by Jewel E. Ann
“Swayze …”
Continuing to shake her head, she steps back as I step toward her.
Her hand presses to her neck just below her ear. “I thought you’d kiss me here, like you kissed her. Like her dad kissed her mom.”
After a few seconds of staring at the floor between us, or years into the past, her eyes find mine. “I wanted red and orange popsicles and stolen chocolates. I wanted to feel that young love. The butterflies. The anticipation. I thought it would flip this switch for me, and I’d remember what it was like to be that girl who fell in love with you. I thought one kiss could make that life real in my head.”
Popsicles and chocolates. I’m an asshole.
“But you didn’t kiss me like a fifteen-year-old boy would kiss a fifteen-year-old girl. You kissed me like an animal emerging from hibernation. Like a man coming undone from the inside out. Like if you didn’t kiss me, you would cease to exist.”
Like I was looking for that piece of myself that you took with you when you died.
Glancing away for a brief second, she draws in a shaky breath. “And I kissed you back like I just … needed to know.”
“Needed to know what?”
Her gaze meets mine again, and I feel her pain bone-deep. I don’t know if what’s happened is fate or irresponsible. Can fate be this reckless? I just don’t know. I love her—even if I’m not sure on any given day who she is or how to define this love.
“I needed to know if another man could make me feel the way Griffin made me feel. In my heart, I knew that was impossible. But you’ve been in my head, in my dreams, a picture in my pocket … and I needed to know if my heart would betray me.”
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. It doesn’t matter. She’s not yours.
“The heart can be quite fickle and a foolish slave to desire.”
“So I shouldn’t trust my heart?”
I shrug. This isn’t the conversation I want to have with her. I’m no expert on love. All of my experiences have ended in tragedy. That’s why I need to protect her.
“I’m just saying there should be a good checks and balances between your mind and your heart. Neither one should have total say in big decisions.”
“Kissing you wasn’t really my decision.”
Because I’m an asshole.
“It wasn’t really a decision for me either. It was total impulse. My mind didn’t catch up until I was in my vehicle, pulling out of the garage. I’m sorry.”
“Then why did you kiss me?”
I turn and pace the same path she paced just minutes earlier, head down, hands on hips. “I don’t know. Do we have to discuss this? It was wrong. I can’t take it back. It won’t happen again. I’m truly sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”
“Did you stop by to discuss the kiss?”
I stop my motion. “What? No. Of course not. You brought it up.”
“Then what did you want to discuss?”
“I just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay. I know Griffin left town, and … I don’t know. I assumed you might be having a rough time.”
“Who told you he left town? We haven’t talked since before Christmas.”
Fuck.
“He contacted me. Asked me to keep an eye on you. To check in after a few days.”
“Bullshit.” She shakes her head. “There’s no way.”
“Not bullshit.”
“He beat you up. He doesn’t ask the guy who kissed his fiancée to look after her. I’m young and sometimes a little naive, but believing that would make me stupid. What’s your angle? Why are you saying this? Who told you he left? Dr. Albright?”
“Dr. Albright would never discuss you with me.”
I’m going to Hell. Or in my next life I will return as a cockroach.
“Then who.”
“Griffin.”
“You’re pissing me off.”
“What do you want me to say? Call and ask him.”
She deflates. I grimace. It’s over. She really ended it with him. All for a past—a lifetime ago.
“It doesn’t matter. I see Dr. Albright tomorrow. I’m going to remember what Doug did to Daisy—to me. And I’m going to make sure he pays for what he’s done. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder, walking to my car with my heart in my throat, jolting from my sleep every time I hear a noise. I’ve been sleeping with a steak knife under my pillow since Griffin left. I want to stay with my mom, but I don’t want to worry her, so I play it off like I’m not scared. But … I’m scared shitless.”
I still the forward motion of my hand. I want to hug her, touch her, comfort her so she knows there’s no need to be scared. Instead, I shove both hands into my pockets to keep them from caving to such urges.
“You’re in good hands. I know Dr. Albright will give you the help you need.” That’s it. That’s all I have to give her.
Pathetic.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“I don’t understand.”
Dr. Albright has this pained expression on her face. I’m used to the empathetic one, but not this one. “Swayze, the mind has a natural instinct to preserve your wellbeing.”
“But it worked last time.”
She returns a slow nod. “I’m sorry. We can try again later. You’ve been under a tremendous amount of stress lately. We need to listen to what your body and your mind are trying to tell us. It’s just not ready.”
“Fine. I’ll get some good sleep. I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Maybe you could prescribe something for me, and we can try again tomorrow.”
“I think we should give this more than a day. Perhaps I can show you some relaxation techniques instead. Chamomile tea. A good book. Maybe you could get a massage.”
“A massage? A good book? Chamomile tea? Are you serious? I could be dead by tomorrow. That murderer could be hiding in my backseat at this very moment. And tomorrow you could find out that I drove off a bridge. They’ll call it suicide—after all, I’ve been awfully troubled lately. All because he’s mastered how to get away with murder, and I can’t remember a damn thing to stop him!”
“A little Xanax as needed might be a good fit after all.” She holds up a finger. “Prescription pad is in my office, give me a quick sec.”
Fisting my hand at my mouth, I nod. That wasn’t a finer moment for me.
Dr. Albright sends me home with a “chin up” and a prescription that I’m only supposed to take if absolutely necessary.
After checking the backseat, I pick up my prescription and drive home. What if I never remember? I didn’t really think that hard about it being a possibility. I don’t have a plan B. There was only plan A.
I call my mom as soon as I walk in the door and deadbolt it behind me. What if he’s in here? Hiding in the closet. Behind the shower curtain? The hypnosis not working today has messed with my mind. It’s skyrocketed my paranoia.
My mom doesn’t answer. I open the little white bag and pull out the bottle of pills. Maybe I just need sleep. But who will protect me if I fall into a deep sleep and don’t wake up when he breaks into my house?
For safe measure, I grab another knife out of the drawer and slip it into my back pocket. Maybe I should call Sherri and Scott. No … what if they tell Griffin. I don’t want him to know how fucked-up I am right now. He’ll feel bad and rush back to save me. One of the reasons he left was to avoid watching me self-destruct.
Fuck! That’s what’s happening.
I have a bottle of Xanax in my hand and a knife in my pocket.
A bottle of Xanax and a knife.
Setting my phone on the kitchen table so my mom thinks I’m here, I open the door and go back to my car with nothing more than my purse, a knife, and a bottle of Xanax.
It’s a little past two in the afternoon. Most of the world is still working, with the exception of some college students relishing the last day of winter break. Dougly Fucking Creepy Mann is a night owl. It’s possible he’s not even out of bed. Erica used to roll her eyes at his odd hours, whi
ch coincided quite well with her manic hours at the hospital.
I park on a side street two blocks away from the apartment building. Pulling up my hood and slipping on sunglasses, I trek to the building. Without a key, I can’t get through the main door. And I don’t want to announce my arrival to the man I’m going to visit. So I hang out by the door for a few minutes and, sure enough, someone walks out of the building.
“Oh thank God,” I murmur just loud enough for her to hear me, keeping my chin tucked to my chest while riffling through my purse. “Stupid key always gets lost at the bottom and it’s cold as the arctic out here. Thank you.”
“No problem,” the lady says while holding open the door for me.
In spite of the arctic temperatures, a few beads of sweat trickle down my back as I climb the stairs. Each step robs a little more oxygen from my lungs, the weight of what I’m about to do bearing down on my chest. My pulse pounds out of control, making it impossible to hear anything but the whisper of fear.
I stop for a moment and stare at my old apartment door. After a few breaths, I turn the corner and ascend the final set of stairs. My eyes stay focused on his door. If I glance right, at Erica’s door, I will lose it.
When my shaky fist raps on his door, my heart attempts to break out of my chest. He killed Erica.
I knock again.
He killed Daisy.
I knock a little harder.
He’s been taunting me.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
I think I could tear down this door. My plans to drug him before stabbing a knife through his heart could get derailed by the revenge running through my veins. When he opens the door, I’m going to have a hard time not skipping the drugging part. All I want to do is kill him.
“Miss? I think you might have the wrong apartment.”
I jump at the unfamiliar voice wafting down the stairs from the floor above.
“No,” I say curtly, turning my back to the middle-aged gentleman taking his final step to the landing behind me.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Miss, I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but Mr. Mann committed suicide several days ago.”
My fisted hand stills on the door, leaving my adrenaline-fed panting as the only sound in the stairwell.
“What?” I inch my head round, eyeing him over my shoulder.
The messy blond-haired gentleman zips his coat, nodding. “Hung himself. Landlord found him when he went in there to fix a plumbing issue that Mr. Mann had reported the week before.” He slips on his gloves. “My condolences if you knew him, miss.”
My feet remain rooted in their spot as the man makes his way to the lower level.
Doug’s dead.
*
After a numbing drive home and a Xanax, I sleep for ten hours. The drug doesn’t last that long, but peace of mind worked synergistically with it. I wake with a residual numbness. It’s like someone knocked my puzzle on the floor and I may never get all the pieces back in their right spot, but maybe it doesn’t matter.
I sit on the edge of the bed, missing the body that used to lie bedside me. After staring at my phone screen for a few minutes, I message Griffin.
Me: Doug is dead.
The message says undelivered.
I resend.
Undelivered again.
I shouldn’t call him. His voice would render me a sobbing mess. If he’s not getting the message, maybe if I called it would just go to his voicemail anyway. I hope.
My pulse begins to surge like it did yesterday at Doug’s door. What if Griffin answers? After a few minutes of playing chicken with myself, I press call.
It rings once.
Shit! He’s answering it.
I can’t breathe.
It’s not him. It’s a recording saying the number is no longer in service. I don’t understand. I call him again, dialing the number with the area code.
Again, the same recording.
Next I call Sherri.
“Hey, Swayze.”
“Hi, Sherri.”
“How are you doing? The girls sure had fun getting manicures and pedicures with you and your mom.”
“Yeah, um … me too. Hey, I was just seeing if you knew anything about Griffin’s phone. I tried texting him and calling him, and it says the number is no longer in service.”
My legs bounce off the side of the bed, filled with out-of-control nerves. She doesn’t respond.
“Sherri?”
“Yeah, Swayze. Listen, sweetie …”
Nothing good ever comes after the words “listen sweetie.” My legs still so all my body’s focus goes to listening.
“He has a new number.”
“So it has his new area code instead of this one?”
Another awkward silence.
“Sherri, what’s going on?”
“Do you need to get a message to him? I could relay it.”
“I’ll do it if you give me his new number.”
“I’m sorry. He asked me not to do that. I’m really really sorry, sweetie.”
Wow …
I feel like the loner sitting at the lunchroom table all by myself, catching the occasional “sorry sweetie” glances and hand-fisted-over-the-mouth snickers.
So this is a clean break?
Wow …
“Tell him …” I shake my head. If he were truly worried about me and my safety, he wouldn’t have cut all ties. Not with me living by myself, knowing Doug has been taunting me since Erica died—since he murdered her. “Never mind. There’s no message.”
“Swayze—”
“I have to get ready for work. I’ll see you later.” I end the call.
No tears. I’m done being sad. I’m pissed off. Hurt. But seriously pissed off, whether I really have any right to be or not.
We didn’t end badly. We ended with a long night tangled in each other’s bodies.
And then … nothing.
He left. I let him. But I didn’t think he would do this.
This doesn’t feel like love or even self-preservation. This just feels cruel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I stop. I just … stop.
For the next month I function in robotic mode.
No psychiatrists.
No mention of Griffin to my mom or anyone else.
No prolonged contact with the Calloways.
When Scott comes over to clear the drive, I give him a polite wave and set a cup of coffee on the workbench in the garage for him. When Sherri calls to see if I want to come to dinner or have lunch on the weekends, I always find an excuse.
Nate doesn’t ask me about anything.
Not Doug.
Not Dr. Albright.
Not the hypnosis.
Nothing.
In fact, he doesn’t say much at all. He’s become the employer I needed him to be months ago.
Polite.
Grateful.
Friendly.
Professional.
A month without mentioning Daisy.
It’s not that I’ve forgotten her or the parts to that life that reside in my mind. Something happened to me that day. And I’m not sure if it was Doug’s death or the total loss of connection to Griffin.
I guess I’m still trying to figure out how I got to this place in my life. Or maybe I’m trying to figure out exactly what place this is.
My mom is the only person who knows about Doug. She needed to know that her daughter was safe. Then I needed her to promise to never mention his name to me or anyone again.
“Look at you go, pumpkin.” Nate grins as he walks in the house and sees Morgan standing up to the sofa, hips gyrating to keep her balance. Her grin is the brightest light I have ever seen.
Hands down she is the best thing in my life at the moment. I want her to be smart, but not too smart. Popular but kind. And I want her to meet a boy just like her daddy used to be, but I don’t want some sick bastard killing her before she can truly live life.
Just random thoug
hts. Wishes upon stars. Prayers to an unknown god.
When Nate comes over to pick her up, she lunges for me. ME. I shouldn’t gloat, but I need this. I need something.
“Who does Morgan love?” I hug her, smirking at Nate. “Swayze. That’s who.”
He takes her from me, shooting me an evil glare that doesn’t totally hide his smile. “You’re fired.”
I laugh. “I have her five days. You have her two and maybe one to two waking hours in the evenings. What do you expect? Of course she thinks I’m awesome.”
“She got wobbly and fell in your direction, and you read awesome out of that?”
“Don’t be petty about it. You think I’m awesome too.”
“Whoa … your hungry ego has a voracious appetite today.”
“I’ll bet you three hundred dollars I can get you to say I’m awesome.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Now we’re betting on your awesomeness or lack thereof? And not the typical hundred-dollar bet, but the interesting amount of three hundred dollars?”
I shrug. “My dishwasher went out. Three hundred dollars for a new one.”
He studies me. “I’m not going to take pity on you. A dishwasher is not a necessity.”
Of course he would say that. Growing up, he didn’t have one.
“I don’t expect pity. I will earn the Swayze, You Are Awesome award fair and square.”
“He nuzzles Morgan’s neck and she giggles.”
“Ready?” I grin.
Nate smiles. It’s big. It’s familiar. It’s the boy who loved me in that other life. “Do your worst.”
I take Morgan back from him, holding her so she’s against my chest, facing him. My mouth nuzzles her ear as I whisper so only she can hear me.
“Da da …” she says with a grin.
Nate looks like he’s in shock. I’m not sure if he’s going to pass out, cry, or swallow his tongue.
It’s just conditioning. She doesn’t really connect that word to him yet, but she can say it—thanks to me. And it’s her first official word.