you keep this up, after a while you won’t be able to stop.”
His eyes turn ice cold as he clenches his jaw. He’s about to say something back to me but he chooses to keep it to himself.
I head inside through my bedroom, but Owen calls back out to me right before I slide the door closed.
“Oh, hey, I think you might want to come out and see what they’re showing on TV,” he says.
“What is it?”
“It’s about Nicholas.”
5
Olive
When I see him again…
I don’t know exactly what Owen means and I don’t really want to know. I’m tired of him making me feel bad about Nicholas. I have a lot of regrets about my life but falling for him doesn’t even come close to making the cut.
He burst into my life like a wildfire and destroyed almost everything. Yet just like a wildfire, his presence gave me the opportunity to start my life again.
On my terms.
I’m angry with Nicholas.
Pissed.
Upset.
Disappointed.
But the more time passes, the more I miss him.
I hate how much time I have wasted.
He lied to me and yet now all of these months later, I sort of think that I allowed it.
I didn’t press him hard enough.
I didn’t challenge all of those things that I should have.
I get dressed slowly, putting on the layers that I typically wear in the mornings and evenings when the outside temperatures drop by about twenty degrees.
Before leaving my room, I take a deep breath and steady my mind.
Nicholas is not an easy topic of conversation between Owen and me.
Owen sees nothing but the worst in him.
He believes he killed his girlfriend and his partner and he knows that he betrayed him, us, and he will use any opportunity to rub it in my face.
“Don’t you remember our pact?” I ask, walking into the living room where Owen is sprawled out on the couch with a big smile on his face.
He is so drunk that he can barely keep his eyes open yet the beer in his hand remains perfectly vertical.
“And that is?” he asks.
“That we’re not going to bring him up again.”
“Well, if that’s what you want,” Owen says slowly, slurring his words just a bit. “I just thought that you might be interested in what they’re saying on the news about him.”
I furrow my brow and turn toward the television.
There are huge blown up pictures of him in a suit with the words Nicholas Crawford right below.
I bring my hand to my lips unwilling to believe my eyes.
Owen unpauses the television and America’s Fugitives starts to run.
The narrator explains how Nicholas used to work for one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in the Northeast until he and his partner decided to break away, do some deals on their own, and keep their boss out of the loop.
The program doesn’t reveal many names besides Nicholas’ nor does it go into anything beyond the generalities.
What it does offer is an interview with Art Hedison who discussed in detail how dangerous Nicholas is and that the FBI now needs the public’s help in locating him.
“That asshole,” I say, shaking my head. “He fuckin’ betrayed him. We did that job to help him and here he is on primetime…”
My words trail off as anger starts to bubble up.
“No, Nicholas is the asshole,” Owen says. “He should’ve known better than to trust the FBI. He should’ve known better than to inform on us.”
He uses the word us, when it’s really just him.
I haven’t done anything.
I never turned on anyone and I don’t owe anyone any debts.
“I just can’t believe that he’s a fugitive now,” I say with a sigh.
For the first time ever, I’m actually afraid that something bad is going to happen to Nicholas.
Before, all of my worries were so focused on Owen and now there is suddenly another man in my life to worry about.
The FBI are after him.
His face is all over the news.
When I search his name on my phone, I realize that he’s the criminal of the hour.
There are podcasts and YouTube episodes from indie producers devoted to his case.
“Why are you so upset about this?” Owen asks. “He had this coming.”
“How can you even ask me that?” I say.
“How can I not? He betrayed you. He fucked you over.”
“No, he lied. He shouldn’t have, but he was in a jam. He didn't have a choice.”
“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Owen says. “How long will it take you to get it through your thick head that he is a con artist and a liar and he never gave a fuck about you.”
I take a deep breath.
I hate it when he talks to me like this.
He’s drunk.
That’s not an excuse but he would never talk to me like this sober.
Engaging with Owen even more would just make things worse and yet I can’t help it.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I ask as sternly as possible, balling up my hands into fists. “Don’t talk to me like that.”
“Okay, I'm sorry, Olive. Please,” he says quickly, his words rushing over one another. “I just hate how you still care about him. Don’t you get it? Art is a dick but he’s telling us the truth. He killed his partner. They have a case on him.”
I inhale deeply.
I don’t actually know if he did kill his partner and given his line of work, it’s a real possibility that he did.
Tell me to Fight Page 2