Big Stick

by R. C. Stephens

  “No there isn’t room for games.” I agree. I want to ask him why he never came out to New York to see me after my parents died. He was still my best friend and I needed him, but those words get caught in my throat. We are at an impasse. My head falls in my hands.

  “What is it?” he asks, and I feel so frustrated with myself.

  “I can’t talk about it,” I grit my jaw.

  “Hey.” He takes me by the chin and forces me to look at him. “We need to talk about it eventually,” he says, and I know he’s right but the whole situation is so hard.

  I shake my head. “I can’t.”

  “I understand. You need time.”

  A garbled laugh escapes me. “I’ve had seven years. You’d think it would be enough time.”

  He gives me a sad smile. “I get it. I do. Not tonight but maybe soon,” he says softly his voice sweet and understanding like the day he took me to the Ledge. He makes me want to fall for him.

  “Yeah, soon,” I agree. A small yawn escapes me. I have to be at work early. “Would you mind if we went home now?” He turns my world upside down and I need to find my bearings. For that I need to have space away from him.

  “Yeah.” His brow creases, and he gives my hand a squeeze.

  A few minutes later, he starts the car and I turn to him placing my hand on his hand holding the stick shift. “For the record, I don’t think you’re like either of your parents. You’re a loyal friend,” I say and turn away to put my seat belt on expecting him to pull out of the parking spot. Only when I turn back around he has both hands on the steering wheel gripping it tight and he isn’t driving.

  “I wish you’d say it, but I see you are too kind, so I will…” He cuts me a look that shows the deep hurt in the depths of his blue eyes. “I wasn’t a loyal friend to you.”

  His words slam into me. Words escape me.

  “You don’t need to say anything. I’m taking full responsibility for my actions. I want to make promises to you right here and right now, but I can’t. I don’t trust myself. What I do want you to know is that—” He takes a sharp intake of breath. “I’m so damn sorry for not coming to New York, for not being there for you. I know you were sad.”

  I can’t stop the tears.

  “I was so mad at you.” I shake my head because it’s unfair of me to feel that way. “I asked you to stay away. I can’t blame you for respecting my requests.” I admit, surprising myself.

  He looks up to the sky like he is willing some force to give him strength. “You were hurting, I don’t think you really wanted me to stay away. You weren’t thinking straight. None of us were. We were just trying to get by. In hindsight I understand it better now. Not that it helps all the years we lost.”

  “No, it doesn’t make up for lost time, but Myles I’m still…” I pause I can’t even figure out what is in my own mind.

  “You’re still hurting. The wound hasn’t healed.” He places his hand on mine. “It’s okay.”

  Tears flow down my cheeks. Despite everything Myles is so understanding. He was once my broken Peter Pan but now it’s me that is broken. It scares me how long it’s taking me to heal. Maybe I never will.

  “I should have come to you,” he repeats. “My head was just so messed up. I was a wreck after the accident. And a lifetime of my parents’ neglect came crashing down on me. I didn’t have my head on straight. It took me a long time to come to terms with what happened that night. I know you aren’t ready to talk about it, either.” He exhales harshly. “Staying away made sense.”

  “It did.” I agree.

  “It doesn’t make sense anymore,” he says sternly, and I want to believe those words, but I’m too broken to think straight. “Let’s just lay everything out.”

  My breath catches. “Not yet. Please.”

  “Okay. Relax. I’m not pushing you. I meant it. I’m here always. Whenever you’re ready.” Those words provide me reassurance. They make me feel supported, but they also scare the daylights out of me. I’m not sure I can let go. I’ve been holding on so long.

  Myles drives us back home. I head into Oli’s apartment feeling more torn up than at the beginning of the night.

  Myles and I seem to be on a roller-coaster ride, feeling the highs of our attraction and the lows of the reasons we’ve stayed apart. And I’m no closer to having any answers. I just don’t know what to do. There is one thing I do know. I need to talk with Myles about the night my parents died. That’s the only way we are going to get any closure.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Flynn

  The next morning, I’m desperate for a caffeine fix. A few minutes later, I’m stepping out of an Uber in front of Starbucks. As I open the door, I see Sloane already at a table. I quickly order a venti white mocha latte, because it’s that kind of morning, then I take a seat across from Sloane.

  “Jesus, chick. Sugary drinks aren’t like you. What’s going on?” She squints, sensing my unease.

  I bite my lip. “It’s Myles.”

  “Wanna elaborate?” she asks, taking a bite of her chocolate banana muffin. It looks good, so I snag a piece from the top part.

  “Maybe we should talk about your date with the construction guy,” I respond, making a poor attempt to redirect the conversation.

  Sloane sighs heavily at my attempt to deflect talk of Myles.

  “Fine. If you’re going there, I might as well tell you the good news.” She sounds exasperated with me. “I got the job I interviewed for. I’m now the six o’clock news anchor for KPLG with Gaven Stewart.” She ends her sentence on a squeal.

  My eyes open wide, and I reach over the table to give her a hug. “I’m so proud of you. And Gaven Stewart? Wow! He has great hair, too. Added bonus.”

  Sloane nods her head. “You’re so weird.”

  “I know.”

  “Now tell me what the hell happened last night.” She leans forward on the table, waiting for some juicy details. She’s going to be disappointed.

  I let out a long breath. “Oli said he wanted to hang out with me last night, but he was really plotting to get Myles and I together. Myles and I need to talk about the past, and that’s something that’s really hard for me.” I swallow past the lump in my thorat. This is something I never even discussed with Sloane.

  She gives me a solemn look. “Sometimes we have to face the past in order to move forward.” Her words give me an eerie feeling, like Sloane has something dark in her past that I don’t know about. I don’t call her on it because I can’t share my own secrets. Not yet. Maybe soon. I don’t know. Gah!

  “You’re right,” I agree with her.

  She pouts. “Okay. Soon, sweets.”

  “Maybe, yeah.”

  I try changing the subject again. “How was the construction guy? Was he good with his drill?” I know I’m being childish, and I know she didn’t sleep with this new guy, but I will do anything I can to not say the words she’s asking me to say.

  Her brow furrows. “Don’t think I’m not onto you. You do this every time we get close to discussing the real issue. I’ll let it slip this time, but you need to talk to someone. You can’t keep whatever it is bottled up inside you forever.”

  “I know.” My voice is quiet and sad. She hasn’t told me anything that I haven’t tried to convince myself.

  Her lips twist on one corner. “I don’t know. I let him get to second base last night so it’s a definite improvement.” She says, answering my question about construction guy.

  I laugh. “Sloane, that would be an improvement if you were still in high school.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” she agrees. “I spoke to Mama Sex Guru about it last night,” she begins. My hand flies up to my mouth. This can’t be good. Her mom gives the weirdest advice.

  “Wow, what happened? I thought you didn’t like taking advice from her,” I say, interested in where this is going.

  “I don’t, but I was feeling low last night, and I figured you were busy.”

  “And?” I raise my
brows.

  Her face contorts. “She thinks I have a hostile vagina.”

  The coffee spurts out of my mouth and splatters all over the table. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting that,” I mumble as I stand to grab a napkin from the service counter.

  “Right? Me, either.” Only, her tone is serious. “She said my vagina was difficult, and that’s why I’m still a virgin. She refuses to believe that it has anything to do with my daddy’s values or the fact that he’s a pastor. She may be right. I mean, I just haven’t met a guy that gets me all warm and tingly.” She pauses and, her green eyes meeting mine. She bites her lower lip. “Well, except maybe for one.”

  “Who?” Who’s the guy she’s been holding out for?

  “Oli,” she says.

  My head jerks back. “As in my Oli?”

  She nods. “Since we were living in New York.”

  “Holy shit, Sloane.” I pause, frozen. My brows furrow. “Did he try and come on to you or something? Because I swear…” My voice trails off.

  “Nothing like that, even though I wish,” she says, a little sad and a little dreamy at the same time.

  “Wow.” I’m stunned. She’s my best friend. I don’t even know if Oli has ever seen her in any way but my friend.

  “Yeah, look, it doesn’t mean anything. Oli sees me as a friend, clearly,” she murmurs. “I just spoke to my mom about it last night so she would get the idea of my vagina being hostile out of her head.”

  I begin to laugh again and sit back in the chair holding my stomach. “I’m sorry…” I wave. “But your mother fucking kills me. What did she want you to do? Have your vagina meditate to remove the hostility?”

  Her face turns serious, and she nods.

  I laugh even harder. “Shit, Sloane!”

  She finally begins to laugh, too. “Honestly, I think she smoked some weed before the conversation. She was high. That’s the only excuse I can come up with. Hostile vagina…” She shakes her head, and she’s laughing so hard tears spring to her eyes.

  Looking at the time, my eyes widen. “I’m sorry, I have to go. I have to get to the office. It’s almost eight o’clock.”

  “No worries. We can talk later.” She waves me off.

  The wind brushes my face as I walk briskly down the sidewalk.

  Sloane likes Oli. The words float through my mind on repeat. Is it just a crush? She thinks he’s the guy for her vagina. Gross! I wince as I walk through the door of Weldrick and Ross.

  …

  It’s another busy day at the office for me. By eleven, I head into Tara’s office to update her on SoCorp.

  Her dark hair is pinned to the top of her head, glasses sitting low on her nose. She must be in her mid-thirties, but she looks at least a decade younger. “Take a seat, Flynn. I know you aren’t on the Smolder case, but I’d like your opinion on something.” She takes off her glasses and bites absently on one of the arms for a moment.

  I take a seat in the chair in front of her desk, crossing my legs easily in my pant suit. “Sure.” I smile, friendly but professional.

  “Okay, just a little overview.” She pauses to pick up a document on her desk and gazes at it intently as she summarizes. “Christian Smolder, age twenty-one, picked up Kathleen Andrews, nineteen, at seven p.m. from her parents’ house. It was their fourth date, and the Andrews had met Smolder and had a good impression of him. On the way back from dinner, Smolder’s car was hit by a drunk driver, killing Kathleen Andrews on impact.” She pauses and looks to her sheets for a moment.

  I can’t breathe. I nonchalantly begin to unbutton the top button on my blouse. My throat tightens as I gasp for air. Without thinking, I shoot to stand up. Tara looks startled.

  “Flynn, are you okay?” Her lips turn down, and her brows dip and crease her forehead as she rises from her own chair.

  With my hand at my neck, I try to get some words past the lump in my throat. “I…I…can’t breathe.”

  “Oh no. Should I call 911?” she asks frantically, reaching for the phone on her desk.

  I’m not sure if I should say yes or no. I haven’t had a panic attack in such a long time, but that’s exactly what this is.

  “Panic attack,” I manage. “Excuse me.” I turn out of her office as the need to flee controls me and my heart races a mile a minute. I’m actually scared it may burst in my chest. I run straight for the elevator and wait frantically for it. Tara follows me and places her hand on my shoulder. That she is here to witness me in this broken state makes everything worse. It makes me feel weak, and I hate to feel weak.

  Sympathetically, she asks, “What can I do?”

  I gasp for air, but my lungs are twisted into a fist. “I just need air. I’m okay. I’m so sorry.”

  Her sympathy morphs into a different kind of concern when she asks, “I’m not sure if this is the time to ask, Flynn, but I need to know if this is something you deal with on a regular basis.”

  My insides are shaking. I need to get out of here, but I also need to keep my job. That’s why I decide to tell her the sad truth. I force the words out of my mouth on a shaky breath. “My parents were killed by a drunk driver seven years ago. My best friend Myles was driving the car the night they were killed.

  “For the past seven years, I’ve been trying to convince myself he wasn’t to blame. Police said he had no alcohol in his system, and there was nothing he could do to stop the accident, but I can’t forgive him.” I let out a breath, feeling the edge taken off my anxious state. Until now, Oli was the only one who knew that I feel this way. Well, Oli and probably Myles.

  “Shit, Flynn!” Tara sighs. “I had no idea, or I never would’ve presented Smolder to you.”

  I nod my head. Adrenaline still pumps through my body, making me feel light-headed and making it hard to focus. The elevator arrives, and my need to flee is heightened.

  “Come on.” Tara motions to me. There’s a woman standing in the corner of the car. “Ma’am, would you mind giving us some privacy and taking the next car?” Tara asks, and I’m a little surprised by her understanding of my situation. I calm slightly. The lady eyes us warily as she walks off the car and the doors close. Tara lets out a sigh. “My mom died of cancer when I was ten,” she suddenly admits, throwing me off. “I was a kid, but I know about loss and losing a mother at an age when I needed her most. My father, of course, took me to a therapist. Over many years I realized, through therapy, that there’s a process to grief. Have you sought help?” she asks with a soft, sad smile.

  I shake my head, and the tears I’ve been holding back threaten to spill.

  “That’s what I thought. You’re still in the mourning process. I know the seven stages of grief by heart. You probably experienced the initial shock and denial of losing your parents so quickly. You may have even experienced guilt and anger, but you’re stuck in the bargaining stage.” She reaches over to hug me, and I’m completely surprised by her warmth and compassion.

  “I’m not judging you. I’ve had a long list of my own issues to deal with because of my mother’s death. You probably feel that negotiating the blame will somehow lessen the pain. You’re an attorney, you look for logic, and you create arguments to support your ideas. But what happens if those arguments are distorted? What happens if your sadness has affected your ability to see this case in the right light?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “I know I sound like a therapist”—she rolls her eyes—“but I get you. Your parents were there one minute and gone the next. That can take a lifetime to come to terms with, but blaming an innocent person—someone who was a victim, too—isn’t going to bring them back.” Her voice lowers, and I sense her own sorrow in the depths of her dark, wise eyes.

  The elevator doors open, and we’re in the lobby. Everything seems fuzzy to me, but I stay focused on Tara’s heels clicking along the marble floor.

  As we stand off to the corner, I lose control of my tears as her words sting and soothe my soul at the same time. Not one word that has come out of her mouth is a lie.
She has me pegged. The truth hurts.

  “I insist you take the afternoon off. See you bright and early Monday morning. I hope you find closure. That’s the only thing that will put your life back on track,” she says. Tara is all about business and tough as steel. I never would’ve guessed she had gone through something so traumatic at such a young age. We never truly know the burden that people carry.

  “Thank you. I’m so sorry I freaked out. It won’t ever happen again,” I try to reassure her. “I’m usually tough as nails.”

  “Don’t apologize.” She squeezes my arm. “I haven’t found any cases yet in civil law with a precedent that applies to the Smolder case. Truth is, I don’t think the Andrews have a case against him. Smolder was injured in the accident, too, and he’s also a victim. I get their devastation, but the accused was the drunk driver.

  “I’ve told the Andrews the same thing, but they insisted we try to formulate a case. It’s hard for them to accept the reality, but it is what it is, Flynn. I hope that doesn’t sound harsh. Truth is, if Magnum Andrews didn’t have such a large corporate account with us, that file would have never been on my desk. My father asked me to look into it just to appease the man.”

  I’m completely gutted, but I try to hide it. I try to act as professional as possible, since these last twenty minutes have not boded well for me. “Thanks, Tara. I really appreciate you talking me down.”

  She smiles. Then she turns away.

  I head to the ladies’ room to splash some cool water on my face. When I look in the mirror, I can’t believe what a mess I am at work. This is so not like me. I exit the restroom in the lobby and head back upstairs to the firm. When the elevator doors open, I make a beeline for my cubicle, hoping that the people around me aren’t gawking. I swiftly grab my files and shove them into my briefcase. Then I grab my coat. I can’t get out of here fast enough.

  As I stare out the window of the cab, the ominous clouds move quickly through the sky. My head is spinning, but it shouldn’t be, because Oli has tried to get me to see the light of day for as long as I can remember.