Beneath the Sheets

by Shandi Boyes

  With a flash of an uneasy smirk, he ambles out of Destiny Records’ head office without a backward glance.

  By the time Peta finds me standing where Rhys left me, her glass of water is sitting at room temperature, and my mood is woeful.

  Peta’s unique light brown eyes dance between mine. “I’ll catch you at the next function?” she says, reading my pitiful mood without me even needing to speak.

  I nod, place a kiss on her cheek and make my way to my truck. Everything Rhys said plays on repeat for the entire drive to my apartment building, but it isn’t as simple as he makes it out to be. Just because Col is dead doesn’t mean I can waltz back into my old life like nothing happened. I'm also dead. The Hugo Marshall who was born in Rochdale is dead. I can’t come back from that. And even if I wanted to pretend the facts didn’t matter, there would be no possibility a woman like Ava would still be single and waiting for me to return. Would there?

  Hawke’s head lifts from his laptop monitor when he hears me entering the front door of my apartment. Although Isaac offered him his own apartment, he was happy to camp in the spare bedroom of my place while I was recovering at Regan’s. He watches me cautiously but remains quiet. I rip the stupid shoulder brace off my body and dump it into the bin in the kitchen. Grabbing a cold beer out of the fridge, I crack it open on the marble countertop.

  “Good night?”

  I grunt before flopping onto the white leather sofa in my sunken living room. After grabbing a few extra beers, Hawke ambles into the room and sits in the seat next to me. If I ignore the cracks in my heart, I could pretend we are sitting back in his den, laughing and drinking beers like we did every Sunday afternoon when he wasn’t deployed.

  As the hours tick by on the clock, the beers settling into my belly lessen the anger coursing through my veins.

  “Come back with me,” I blurt out, my mouth choosing to speak before my brain can object. “Come back with me to Rochdale.”

  Hawke stiffens but remains as quiet as a church mouse. “I can’t,” he eventually replies, staring straight ahead. “I can’t go back there without her.”

  “Do you think she’d want this, Hawke? Do you think Jorgie would want you to be living like this? Either of us living like this? If you can even call it living. You're fucking miserable,” I shout, my voice rising as a surge of emotions pummel into me. “Jorgie would be rolling in her grave--”

  Before any more of my drunken tirade can escape my lips, Hawke’s stealthy moves have me pinned against the wall of my living room. The veins in his neck bulge as he tightens his grip around my throat. His nostrils flare as his broken, desolate eyes burn into mine.

  “She’s never coming back, Hawke,” I sputter, my words cracking.

  He yanks me forward before slamming me back with brutal force. My body doesn’t register the pain of my head slamming into the hard wall; it’s too focused on the hurt projecting out of Hawke’s lifeless eyes to register anything. I don’t put up a fight because I know he needs this even more than I do.

  My watering eyes drift between his. “She’s gone, Hawke.”

  “You don’t think I know that?!” he roars, the veins in his neck bulging. “I wake up every fucking day praying it was all a nightmare, praying that Jorgie and Malcolm are still here, but it never happens. I never wake up! I don’t need you to tell me she's gone. I’m stuck in this fucking nightmare. I live it every fucking day. I know she's gone!”

  His jaw quivers as a flood of moisture forms in his eyes. His chest heaves up and down as he struggles through the same emotions that cripple me every time I think of the loss of Jorgie and my nephew… and Ava. Hawke’s grip on my neck loosens as his eyes dart between mine.

  “But you don’t have to live in this nightmare if you don’t want to. Ava can pull you out of it.” Hawke’s eyes flick between mine. “But only you can choose if you want her to save you.”

  My feet return to the ground when he releases his grip on my neck. “I’d give anything for another day with Jorgie. To have her in my arms. To hold my son, but I don’t have that opportunity. You do.”

  After picking up the reclining chair he knocked over as if it is weightless, he staggers out of the room without a backward glance.

  Six

  Hugo

  My hand darts down to the window crank of my car – Jorgie’s baby. Shifting my eyes between the road and the window mechanism, I wind the window up, easing the thick blast of cold air blowing in from outside.

  It’s colder here than I remember.

  The crisp wind, chilled with sleet has the tip of my nose turning a shade of red.

  I didn’t even pack a jacket.

  Every mile I get closer has my heart rate quickening. Even though it’s been years since I’ve been here, I know the way. It is engrained in me. I took the same route I used when I left. All back roads hidden from prying eyes. The candy apple coloring of my car is now a murky brown thanks to the thick dust lifting off the dirt roads I’ve driven down.

  The tremble pounding my heart extends to my hands when the “Welcome to Rochdale” sign peers over the horizon. I’ve been driving for hours, nearly nine straight. I only pulled over for gas before I continued on my mission, not giving my brain the chance to formulate an objection to my rushed decision I made while hungover and licking my wounds from my tussle with Hawke.

  Noticing my gas gauge sitting close to empty, I pull into a gas station on the outskirts of the main town district. The quietness that surrounds me when I switch off the ignition and curl out of the driver’s seat is disturbing. When there is too much silence, my mind tends to wander. Ducking back into the cab to grab my wallet, I snatch a baseball cap and pull it down low over my head.

  While filling up the gas tank, my eyes roam around my surroundings. Five years has passed, and its looks like nothing has changed. The graffiti on the brick wall attached to St. Mary’s church is still where it was, only faded and accentuated with new tags. The half shackle sign dangling out of the front of Gus’s Grease Box is still rusted and askew, and the inquisitive gawks are still present. Nothing’s changed.

  I place the gas nozzle back into the pump and amble into the service station, eager to pay for my gas and continue with my trip. It’s late and I’m beyond tired. The beat of my heart kicks up when the glass automatic doors swing open and numerous pairs of eyes turn to me. I lower the sleeves of my shirt, concealing my tattoos that normally conjure nosey gazers.

  Several pairs of eyes track me as I walk across the space. My long steps have me reaching the counter in four strides. Even with a cap hanging low on my face and my appearance altered from the effects of age, I know their curious stares aren’t associated with a stranger arriving in the middle of the night. No, they come from recognition.

  I was born and raised in Rochdale, the beloved quarterback of the high school football team crowned State Champions two years in a row under my leadership, but even if they're too young to remember my glory days, or too old to care, my family are well known members of the community and I'm the spitting image of my father. My eyes, my nose, hell, my entire face is an exact replica of his.

  “Pump four,” I say, tossing three rolled up twenties onto the counter before spinning on my heels. I always pay with cash. No cards means no chance of being tracked.

  My brisk strides slow when the cashier shouts, “You forgot your change.”

  I raise my arm into the air. “Keep it.”

  I stop frozen in my tracks when the cashier replies, “I can’t do that, Hugo. It’s against the rules.”

  The automatic doors open and close, unable to sense if I'm coming or going. They aren’t the only ones confused.

  After exhaling a big breath, I spin on my heels. The walk back to the counter is painstakingly long. I raise my chin high enough to peer at the cashier, but low enough my face isn’t fully exposed.

  A grin carves on my mouth when the petite frame of Mary Walker pops into my peripheral vision. Her glistening cornflower blue eyes star
e into mine, her excitement building with every step I take.

  “Hey.” Grinning broadly, she fiddles with the hem of her floral skirt. “I knew it was you.”

  Mary was in Ava and Jorgie’s grade at school. Since she was born ten weeks premature, she has always been a tiny little thing, looking much younger than her real age. Her older brother Mitchell was a good friend of mine in high school. We lost contact when his life took a ride down a very steep hill at the same time mine hit a brick wall.

  “How are you going, Mary?” I ask, accepting the crumpled up notes she's holding out and shoving them into the pocket of my jeans.

  The smile on her face broadens, both shocked and happy that I remember her.

  “Good,” she replies quietly. “If you're in town long, come on over to the house one day, Mitchy would love to see you.”

  I nod. “I will. I’ll try and get there later this week.”

  She smiles even bigger. With a dip of my chin, I bid farewell to Mary before walking out of the service station, not missing the extra sets of eyes I gained from my brief exchange with her.

  I slide into my car and crank the ignition. As I pull onto the road, I roll the window back down, needing the crispness in the air to calm the mad beat of my heart. One more mile is all I have left to travel. The town is quiet, not surprising since it is late on Christmas day.

  My eyes scan my surroundings as I pull down a familiar street. The same wrought iron lights line the edge of the cracked concrete sidewalks, clapboard houses in a range of pastel colors and rolling lush green front yards.

  Nothing’s changed.

  I release my heavy compression on the accelerator, slowly creeping my car closer to my childhood home. When I come to a stop in front of the two story house, I’m not surprised when I spot a light flicking in the back right-hand corner of the property. No doubt, my mom still packing away the dishes from the Marshall Christmas party she hosts every year.

  I wonder what her reaction will be when I stroll back into her life? Will she greet me like she did the morning I turned up for family brunch? Or will she be angry for the way I left?

  “There's only one way to find out,” I mumble to no one.

  I pull into the driveway and park behind my mom’s station wagon. I can’t believe she still drives that old thing. My hand trembles as I open the car door and step out onto the concrete driveway. The smell of pumpkin pie and mashed potatoes filter in the air as I briskly stride down the side of the house.

  My steps are fast and uninhibited, ensuring I don’t give myself the opportunity to back down on my quest. I’ve daydreamed about this day for years, but I never thought it would come to fruition. I grip the handle of the screen door, willing for the memories of the last time I exited these doors to slip my mind. Sucking in a lung-filling gulp of air, I pull open the door. The old wood gives out a slight creak, but I barely hear it over the Christmas music playing on a radio in the middle of the kitchen counter.

  As I pace into the kitchen, my eyes drift around the room. Nothing’s changed. It is exactly the same. My mom’s hair, although a little grayer than I remember around the temples, is pulled back in a bun. She has a pair of pink gloves on her hands as she works her way through a pile of dirty dishes stacked at her side.

  Her hips swing, bobbing side to side as she sways to “Jingle Bell Rock” by Bobby Helms drifting from the speaker on the island counter. Half-eaten pies and containers of food are stacked on the countertops. No doubt the fridge is too crammed to fit in all the goodies she bakes every Christmas.

  Pacing in closer to my mom, I open my mouth, preparing to speak. My words entomb in my throat when the swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room swings open and Ava glides inside. My heart freezes along with my feet. My god, she's even more beautiful than I remembered.

  Her hair is a crazy mess of ringlet curls sitting a few inches past her shoulders, her face is fresh and unmarked, like she hasn’t aged a day in five years, and her body is captivating. Her lush tits are only just hidden by a dusty pink cashmere sweater, the hem sitting on her curvy rounded hips. Her stomach is smooth and flat, and although I can’t see her legs that are covered by a pair of black jeans, I'm sure they're just as stellar as the rest of her. She's captivatingly beautiful and has me wanting to drop to my knees.

  My heart leaps out of my chest when a screeching scream rips through my eardrums. My mom’s focus is no longer on the dirty dishes. She's staring at me wide-eyed, her face pale and full of disbelief. Her squeal demands Ava’s attention. Following my mom’s fretful stare, Ava pivots around to face me. She intakes a quick, sharp breath as a flood of tears wells in her eyes. The wine glass she's holding plummets to the ground as she lifts her hand to clamp it over her gaped mouth, muffling her shocked scream.

  The wine glass shatters as the first tear slides down Ava’s cheek.

  Seven

  Ava

  When an ear-piercing scream rattles my core, I pivot on my heels, panicked beyond comprehension at what has caused Mrs. Marshall to react in such a way. Her entire body is uncontrollably shaking, her face pale and clearly in shock. She looks like she has seen a ghost. I swing my eyes to the side, both eager and fearful to discover what has caused her unusual reaction.

  The air is vehemently removed from my lungs when my eyes lock in on a face I only see in my dreams. My hands slick with sweat, causing my wineglass to slip from my grasp and plummet to the floor, shattering into a million pieces at my feet. My stomach swirls, threatening to spill its contents at any moment as my brain tries to comprehend what I'm seeing. It can’t be true. It can’t be him. He's dead. Gone. Never coming back.

  I lift my hand to cover my gaped mouth while ensuring the contents of my churning stomach have no way of escaping. I snap my eyes shut and shake my head, compelling myself to wake up. I must have fallen asleep, or perhaps I’m in a food-induced coma from eating too many carbohydrates during Christmas dinner.

  My breath hitches halfway between my lungs and my throat when my eyes slowly flutter open and the visual of both my nightmares and dreams still stands before me. Even with half of his face shadowed by the brim of a baseball cap, I'd never forget that face: his plump, delicious lips, perfectly straight nose, and eyes that captured my soul and never gave it back.

  The shock on Mrs. Marshall’s face hasn’t lessened any as her head flings between Hugo and me. Even though she has tears streaming down her face, her excitement at seeing her youngest son again is evident all over her beautiful face. She graces me with a shaky smile before she dashes to Hugo. Her steps are slow and unstable, overwhelmed with the same emotions that are keeping my feet planted on the ground.

  Mrs. Marshall crashes into Hugo with so much force, a rustle of air parts his lips. She slings her arms around his neck as a tormented sob tears from her mouth. I lower my shaky hand to my thigh and pinch hard, urging myself to wake up. I pinch so hard, I’m going to be sporting a nasty bruise in the morning, but I don’t wake up. Surely, I'm dreaming. I have to be.

  Mrs. Marshall’s loud sobs secures the attention of the remaining Marshall residents still clearing away the mess of a chaotic Christmas day. Although we are all exhausted, none of us wanted to leave the burden solely on Mrs. Marshall’s shoulders. Mr. Marshall’s brisk strides to his wife falter when Hugo lifts his head from his mom’s neck. She’s accidentally knocked the cap off his head, fully exposing his Marshall family heirloom: his glistening baby blues.

  I bite the inside of my cheek hard, battling to keep my tears at bay when Mr. Marshall’s knees buckle and he lands on the ground. Tears seep from his eyes as joy overwhelms him. I fling my tears off my cheek when Chase and Helen rush into the kitchen, their faces morphing from panicked to astounded in record-breaking time. They rush to aid their father off the ground before greeting Hugo with the same amount of enthusiasm their mother showed. I stand still, numb and in shock. My brain can’t comprehend the complexity of the situation, let alone command my legs to move.

 
The final person to enter the kitchen is Marvin. He appears more annoyed about the interruption to the football game he's watching than concerned for what caused Mrs. Marshall’s screams. Marvin props his shoulder on the doorjamb and swings his eyes around the room. My attention reverts to the gathering of Marshall members reuniting when Hugo loudly pats his brother on the back before stepping past him.

  My heart thrashes wildly against my ribs when his gaze locks with mine as he slowly paces to me. His eyes blaze into mine, rendering me even more motionless than my shock. A smirk curls on his lips as his heavy-lidded gaze runs over my face before lowering to absorb my body.

  Suddenly, his pace slows as he swallows harshly. His eyes are arrested by the diamond ring on my finger. I battle hard not to squirm when his fervent gaze burns the skin surrounding my engagement ring.

  When his eyes float back to my face, he musters up a fake smirk before continuing with his strides. The glint of happiness sparking his vibrant eyes dampens when I'm suddenly clutched around the waist and pulled into a heated body.

  “We should go, Ava,” Marvin jerks me in tighter. “Our taxi has arrived.” He gestures his head to a yellow and black taxi parked behind an unfamiliar car in the driveway.

  I’m too dazed, stuck in an illusory state to form a response. Hugo’s eyes dart between me and Marvin as Marvin guides me past him and into the foyer. In a blur, Marvin shoves my coat into my hands and places my beanie on my head. Freezing cold winds blast my face when we step onto the back patio. My body is shaking intensely. I don’t know if it is from the crispness of the cold winter night or because I'm in shock.

  “Ava,” says a voice from behind. A voice I immediately recognize. A voice I'll never forget.

  “Keep walking, Ava,” Marvin demands, seizing my elbow and dragging me toward the waiting taxi.