Like

by Bart Hopkins

  “I’m sorry, Claire. I’m so sorry.” He broke down and several tears made their way down his cheeks. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Right,” she said again. She stood up and he tried to reach out to her, but she pushed his hands away. Put both hands on his chest and pushed him back. While the tears ran down his face, she leaned back, and slapped him as hard as she could. It sounded like a firecracker when her hand connected with his face.

  He staggered, caught himself, and lifted a hand to his cheek. There was no anger, and he wasn’t physically hurt. The reality of it was that he wanted her to hit him again, felt as if he deserved it, like maybe the strikes would help take away the pain of what had happened. He began talking, fast, not stopping for air.

  “Claire, damn it, I deserve that. I let something bad happen. I don’t know, shit, maybe I even encouraged it—not by asking for it, but by not saying no soon enough—I don’t know. I was—am—a dumb fucking guy. But I love you, and I didn’t do anything else and that part of my life is over and done with. It sounds crazy, but this only made me realize so profoundly just how much I love you.”

  “I don’t know if I can trust you,” Claire told him.

  “I deserve that, too. I’m going to spend the rest of my life showing you that you can trust me. And loving you. Doing everything I can to make it up to you.”

  She stared up into his face—reached up and touched the welt that was forming where she had hit him. Nancy was a wonderful child and doing something that would harm her wasn’t an option; yet, she wasn’t the type of woman to let someone push her around either. If she was going to be with Greg, it was going to be all or nothing.

  “I don’t know, Greg,” she sighed. “I need time to think about this. Alone.”

  “Is my office alone enough?” he asked softly.

  “That’s fine,” she replied.

  He nodded and, wisely, decided not to push his luck.

  Chapter 31

  Martin, Zoe, Josh, and Nancy

  “Okay. What do you think about this one?”

  Josh and Nancy were looking through his initial designs for Professor Lange’s project.

  “OMG, Josh, they’re so amazing!” Nancy squealed. He smiled and his cheeks reddened with pleasure, a product of his dad’s overwhelmingly ruddy genetics. Nancy noticed and thought it was cute. She snapped a picture of him with her cell phone when he looked away.

  “Hey,” he said, when he heard it click. “You better not post that.”

  “Oops … too late,” she giggled.

  He pulled out his own cell phone and saw himself on Nancy’s Facebook wall. Playful protests continued, Josh taking pictures of her and threatening to post them. Secretly he was thrilled that she posted a picture of him. Nancy was the first person he thought of every morning, and it didn’t feel like his day had really started until he was able to see her, talk to her, listen to her laugh. Inside, he wondered if her posting that picture meant something more. Does it mean she likes me? he wondered.

  Years later, with the wisdom of experience, he’d understand that they were already in love.

  “Which one do you like the best?” He’d saved his favorite and shown it to her last, but he would go with whichever one she liked. He wasn’t picky, but Nancy could be—selective—about, well, nearly everything. But for whatever reason, he loved her pickiness, and she had a way better sense of style than he did.

  Then there was the fact that he was enamored with her.

  She browsed through the different designs again, touching her way through the images on his new computer. “This one, for sure,” she said, choosing the one he’d hoped she would choose.

  “Cool,” he said, pleased. “So, I was wondering if you would help me finish it. You know, the wording, of course, but maybe overlaying some images, too. Whatever you think will work on the posters.”

  “Of course!”

  “Cool,” he said again. It had been his word of choice for anything good that year.

  “Hey, what are you guys up to?”

  Dane Porter leaned the upper half of his large frame into the room. He still looked like a linebacker, but over time he’d abandoned the shaggy hair for something easier to manage. His college uniform of t-shirts and shorts had been mostly replaced with polos and khakis. He refused to give up his sandals though—they would have to pry his Reefs from his cold, dead feet.

  “We’re working on a poster for Professor Lange’s fundraiser.”

  “Fundraiser?”

  “Um, I think so, Dad.”

  “You think so?”

  “Dad, you’re taking everything I say and rearranging the words into questions. I think it’s a fundraiser, but I don’t really know.”

  “Questions? You don’t know?”

  Josh groaned.

  “Just kidding. Let’s see what you got there.”

  Dane leaned over and scrutinized his son’s handiwork. Colors merged thoughtfully into images in such a way that his breath caught in his throat. Subtle, yet stunning. If he could produce words on paper in the same manner that his son worked graphics, he’d have a Pulitzer nominee.

  “Are those the old professor’s logos?”

  “Yeah, but … I made them.”

  Something akin to a grunt escaped Dane Porter.

  “They’re amazing, son.” He nodded appreciatively and gave his boy a soft slap on the shoulder. “I mean, they are really something.” Josh had mentioned graphic design as something he might pursue in college, and Dane had been a little doubtful, despite his son’s talent. This sold him on it—he would be a doubter no more.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Tell him hello from me, next time you see him, okay?”

  “Dad, you can tell him yourself,” Josh replied.

  “Hmm?”

  Josh tapped on the screen; Dane slapped his palm against his forehead.

  “Duh. Good call—I’m there.”

  <<>>

  “Let’s see what you’ve got for us!” Martin clapped his hands together with genuine excitement.

  “Just one second, Professor,” Josh replied. He double-clicked through layers of folders on his portable hard drive until he had navigated to the files. Opened them up with another series of clicks. “Okay. I’ve got … I mean we’ve got three different versions to show you.”

  “Three!”

  “Yes, but I’m pretty sure you’ll agree with us about which one is best,” Josh told him.

  “Oh, it’s just beautiful!” Nancy added.

  “Nancy … Greg Thomas’s daughter, right?” Martin asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wow, that’s fantastic. You know, your father has been a tremendous help with this,” he waved his hands around to encompass the office. “He set up my website, helped me with the draft charter, and some of the legalese.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Cool. Nancy has been helping me, Professor, so I guess it’s a family affair,” he said. “I know I couldn’t have done it without her.” He glanced at Nancy and saw her smile.

  “Naturally, Josh. As they say, behind every great man…” he winked at Zoe.

  “Professor Lange, you’re a very wise man,” Josh said, and they laughed. “Okay. Here it is,” he opened the file.

  A hush settled on the room as Professor Lange studied the poster that Josh had designed that week. It was so quiet, for so long, that Josh’s initial excitement started to wane as a new consideration crossed his mind for the first time.

  He doesn’t like it.

  The silence stretched, and in Josh’s mind, became somewhat ominous. Just when he couldn’t take anymore, Professor Lange spoke.

  “It reminds me of your father’s prose, Joshua. Calling it perfect wouldn’t do it justice; maybe no words can express it accurately. But it is perfect. You have an extraordinary talent—I think you’ve found your niche.”

  “He’s right, Josh, it’s really something,�
�� Zoe agreed.

  Josh’s trepidation disappeared, replaced with a combination of pleasure and embarrassment. He mumbled what may have been “thank you” as he went shy on them. Nancy, who was sitting right next to him, put her hand on top of his. The graphics were instantly forgotten; her hand being on his quickly replaced everything else in his mind.

  Nancy cleared her throat and nodded at him, and he snapped out of his trance.

  “Right. Did you have anything you want me to add, or change, Professor?”

  A smile spread across Martin’s face.

  “Would I ask that Michelangelo change the roof of the Sistine Chapel?

  Josh stared at him blankly, and Lange chuckled.

  “No! Emphatically no, Josh … don’t change a thing.”

  Chapter 32

  Paul and Jennifer

  Paul and Jennifer lay facing one another on his bed. He reached a hand out and stroked her hair gently. She moaned and moved a little closer.

  “You were always just putty in my hands in the bedroom, huh?” He laughed at his own joke, puckered, and blew gently into Jennifer’s face, enjoying the moment. He did it again and her eyes fluttered open.

  She tried to scream, but it was muted thanks to the gray duct tape that covered her mouth. She choked in surprise and bloody snot exploded from her nose, hanging in a thick cord all the way to the bedspread. The choking continued as she fully regained consciousness and attempted to find control of her faculties. Air whistled through her single unblocked nostril.

  “Oh, Jesus, Jennifer. That’s just fucking gross,” Paul said.

  He pushed his hand through her hair again. When she began to squirm, he grabbed a handful and yanked on it. Water sprang into her eyes from the pain, and he let go. Patted her head. Then slapped her face. Slapped it again, harder. And again.

  Jennifer’s shoulders and hamstrings ached. She tried to move her legs, but when she did, her arms were yanked backwards in response. Conversely, when she tried to pull her arms and shoulders forward, her legs felt as if they were being pulled into the small of her back.

  My hands must be tied to my feet, she thought. It was painful, but similar to several of the yoga poses she regularly did. She could only imagine how much agony she would be in if she didn’t take those classes at the gym.

  Paul pushed his face in close to her. His scent, once familiar and masculine in all the right ways, now filled her with fear.

  “Did you say something? Speak up, I can’t hear you.” He laughed loudly in her face. “No, seriously, Jennifer, speak up.”

  She closed her eyes and tried to imagine she was somewhere, anywhere else. Wished herself gone. Hoped that this was just a nightmare. She told herself that she’d wake up and it would be over, just some creepy nightmare to tell Claire about while they shopped for antiques.

  The side of her head exploded in a rush of stars and her eyes snapped open. Paul was kneeling next to her, his fist bunched up, and she realized he’d punched her; of course, it wasn’t the first time. She tried to scream, to shout Go fuck yourself! but the tape didn’t budge, even coated in her sweat and snot as it was. All she could do was make a pathetic “uhhhh” sound, which exacerbated the new discomfort inside of her nose.

  “I thought you dozed off on me sweetheart, just when we were having the best conversation of our relationship,” he told her. “My throat’s actually quite parched. I think I’ll get myself something to drink. You thirsty?”

  She stared at him a moment, uncertain, then nodded her head quickly: yes!

  “Be right back. Don’t you go anywhere.” He chuckled at his joke and sauntered from the room.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Jennifer pulled again with her hands, but again encountered resistance.

  Calm down, she told herself. Think…

  She arched her head to get a look at the situation, and her heart sank. Nylon straps secured her feet together. Her hands were tied together with the same stuff. Her feet were then bound to her hands in what looked like a giant letter X. She tried to use her fingers to pick at it, but everything was tight. Nothing budged. The strain from twisting her head back to see was getting to her.

  She dropped her face back down to the mattress, frustrated, and tried to control her breathing. Her throat and nostrils burned. She was pretty certain that she wasn’t getting enough oxygen—felt as if she might black out.

  Paul walked back into the room whistling. She recognized the tune as the chipper background music from the old Irish Springs soap commercials. As a kid, she always whistled along, but she suspected she would never feel that way again. Her shoulders shook as she shivered.

  Standing over her, Paul tilted back the bottle of water he’d brought from the kitchen. While she looked on, he gulped it down until nothing remained.

  “Oops. Maybe you can have some next time.”

  He sat down next to her and brushed her hair again with his hand. His fingers caressed the exposed cheekbone above the duct tape. There was a new bruise there, as well as above her temple where he’d hit her earlier, knocking her unconscious.

  His hand continued moving, tracing the contour of her face then moving lower, to her breasts. He used his fingertip to trace a ring around the nipple, which hardened under his touch.

  “Oh, you like that?” he asked, doing it again. She tried not to, but couldn’t stop herself from jerking away from his touch as the revulsion overwhelmed her.

  He slapped her face.

  “Damn it, Jennifer, you were supposed to be the one … that’s why I picked you. I could have any woman, but I chose you.”

  She looked at him, confused, and he sighed.

  “You didn’t know that, did you? It was only chance that brought me to your profile on Facebook, but once I found you, I knew we were supposed to be together. Huh,” he snorted, “I thought I knew, anyway.

  “I studied your posts. Almost all of them were public, so it was easy to track you down. F-Y-I, Jennifer, you should change your privacy settings. You never know when some freak is going to be looking at your profile.”

  She stared at him, waiting for the punch line, or laughter, but he appeared completely serious.

  “You always posted pictures after your yoga workouts,” he continued, “‘Thanks to my awesome instructor, Stephanie!’ and girly stuff like that. Once you said the name of the instructor, it was so easy just to call around and ask when Stephanie was teaching again. Once I verified the times of the yoga classes, I started doing a little reconnaissance of the gym. Sooner or later, I knew you’d show up.

  “It only took a few visits to learn which classes you were in and plan our ‘chance’ meeting. Pretty clever, right? I thought I was going to have to run into you out on the street, which might be a little awkward.

  “But you presented the answer right away with that stupid little catering place. It killed me how you’d get done working out, and then you’d go over there and fill yourself up with those bad calories. I mean, you’re a teacher … you do realize that shit doesn’t add up, right?”

  He shook his head, mourning her obvious lack of intelligence.

  “Then I thought I was going to have to fight off your friend Janice—she wanted a piece of Paul Harris pretty bad. Hmm. Who knows, maybe when you and I are done, I’ll stop by and say hi to her. Whadda you think?”

  Jennifer didn’t even blink—she didn’t want to provoke him.

  “That’s what I figured,” he said. “You don’t care.” He stood up from the bed. “We’ll talk some more about her in a second, but first I have to hit the head. All that water, you know, filled up the old bladder.”

  She watched him leave the room again, gave it an extra second, then shook herself around as quietly as she could, trying to wrench free from her prison. Repeatedly, she pulled with hands and pushed with her feet, hoping to rip free, but it was pointless. They were too tight. Tears of frustration came to her eyes.

  I’m going to die here…

  Then she noticed that her ph
one had fallen from her pocket and was right there in front of her.

  Oh my God, Oh my God!

  A glimmer of hope got her moving. She rolled back and forth and found a tenuous position where she could hold her phone just to the side and behind her back and look under her armpit to see it. It was difficult, like working a Rubik’s cube behind your back while standing on your head, but she kept at it, not knowing how much time she had before Paul walked back into the room.

  She cursed herself for having such a long passcode. Finally got it typed in and her primary interface opened. After briefly considering trying to call someone, she decided against it … didn’t think she could do it quietly. And, if Paul caught her, he’d probably kill her. She thought about texting, but she didn’t do it much—was out of practice.

  Facebook!

  Sweaty and desperate, she quickly discarded the idea of using the app because it locked up sometimes, and instead opened her browser, which went right to the last page displayed.

  Oh, thank you God, she thought and nearly cried with joy when Facebook messages popped up. Her conversation with Rose was right there. Rose had replied, but she didn’t take time to read it. She glanced at the doorway, wondering where Paul was, then immediately started tapping out a message.

  Plz help he try kill me

  There was more she wanted to add, but she heard something that scared the hell out of her: whistling. It was getting louder as he walked back down the hallway toward his bedroom. Subconsciously she registered that it was the A-Team theme song this time, and she hated him with every bit of her soul.

  She silenced the phone and threw her body on top of it. All those movies that seemed so silly before had taught her the obvious ways to avoid being busted by an assailant.

  “Hey, what’s going on in here?”

  Paul stared down at her menacingly from the doorway for a moment, then burst into a fit of laughter.

  “Oh, I kill me,” he said, then grew somewhat serious and sat down on the bed. Her body rolled slightly as his body sank into the mattress and she worried briefly that the phone would become visible.