Show Me How

by Molly McAdams

  Sure enough, when I looked to my right, Charlie was standing there holding our drinks. She wasn’t looking at me, or anyone, just staring at a spot on the table as crimson stained her cheeks.

  My stomach dropped and guilt tore through me, but only for a moment before I was able to lock on to my disgust again. She had hurt one of ­people I loved most in this world. It was about time she hurt too.

  She licked nervously at her bottom lip, and had to attempt to speak twice before there was any sound behind the words. “Mama already had your drinks waiting,” she explained, but stood still for a few more seconds before she hurried to place the drinks on the table.

  “You’re an asshole,” Knox growled when Charlie left.

  Graham was running a hand over his face, and shaking his head slowly. “Get out,” he demanded.

  “I’m not gonna apologize.”

  “No shit,” he bit back immediately, but he still looked disappointed in my response. “But someone has to for you, and someone needs to make sure she’s okay.”

  “Why?”

  Graham’s frustration was palpable. “Because it’s fucking Charlie, that’s why. Now move.”

  I let him out of the booth, and started to sit back down as he stalked off, but stopped. “Forget it. I’m not hungry.” I pulled out my wallet and tossed a ten on the table. “Tell Graham I walked home. See you two later.”

  I didn’t expect a response from them, and didn’t wait for one. I just turned and walked out, ignoring my best friend on my way out as he spoke quietly to the girl I never wanted to see again.

  Chapter Three

  Charlie

  May 30, 2016

  JAGGER SIGHED FOR the fifth time in as many minutes, and turned his green-­eyed stare to me from the driver’s seat of my car. He didn’t say anything, just gave me “the look.” The one I had seen so often growing up with him. The one that meant he was about to switch from my big brother to my parent.

  When he didn’t say anything, I closed my book and set it down, then relaxed against the side of the warehouse. “Well?”

  A dejected laugh fell from his mouth, and he lifted his hands before letting them fall to his lap in defeat. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t know what’s wrong with your car—­I know nothing about cars.”

  My shoulders sagged a little.

  “Take it to the mechanic, or better yet—­”

  “Here we go,” I murmured.

  “—­go buy a new car.”

  “Jag . . .”

  “You can’t have a car that doesn’t work half the time, Charlie. Especially not now that you’re back here and will be driving Keith more. What if you go somewhere with him, and then get stuck?”

  “I’ll call you?”

  His face went void of any emotion. “Charlie. Look, I know I didn’t let you touch your money until you turned eighteen, but you’ve had access to it for four years now—­that’s plenty of time to get your own car. A reliable car.”

  “It just seems like a waste when I have a car already!”

  “Again,” he began with a laugh, “a car that only works half the time! This car wasn’t exactly new when Grandma left it to you, and then it sat there for years until you were old enough for it.” When I started to defend myself and the car again, he cut me off. “You know I wouldn’t tell you to spend the money on something like this if I didn’t think it was necessary, but it’s necessary. It’s been necessary. You have the money—­” He cut off quickly, and his eyebrows drew together. “You do still have your money, right?”

  “I’m not Mom,” I bit out, and Jagger’s face softened.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t.”

  I released a weighted breath, my head shook as I tried to push away the initial hurt and anger at his question. “Yeah, I do. Other than school and that apartment in Walla Walla, I’ve only started a college account for Keith.”

  He nodded in acknowledgement. What I’d said wasn’t news to him. “Then go buy a car. Something Keith can grow into, and you can have for a long time. All right?”

  I lifted a shoulder and started to say I’d think about it, but stopped abruptly at Jagger’s next demand.

  “Until then, take this thing to the mechanic the next time it starts.”

  That was something I definitely would not be doing. “I’m sure it’ll be fine without that.” Before he could respond, I grabbed my book and stood, then took a step toward the front door of the warehouse. “I need to go if I’m walking to work.”

  Jagger looked like he was going to argue about the mechanic, but decided against it. “Take my car today. Keys are on the hook inside.”

  “Thanks, Jag,” I said quickly, and slipped back into the warehouse to grab my purse and his keys before he could find something else to argue with me about—­like how I should stop looking for my own place.

  It felt like I didn’t take a full breath until I was in his car and pulling out of the alleyway. I’d made it through another parental-­type lecture from Jagger; now if only I could make it through this shift without Mama’s favorite person coming in to pin me with his cold stare.

  Deacon

  May 30, 2016

  MY PHONE BEGAN ringing just as I pulled into work. A glance at the screen had me hissing out a curse when I caught sight of the name.

  I’d been expecting this call ever since I’d walked out of Mama’s the morning before, and was surprised it had taken him this long to ream me. Or maybe I was surprised that she hadn’t immediately run home to tell her brother about what I’d said.

  I shut off my car, and took a steadying breath as I answered the call. “Yeah, Jagger?”

  “You working today?”

  My brow pinched when he didn’t immediately begin laying into me, and I glanced up at the building in front of me. “Uh, yeah . . . just pulled in. Why?” I asked, drawing out the word.

  “When you get a break today, can you do a favor for me?”

  My initial surprise deepened when I realized Charlie hadn’t mentioned anything about the day before as Jagger went on, but my frustration over her slowly filled my veins once the favor was laid out for me.

  I opened my mouth to say no, but shut it and sighed through my nose.

  Grey would kill me if I said no, and it would unnecessarily bring up a discussion with Jagger right then that I didn’t want to have.

  After a few seconds, I conceded. “Sure. Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  Charlie

  May 30, 2016

  Who listened to your stories sad songs

  The shoulder that you cried on

  Out on that cliff you walked on

  When

  I RAPIDLY TAPPED the edge of my pen against the pages of my notebook as all of the words in the world failed me.

  “When . . .” I said under my breath. “When you . . . no.”

  I let my eyes slide shut and imagined a simple melody, and tried to hear my words interwoven with the notes, but each time I stopped on that last word. Something felt off about what I had already written down, and I knew that when I fixed it, I would be able to go on.

  My mom had always taken credit for my ability to sing and write poetry, which had turned into writing songs, just as she had taken credit for Jagger’s amazing ability to draw—­as long as music was blasting nearby. Saying it was all because she’d named us after members from her favorite band, the Rolling Stones, and had had music playing nonstop while we were growing up.

  Except she hadn’t really been around while we were growing up, and—­as she chose to forget—­I spent most of my time reading novels, and would have preferred to have the ability to write them. But I’d never been able to figure out how to expand my dreams into something longer than the poems and songs that filled this notebook when inspiration hit.

 
And this song . . . these words were begging to get free, but my thoughts were scrambled after having locked that night with Ben away for years.

  I ran through the words in my mind again and again. Just as I stopped my furious drumming on the paper to write down a few more words that had burst into my mind, the door to Mama’s opened, and my break ended as the beginnings of the lunch rush came filing in. I hurried to get out of the booth and smiled timidly at the two groups of ­people. Grabbing a handful of menus, I led the first to my section at the back of the restaurant as the words I had worked so hard to unscramble slid from my mind.

  It wasn’t until I reached into the far left pocket of my waist apron for a check holder nearly an hour later that I realized why my apron had felt so odd since the lunch rush had begun.

  My notebook wasn’t in there.

  I spun in a circle to face the front of the restaurant. Fear and embarrassment flooded me as I scanned the filled booths up there.

  “Charlie.”

  My head snapped up at the sound of my name, and I stared wide-­eyed at Wendy, another waitress, as she looked me over, plates of food balanced precariously along her arm.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “What?”

  Her eyes darted over my face quickly again, her eyebrows pulled together. “Are you okay? You’re just staring off with a check in your hand. Did a table run out on you?”

  “No! No, nothing like that. I just . . . I just realized that I left my notebook at one of the booths in your section.” Before I could tell her that it contained words that were somewhat personal, her eyes lit up with acknowledgement.

  “Is it brown, soft leather?”

  “Yes!” I said in relief.

  “Well, whoever found it left it on the desk up front. I just saw it there when I went to grab menus to seat a ­couple. I put it in the cabinet up there.”

  “Thanks, Wendy.” My voice still ached with the relief I felt, but the thought that someone had possibly read my words had my cheeks darkening from my embarrassment.

  I hurried to take the check to my waiting table, then rushed into the kitchen to grab another’s food as I tried to force unwanted thoughts from my mind.

  But throughout the rest of my shift, all I could think about was that someone had held my notebook; had seen my words. Even Jagger knew not to touch my notebook or ask to see what I wrote in there. And I wondered what the stranger, or strangers, had thought. Had they mocked my darkest dreams and deepest thoughts? Had they been immature and destroyed them? Had they torn the ink-­filled pages out to be hateful?

  Each pass to the front desk to seat newcomers left me itching to grab the notebook from the cabinet, but I’d known I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from inspecting the pages right then instead of doing my job.

  It was a long three hours.

  As soon as I clocked out, I nearly ran to the front. Dread filled me and my hands shook as I finally opened the cabinet, and I dropped to my knees to reach in and rip my notebook from its depths.

  After wasting only half a second to run my hand over the cover, I opened my notebook and quickly scanned each page. My worry lessened with each piece of paper that slid beneath the tips of my fingers. A soft, nearly inaudible laugh bubbled from my throat when I got to the page I’d been working on during my break, and I started to shut the notebook when I realized what I’d just seen.

  A different-­colored pen.

  More words crossed out. More added.

  A note on the side of the page in a messy, masculine scrawl that most definitely did not belong to me.

  Who listeneds to your stories sad songs

  The shoulder that you cried cry on

  Out on that cliff ledge you walked on

  When

  The note on the side read:

  Right . . . so I don’t know you, but I’m now fucking terrified for you. If I had the time, I’d wait to see who showed up looking for this journal. I changed some words because I want you to know that I’m here listening to you. And “cliff” sounded so final. Don’t let whatever you’re feeling be final. I’ll be back. Will you hold on if you know I’m coming back for you?

  I read the note again . . . and then again. Each time my brow pinched tighter. I glanced up at the few words I’d managed to get out during my break, then let my face fall into the pages of the notebook as a groan escaped me.

  I sat down right there, behind the greeter’s desk of Mama’s Café, and rewrote the small part I already had, and added the words that were now flowing to my fingers because of the smallest change this stranger had made.

  Who listens to your sad songs

  The shoulder that you cry on

  Out on that ledge you walk on

  When you’re sinking

  Who knows your keeps your secrets locked up

  When I’m there’s no one you can trust

  I know it’s much more than just wishful thinking

  Just say the words and I’ll be there

  The last line I threw in because of the stranger’s note, and smiled to myself at the words. Then below their note, I wrote my own response:

  I’m sorry if I scared you, but I’m not suicidal. (I believe that’s what you were thinking?) This is actually about a pseudo-­relationship with a guy. I appreciate your words, and I believe anyone who had been thinking of ending their life would have loved receiving your note. As much as I want to know who this heroic stranger is, I need to get home. However, I will leave this here in hopes that you find it, and that it gives you peace of mind.

  I stood and placed my notebook on top of the desk with a note below asking for the notebook to be left there. Then, despite the way my body rebelled at the action, I forced myself to walk away from my notebook and out of Mama’s Café.

  Chapter Four

  Charlie

  May 30, 2016

  I PULLED INTO the alleyway beside the warehouse minutes later, my mind still reeling from the stranger who had taken the time to write to someone they didn’t know. I brought Jagger’s car to an abrupt stop when I saw Keith dart from the warehouse to the front of my car, where it still sat from that morning.

  I watched as he disappeared behind the propped-­up hood of my car, and my stomach dropped.

  I looked around the alleyway, but saw only Grey’s car in its usual spot. I tried to think if I’d seen any other cars parked on the street on my way in, but I’d been so consumed in another’s words that I hadn’t been paying attention.

  My fingers danced anxiously on the steering wheel as I contemplated leaving, or finding another way to get into the warehouse—­like a window—­where I wouldn’t have to walk past my car, and eventually I blew out a harsh, determined breath.

  For all I knew, Jagger was attempting to figure out the problem with my car again. Doubtful, but not completely improbable.

  But no matter how many times I told myself that my brother was there, I knew better. I knew who was standing behind that hood. And just the thought of seeing him made my stomach clench and my body tremble.

  I pulled Jagger’s car behind mine and shut it off. With another deep breath in, I stepped out and walked toward the sound of my son’s animated voice. Each step felt weighed down and harder than the one before it.

  When his voice wove between Keith’s words, I faltered.

  This was the problem with Thatch. There were no strangers in this town. Everyone knew everyone else’s business. And there was nowhere to hide.

  Shops closed down if the owners wanted to go spend time on the lake, and businesses made house calls.

  Like the auto repair shop: Danny’s Garage.

  Like the mechanics there.

  Especially when the owner’s son was Deacon Carver.

  Maybe I needed to leave. Take Keith and find a place to live somewhere outside this town. Because atte
mpting to hide from the guy whose family practically owned Thatch was proving to be impossible.

  “Aliens came from a spot in the sky.”

  “Aliens!” Deacon said in a shocked voice. “Where?”

  Keith sighed. “They’re not here anymore. I’m Iron Man. I made them go back.”

  Deacon sighed dramatically. “Kid, I don’t know what the world would do without you.”

  “I know,” Keith said seriously. “But that’s why no one can fix Mommy’s car, not even you! Because aliens hurted it.”

  I walked into their view in time to see Deacon fighting a smile, his mouth slightly open to respond. But his large frame tensed when he caught sight of me, and his mouth fell into a sneer.

  Irrational, betraying heart.

  “Mommy!” Keith shouted as he barreled into my legs.

  “Hey, honey,” I said softly, and ran a hand through his hair as he began talking a mile a minute.

  “Mommy, Deaton’s tryin’ to fix your car, but I told him he couldn’t fix your car. Because the aliens came after it. Right, Mommy? But I’m Iron Man and I made them go away so they can’t come after any more cars.”

  “I heard. I could’ve sworn I was woken up by Captain America this morning.”

  He sighed. “That was like, five years ago!”

  “Oh, of course,” I said as I fought my own smile, and turned us toward the warehouse. “Why don’t we go inside so Deacon can work?”

  My son’s face fell, but it was Deacon who responded.

  “He isn’t bothering me,” he said in a gruff voice.

  There was an odd pang in my chest as his words from the day before mixed with his implication then. Embarrassed heat crawled up my face, and despite how hard I tried not to, I looked over my shoulder at the angry scowl on his face.

  Light brown eyes were narrowed on me, as cold as ever.

  Again, the way he looked at me made me feel as though I deserved his anger—­and I wanted to hate him for it.

  “Keith, go inside.”

  “But—­”

  “Go inside,” I whispered, but my tone left no room for discussion.