by Drew Jordan
Was it wrong to want someone to stop me when I tried to leave?
I would have rather had him yank me by the arm, throw me over his shoulder, and haul me off.
Then, at least, I would know he wanted me.
He picked up the tab for Michael’s lunch along with ours and gave Michael instructions to follow us. For a minute, I wondered if he planned to lead Michael into danger. Like over a soft spot on the river or off trail where he might hit a tree. But that was ridiculous. I was paranoid.
I smiled and went along with the plan because I wasn’t sure what else to do. Seattle felt so far away. We rode back to the cabin, me aware of Michael’s eyes on my back, my arms uncomfortably wrapped around the stranger. He wasn’t Trent. I couldn’t think of him as Trent any more.
Though he was as rotten as Trent, betraying me. Turning me over.
I had loved him. Loved him. And he was letting me leave with Michael. It made my chest tighten and my eyes sting. I wanted to be thrilled at the prospect that Michael cared about me, but it fell flat. There was no excitement there. He was a good, kind man, but he wasn’t right for me. I wasn’t suited for the life the stranger had outlined for me. The suburbs, the babies, the minivan and the PTA and the handsome, ordinary husband in golf shirts and khakis. That was for women who hadn’t been abandoned by their mothers.
Who hadn’t had sex with their stepfathers.
Not for women like me.
That night, back at the cabin, with the moon high and the stove piled with logs, Michael produced cigars from his pocket and invited the stranger out onto the front porch to smoke them. It didn’t take a genius to figure out they would be talking about me, so I sat on the floor by the door and listened. I didn’t even have to press my ear to wood. The sound carried easily.
“What has Laney told you about herself?” Michael asked.
I heard the flick of a lighter.
“Nothing.” His voice was further away, muffled, like he’d moved down the porch.
“She’s had a hard life, you know. Her mother was a mess. Running around, doing drugs, leaving Laney alone.”
It was so strange to hear my past spoken about out loud. So casually, really. I squeezed my nails into my thighs, through the cotton of my sweat pants.
“She’s a very sweet girl. Too sweet. She’s been… taken advantage of more than once. Most notably by her stepfather.”
Is that what Michael thought? Funny then, that he’d called Dean to tell him I was missing. Such a polite phrasing too, taken advantage of, as if he had been present at the time he would have stopped it. Oh, the beautiful patriarchy of men thinking they knew what was best for me. For the first time it occurred to me Dean had kept his mouth shut about what had happened between us not to protect me, but to protect himself. What a weak man he would seem to be if he admitted that I had seduced him, in all my virginal guile, at the age of sixteen. If he told people how I had crept into his room and climbed onto his bed, and stroked him in his sleep until he was hard as a rock. And that how once he had woken up, he had all of two seconds of hesitation and one brief, spineless protest before he rolled me on my back and broke my hymen.
I had never regretted that night, or the many nights that came after it. I loved my stepfather. I still loved my stepfather, or I had until he had betrayed me with that email from prison where he admitted he’d been one of those men who had hooked one of those pathetic women who write to prisoners. Such a cliché.
I’ve met someone.
As if that changed everything. As if I was supposed to forget and move on.
I tried that once, when Dean had first gone to prison for statutory rape, and look at how that had turned out. Trent and the restraining order. So much legal mess in my family. We were the law firm’s wet dream.
“Laney is sweet but she’d also tough,” my stranger said. “Though I’m not sure why you’re sharing this with me.”
Good question.
“Did you sleep with her?”
“Yes. Every night. There’s only one bed.”
Michael made an impatient sound. “You know what I mean. Sex. I’m assuming you had sex with her, but you have to understand, Laney attaches. She fixates on men.”
“Why are you telling me this? She’s going back with you. If anything, I should be asking you what exactly you plan to do with her.”
“I’m going to do the right thing. I’m going to take her back to her family.”
“To the family that took advantage of her? Why would you do that?”
Good point. I did love that blunt honesty the stranger had.
“Because she’s unstable. And she has a daughter who should be her focus, not me. Or any other man.”
My nose itched. I scratched it. He was sounding an awful lot like a fucking shrink. He didn’t know jack shit about Victoria and what she needed. I did. What she needed was for everyone to keep their big fat ugly mouths shut about where she came from and let her live her happy little ignorant life with Grandma Jean. It was the least I could do for her. I’d given her up so she would have that safety, that freedom from people’s opinions, that stain of scandal.
It was my gift to her.
My own personal heartbreak. So if I attached to men, excuse the fuck out of me, because I had a hole in my heart from where my child had been ripped away from me, for her own good.
“I didn’t know she had a daughter.”
Nor should Michael. It was a secret, allegedly. So who had told him? My mother, most likely. She couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. But when would she have talked to Michael? Or maybe Michael was just smart enough to put it together. It wasn’t a secret why Dean was in prison, just that Victoria came from my uterus, so maybe he was just guessing.
“Does that change anything?”
“No. I want the best for Laney.”
“She doesn’t have custody of her. She was only seventeen when she was born.”
“Why are you telling me this? I think this is Laney’s story to share, not yours.”
Thank you.
“I just wanted you to know that if she tries to talk you in to letting her stay, you can’t let her. She needs to go back with me, but she’s probably attached to you. This was a traumatic experience.”
Of sorts.
The floorboards creaked. “Thanks for the warning.” He yanked the door open suddenly, just a crack.
I knew he was going to. I could sense his movement, feel him shifting toward me. But I didn’t hide or scramble away. I wanted him to see that I knew. That I knew he knew. He obviously wanted me to know he knew as well because he locked eyes with me and gave me a brief smile. The door shut again.
“Wait, was she listening?” Michael asked.
“No.”
“Okay, good.”
“So what are you going to do with her?” the stranger asked.
“I’m going to marry her. Once she feels secure, she’ll be a great wife. She’s a sweet woman.”
Well, that was unexpected. Michael thought I was a victim, clearly. He wanted to save me. What a do-gooder. But I had to admit, I was flattered. Even a little bit charmed, though he was something of a prick to be spilling my dirty laundry out of the basket for the stranger to see.
“Are you engaged?”
“Not yet.”
My scab was tugging again so I reached into my sweat pants and yanked it off, pressing my finger down to stem the bleeding.
Then I stood up and went over to the bed, no longer interested in their conversation. I’d heard all I needed to. I picked up the mystery novel off the nightstand and started to read it. I actually made it through two chapters, getting engrossed in the story, when they came back in the house. I ignored them.
“You can share the bed with Laney,” the stranger said to Michael.
My nose twitched again. I didn’t want that. I wanted one last night close to him before I left. Because clearly I had to leave. Michael wanted me and the stranger did not. It didn’t seem to matter that her
e, I had figured out who and what I was. That I had found a place. No, they together had decided that I was going to have to return to the confines of my life in Seattle, my boring, passive, ordinary life where I went through every day pretending I was just another twenty-something trying to find herself.
“You sure, man? I don’t want to kick you out of your own bed.”
“It’s just one night.” He sat down and pulled off his boots.
Annoyed, I just set my book down and flicked off the lamp on the end table. The kitchen light was still on, but I resolutely closed my eyes. After a minute I felt Michael’s weight climb onto the bed. It was a violation, having him there, in the bed I shared with the stranger. Michael’s scent was like cologne and peaches. It should have been pleasant, and under other circumstances I would have welcomed his embrace, opened myself for him to pump away for a few minutes. But not here. Not in this bed.
By sheer force of will, I didn’t scream when he brushed my hair off my face. “It’s going to be okay. I promise. I’ll take care of you.”
“Okay,” I said, because if the stranger didn’t want me, then Michael was a reasonable alternative. It didn’t matter that my heart felt like it was shattering into a thousand tiny pieces. It didn’t matter that I had worn his blood on my skin, that I had been strung up for him, that I had bared my body and soul for him to see. That the intensity of our love at times felt so sharp it was like he could flay the flesh from my bones with one look.
No one seemed to care that despite what Michael said about my attaching, which was true and I could own it, I didn’t fall in love easily. But I had. I had fallen in love with the stranger and taking me from him was not going to ‘be okay.’ I had looked in his eyes and seen my own reflected back and that was special. That fucking mattered.
But I would go back to Seattle and I would marry Michael and I would have more children, and someday I would see the stranger again. I would return back to this cabin when I was old and a widow and find him here, grizzled and hunched and rougher than he was today and I would stay.
Because once taken, you can’t be given back. You can never fully go back.
So while my body would be in Seattle, the rest of me, the messy insides, would be here.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” Michael shifted away and fell asleep promptly. I heard him snoring in the dark.
The light went out but I didn’t hear him lie down on the floor on his sleeping bag. He stayed in the chair and I stayed awake, listening to him sit.
Then, in a tone so low I thought maybe I had imagined it, “Laney.”
“Yes?” I whispered, well aware of Michael’s snoring next to me.
“Come here.”
I climbed out of bed and went to him. He pulled me onto his lap, yanking my pants down simultaneously. I felt the nudge of his erection and I gripped his shoulders so he could guide me down onto him. I gave an involuntary gasp and his hand clamped over my mouth.
“Shh. Let’s not wake our houseguest. Your rescuer.”
“You’re my rescuer,” I said through his fingers.
The corner of his mouth turned up. “And you’re mine.”
Before I could ask what that meant, he thrust up into me, gripping me hard at the waist. I threw my head back and closed my eyes, wanting to feel. I couldn’t see his eyes well in the dark, so I just embraced the shadows, and let go. I already knew every line of his face, every curve of his scar, every nuance and subtle detail of the landscape that made him who he was. Briefly, I brought my head down, so I could take in his scent, fill my nostrils with musk and sulfur and cool air, and erase Michael from my nose.
With my mouth buried in his hair, I took the opportunity to whisper, “I love you.”
For a second I didn’t think he was going to answer. But then he said gruffly, “I love you too.”
“Do you?” I asked, intently. I tried to see into his eyes but it was too dark.
He buried his hand into my hair and pulled my head back. “Don’t ever doubt it. You’re my perfect fit. If a man like me could be happy, I’ve come the closest to it with you.”
I waited for him to bite me or yank my hair hard or squeeze my nipple. But he just buried his nose in my neck and kissed me softly. “I do love you, with all the corners of my very black heart, I absolutely love you.”
I wanted to cry.
“You can come now,” he said.
I could come. And then I would go.
I did, with tears in my eyes.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Michael was in a good mood. He woke me up with a gentle shake and a kiss on the back of my head. I would have expected to wake up disoriented, jerking when he touched me. But I had barely slept, hovering always on the edge of full consciousness, and there was no question about where I was or who I was with the second my eyes opened.
Before I even acknowledged him, I sought out the stranger. But he wasn’t in the cabin. Most likely he was outside gathering wood. It was dark out still, but the days were getting shorter and I didn’t have a good sense of time in Alaska. The lack of light messed with my sense of time. Since I was alone with Michael, I figured it was a good opportunity to question him.
“Are you really going back to Seattle with me?”
“Yes.” He was a very cute man, and post-sleep he was all smiles and floppy hair.
I felt guilty for involving him. For contacting him and dragging him into my life when I found out that Dean had abandoned me and I had needed a focus, a little bit of hope. Someone to love me.
“Why? I’m not your problem, Michael.” I was no one’s problem. Just my own.
“It’s not a problem. I want to do this.”
I didn’t get it. But then again, I remembered Michael taking rocks and using them on the playground to encircle a bunch of worms after a storm so no one would step on them and squish them. I had helped him, but only because I wanted Michael to like me. Not because I particularly cared about the worms and their slimy tubular bodies.
I wondered if Michael knew all my secrets. Or if he would feel the same way if he did.
“I’m not sure I want to leave Alaska,” I said. But my voice sounded tentative, questioning, without my meaning it to.
It was enough doubt to have him firm in his conviction.
“Laney. You know you don’t belong here. We only talked about this as a vacation, not a permanent move. You belong back home. Now don’t argue with me.” He smiled and touched the tip of my nose. “Though you look cute when you’re pouting.”
Cute, cute, cute. So cute. That was me, according to everyone.
Everyone but me. And him. The stranger.
“I’m going to use the outhouse,” I said, because his expression made me uneasy. I knew that a man like Michael would take care of me. It was probably ultimately what I needed, if I had any common sense.
But Michael couldn’t make me feel alive. He couldn’t make me feel consumed, make me feel like I was the center of his universe, the blood that flowed hot through his veins. Outside, I found the stranger feeding the dogs. I was wearing panties for the first time in weeks, a protective layer between me and Michael in bed and I didn’t like it. They were constricting as I walked.
“I don’t want to go back with him,” I said, not bothering with a greeting.
“You should.” He poured slop into the dogs’ bowls. “I kept you here against your will, remember. You should go back and you should tell the police and you should have me arrested for kidnapping.”
“Is that what you want?”
“It’s the right thing. The moral thing.”
He was confusing me. “Don’t you want me to stay?”
“We already had this conversation. If you want to stay, then you stay, on your own. But it’s not my job to get rid of Michael. It’s your job. He’s your boyfriend.”
I frowned. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
The stranger didn’t respond. He bent over and rubbed one of the dogs
’ flank and spoke soft words to her. Finally he looked up at me. “You know what to do.”
Did I? Turning on my heel, I went to the outhouse, throat tight.
I did. I would leave with Michael. I would go back to my daughter, pretend to be her sister, like I always had. Like I was, in a way. I would help Grandma Jean as best I could and I would forgive Dean. If Michael wanted to marry me, I would.
So I smiled at him as he chattered on with me and the stranger, drinking coffee, catching me up on all the world news. I even laughed, even though it sounded hollow to me. In time, once I left, I would lose the sense of why it had mattered so much, of how beautiful and painful and arousing and intense it had been to be bound on that bed, gloriously naked. I would forget that with one look he could make me orgasm and that for the first time, I could be truly, wholly myself in someone’s presence.
On the porch as we were leaving, I squinted against the snow glare. The sunlight was so precious it seemed such a shame that our eyes couldn’t handle the intensity of it against the snow.
Turning, I took in the yard, the dogs, the woods, the outhouse, the woodpile, the axe, the cabin itself.
Him.
“Let’s roll,” Michael said cheerfully. “As soon as we get back to Rush, I’ll let everyone know you’re alive.”
I was alive. Truly, madly alive. I froze on the porch. I looked to the stranger, then to Michael. “I don’t want to go.”
Michael frowned. “Laney, we talked about this. Now come on.”
Everyone always thought they knew what was best for me. Michael didn’t know me. He knew nothing. Less than nothing. “No. I’m staying.”
Michael gripped my arm suddenly, without warning, and the look he gave me was firm. “If you don’t go with me,” he said, in a low voice, leaning in close, “I’m going to tell the authorities the truth.”
“What truth is that, Michael?” There were so many truths.
“About you. The hospital.”
That made me scoff. I didn’t care about that. Well, I did. But it wasn’t a threat.
“I see the bruises on you, the cuts. The look in your eye. I could tell them that. About him. About how Trent isn’t his real name and that maybe something isn’t right here and that maybe you shouldn’t be given a choice to stay.” Michael’s voice was low. Soothing, some would say.