But if I thought that she ate that sandwich fast, she drinks that glass of milk even faster. She actually uses it to help her swallow, to rinse down the thick sandwich bread, savory and sweet ham, creamy cheese and succulent mayo.
Believe me: it really looks every fucking bit the way I’ve described. She has dabs of that mayo on the sides of her mouth. And all that bread and cheese and meat? It puffs out her cheeks in a beautifully disturbing way. I don’t know why it turns me on, but it does.
I’ve always liked a woman who could eat, who wasn’t so worried about being too “lady-like” and whatnot, but I know she’s far from being herself at the moment. Even with her good appetite, her eyes still look distant— glazed over a bit, even as she sets the glass of milk down, already half drained. So, she may or may not be one of those “lady-like” types in actuality. She might just be starving.
It’s a sobering thought that becomes the dominant narrative in my head as I watch her go to town on those chips. If they taste old or stale, she doesn’t show it. She just shoves handfuls in, as if she’s barely tasting what she’s eating.
She gets crumbs everywhere, but I don’t care. I’m not my granddad. Or my mom. Manners don’t matter— not when you’re starving, when you’re begging for something to sustain you, which she must be.
Now that I get a good look at her, she’s probably not eaten or had much to drink in a few days. And that was probably before she came to the mountains. I clear my throat, banishing the thought that she might have decided to come up here to end it more quickly.
I do it just as she’s finished her meal. She practically cleaned everything from her plate, and drank the last of her milk. Something my mom definitely would’ve been proud of, were she here. Though, she’d probably do a better job than I am at trying to figure out what’s going on with this girl. She probably wouldn’t have gotten herself nearly punched out or kicked in the face in the process.
The woman’s eyes are on mine. They’re attentive and a tad wild. It’s like she’s a mountain lioness who’s just wolfed down a carcass, and she’s looking at me like I’m about to steal it right out of her belly.
“I’m gonna guess the you’re pretty tired from today. From whatever you were doing or not doing up on that cliff out there.” I rub at my injured arm, feeling phantom pains from where she hit me— where her hands and fingernails landed. “I’m gonna let you have my room — my bed — for the night. You’ll be in there by yourself, so no worries about privacy.”
She gets up from her seat, watching me. Studying my movements. “Let me show you where,” I add, walking out of the kitchen, and toward my bedroom, down the hall and to the right.
Of course, my mystery woman’s followed me. She’s come to stand next to me, but slightly behind me. She’s probably maintaining that perfect distance in case she decides I’m dangerous, and needs to literally kick my ass to get away.
I open the door, pushing it open and away for her, so that she knows I’m not going to corner her. I let her walk past me, so that she knows I’m not going to grab her, or whatever horror story she is playing in her head on repeat.
“There are things for you to wear to bed in the top drawer of my dresser. The bottom as well. Whatever you like, you can have for the night.” In my dresser are more T-shirts and sweatpants, so, it’s not a big departure from what she’s already wearing, but at least they’re cleaner, and warmer, than what she’s got on. “You should get some sleep. You look like you need it.”
I say this gently, hoping she knows I’m not making fun of her. Making light of whatever she’s got going on.
If I expected any response from her, I’m quickly disappointed. As she’s done throughout most of the time we’ve been together since I found her, she just walks past me into the room, and shuts the door. It’s all with no emotion, and very little awareness.
I sigh, walking away through the kitchen. Well, at least she’s safe. She’s eaten. Now hopefully she’ll be able to sleep just as well. As I walk into the kitchen, I decide I’m gonna get something to eat as well. My mac & cheese TV dinner. I need that comfort food.
If I don’t, I’m going to start worrying about her. I’ll ruminate about why she was sitting on the edge of that cliff, and wonder what the fuck is wrong with this beautiful, mysterious stranger who is sleeping in my bed tonight.
And once I start doing that, I’d start pacing. I don’t think my carpets can take it.
Chapter 5
Brandon
Despite my best efforts to preoccupy myself with cleanup from my mystery woman’s lightning-fast dinner, and my own trip down memory lane with my macaroni and cheese, sweetcorn, and bite-sized brownie, I’m still a little on edge. I feel fucking torn between what more I should do or can do for her. And I’m unsure how else to spend the rest of my night, now that she’s been given a warm place to sleep.
It’s too early for bed. I know that much for sure. It’s only around seven or eight o’clock now, and I usually don’t go to bed until ten or eleven.
After finishing up the last bit of cleanup in the kitchen, and straightening a few things in my living room, I decide to just sit down and take some time to read a book. I’m half way through a really good Cormac McCarthy novel. But even that doesn’t help. Although I’d been excited to finish it, my mind feels too distracted to pay attention.
Within minutes, I’m bored and letting my mind wander, specifically to the construction job I’m going to start soon. Next week, in fact. I wonder what it’s going to be like to be in charge of a team of people. And if I’ll be able to spot shitty or not, or whether something is truly to spec or not.
I sigh, lacing my hands together and putting them behind my head. Shouldn’t be that hard of a job to do. I was used to looking after my guys during deployment. I could spot a sloppy, slovenly uniform from a mile away, or discrepancies in procedure and handling of various weapons, so construction work can’t be that much more difficult than that, can it?
That’s what I’d been thinking this whole time, and how I’d sold myself at the job interview— I’d gotten into logging and construction as part-time gigs to supplement my wounded veterans’ pay when I moved out here to the mountains, and now I’ve been working my way up— but now I’m having doubts. I tell myself not to worry; it’ll work itself out just like things always do.
At the edge of these thoughts, my mind wanders back to my mystery woman. My unexpected guest and the difficult ordeal she seems to have been through.
The job’s probably not going to be my real issue. I hate to admit it, but I’m more worried about her than I am anything else. Even after only an hour or two and her company, I’m oddly attached to her. Probably because I feel responsible for her— for keeping her safe. For making sure that she’s alive one more day. And when I leave for my job, if she’s still here, what happens then?
I don’t like thinking about it. I don’t like putting too much color and detail around the idea that she might do something stupid and irreversible. That she might try to check out again when I’m not around.
Luckily for me, though, I don’t have to think about it for long. My cell phone goes off. A familiar ring tone touches my ears — the orchestral theme from a favorite war movie of that very same friend of mine who’s calling, since I matched his ring tone to his caller ID. So, I know who it is before I even pick up: Harlow Bradford.
Harlow is and was a friend of mine from my time with the Navy. He was in my unit— a fellow SEAL. I don’t look up to too many people, but I look up to him. Not only was his service and bravery beyond anything I’ve seen even from other SEALs, but he also sustained more injuries during combat than I did. He was in the same helicopter that I was in when we were hit and crashed over enemy lines, while on our way.
He sustained massive damage to his legs and arms, and his face as well— enough so that he was unrecognizable when we first brought him home. But now, after surgeries and physical therapy— with no thanks to a crooked doctor who was usi
ng him to promote himself, but with all thanks to his physical therapist-turned-wife, Whitney, who helped him figure out the doctor’s scheme— Harlow’s pretty much back to his old self. By the sound of it, he’s definitely a lot more chipper than I am at the moment.
“So, you coming or what?”
Just like Harlow: right to the point, no fluff. He’s calling to ask about the charity event he’s holding this weekend. He started an organization some years ago for returning veterans, after he went through all the experiences he did with rehabilitation, and a doctor who took more credit for his rehabilitation and recovery than he deserved. The organization helps veterans who return from war and have difficulty adjusting back to civilian life.
“Hey, man.” At first, that’s all I can get out. My mind’s gone back to the strange woman sleeping in my bedroom. “I know you want me to come to the event — and I want to be there for you, man.”
I pause again, wondering what she’s doing right now. If she’s sleeping soundly, or if she’s tossing and turning. “You know I respect you more than any other guy on my team. I admire your strength and your courage, and the fact that you do all this for our brothers and sisters. You know I would be there without a second thought…”
“… But?” This is Harlow, knowing that that “but” was coming.
I sigh, realizing at this moment how fucking weird it’s going to sound when I have to tell him why I’m gonna have to cancel. Uh, what am I gonna say? “Look, man, I have this strange girl in my bedroom? I just picked her off a cliff face near my home? She looks rather than disturbed, so I can’t come to the charity event”?
Or, worse. “Hey man, I can’t come because I’m afraid to leave the house. And I’m afraid to leave the house because she might kill herself, and I don’t want her to kill herself because I freaking care about her, even though I just met her. Because, you know, that’s how love at first sight works”?
“Whatever it is, Brandon, you know you can tell me, man.” Harlow chuckles. “I felt like you all those years ago when Whitney and I broke open the story about my Doc skewing my medical records and tests to make it look like I was more disabled and more in need of his ‘special brand’ of technology and surgical procedures to ‘heal me,’ you know? If that’s not something that most people would feel uncomfortable telling their friends, what is, man?”
It’s true. When Harlow first told me all about it — brought his physical therapist at the time, Whitney, over and showed me all the evidence they had gathered — I didn’t know what to believe either. I thought I was in some kind of novel written by a conspiracy theorist. I initially didn’t want to believe that a doctor — a fucking medical genius — would be more of a con artist, more skilled at taking credit for Harlow’s strength and personal willpower than anything else, even his so-called medical experience.
I also have a gnawing suspicion there’s something else holding me back from going to speak at the event like Harlow wants me to. Some self-doubt, as if I’m asking myself, Who am I to tell other veterans how to acclimate into regular life when I haven’t done that very well myself? Here I am hiding out in the woods, in seclusion.
So, both because he sounds so receptive to listen to whatever I have to say, and because I don’t want to think about the alternative reason I don’t want to go to the event, I decide to tell Harlow about the woman— the mystery girl I found looking out over a cliff near my house, which is pretty much in the middle of nowhere, and so should be anything but a “hang out” spot.
Good old Harlow. He just listens for a while— lets me tell him everything. About how she was with me. Her reactive tendencies. The way that she’s not really “home” half the time when you ask her things.
But then, in the end, he just comes back to the charity event. The conference. How I’m supposed to be one of the main speakers. “I know you care about her, man. That’s what a hero does: he worries about people that others would just let fall through the cracks.”
His comment about falling makes me a little queasy, but I ignore it and listen to him continue. “I admire that about you. That’s the reason your story —about the rescue mission we were a part of when we both got injured — inspires me, moves me to tears, every time I hear it. But you can’t let me down. You can’t let these vets down.”
On the other end of the phone, I hear Whitney saying something. I’m not sure what it is, but it sounds like she’s reminding him of part of his plans for the day. Something he needs to get off the phone and do.
“Please think about it, Brandon. You really are an inspiration to a lot of people out there. People who have served, and people who haven’t.” He clears his throat. “Let me know what you decide as soon as you decide it.”
He pulls the phone away from his mouth a bit. I can hear it in the way the quality of his voice changes. “Gotta do my nightly stretches, courtesy of some help from the wife. So, I have to get off the phone, but I want you to know I’m counting on you. I know you’ve got a lot going on, but your words and your presence mean a lot.”
At the edge of his words, I think I hear sounds from my room. Moaning. Groaning. Almost a scream, but not. I get up, walking quietly toward my room.
“Sure, thanks, man,” I say, although I’m not really paying attention. “I’ll see what I can do.” As I get closer, I still think I hear muffled groans, but I’m not sure. It’s hard to hear with one ear still up to my phone.
“All right, well, don’t burn yourself out too much, Brandon.” He pauses. “I’m sure she’ll be fine, come morning.”
I’m up against the door, hearing soft whimpering. And then nothing.
“I hope so too,” I nearly whisper.
With that, Harlow hangs up, and I stash my phone in the pocket of my pants.
I go to the door, press my ear up against it. I’m sorry to say it, but I’m almost hoping I’ll hear something. So I have something to do. Some sign of how she’s doing, whether good or bad. But unfortunately for me, I don’t get anything.
All the moaning and groaning has stopped. I guess she doesn’t need any further rescuing for today. Maybe she was just having a bad dream. All is silent now, as if even asleep, she’s aware of me stalking her on the other side of the door.
I stand there like an idiot for a few more seconds, before deciding to give it up. Then I walk away thinking I must’ve just imagined it.
I’m just being oversensitive. Fearful for her, I decide. She’s probably fine.
Emphasis on probably.
Chapter 6
Juliet
Daddy! I wake up with a near-scream on my lips. It’s almost out of me, but then I’m conscious. I’m slammed out of my nightmare on the battlefield — and into the reality of a dark, soundless bedroom, and a small sliver of light just peeking under the door.
I shiver, remembering the smell of burning metal that had been so real in my dream. Gunpowder. The sounds of the whirring of helicopter blades overhead, the low moan of car and vehicle motors. And the sight of my dad surrounded by exploding bombs in my nightmare.
Fire and chucked up sand still reverberates in my skull. Even now, I can feel my hands and arms clutching him. Dragging him to safety— or trying to, but I just can’t seem to get out of the way of bullets. Of grenades. Of the enemy running up to take my dad. I remember how I tried to pull him out of their hands, too safety, out of the line of fire.
But it wasn’t enough. In my dream, it was just dead weight that I was dragging around. It felt and smelled like Dad. It even sounded like him for a while, but then there was nothing. Just the feeling of his heavy, lifeless body in my arms. And I know I didn’t save him in my dream, just like no one could save him in real life.
Covered in sweat, I’m afraid to go back to sleep again. Afraid to close my eyes. To one side of the room, I think I’ve just heard footsteps. The man’s footsteps. The one who rescued me. Along with his footsteps, I think I’ve heard his voice.
It could have been that he was on the phone. But I�
�m not sure.
I guess hearing him in real life could have been what jolted me out of the dream. It had sounded like Dad calling for me a minute ago in my dream.
The moment my mind is back on Dad again, I hate the empty feeling in my hands, in my heart, in my soul. My chest tightens, putting a noose around my throat. No. No, we can’t do that. I can’t think about those things now. If I do, I’ll drown. I’ll start crying and never be able to stop.
My eyes dart back over to the door, thinking maybe I’ve heard him, seeing a bit of his shadow moving somewhere outside the door. And if he hears me, that nice, sweet man who took me in, will think I’m crazy.
I stop myself, laughing quietly, derisively at myself under my breath. I probably already am, I think. Who else goes from thinking the man who saved me is a creepy stalker and then a nice, sweet man?
I clutch the blankets close to me. Who is the man who rescued me, anyway? Why does he care for me? Why is he bothering to look after me? My throat tightens. I shouldn’t get too comfortable. Too trusting, though. I’m still in enemy territory, aren’t I, Dad?
***
I fall asleep sooner than I want to after that nightmare. All I can hope for is that I don’t end up on the battlefield again. I don’t want to have that dream anymore. As a very realistic landscape fills itself around me — the cliffside at sunset looking out over the mountains and forests below, that Dad took me to all the time when I was little — I’m spared from any more battles.
Luckily for me, I’m all alone in this dream. Well, me and my memories of coming here with Dad, of enjoying the view with him, of the conversations he used to have about the need for peace out in nature. Especially in this crazy, violent world of ours.
In my dream, I can hear his voice clearly, though it’s just in memory. “I always come here when I need advice. When I need guidance. When I need to feel like everything is okay, like I haven’t lost my mind, this is where I come, juju-bear. “Juju-bear” was his favorite nickname for me, though I didn’t always like it.
Hold Onto Me_A Secret Baby Romance Page 3