Atone

by Beth Yarnall

  Her head jerks back, eyes widen, lips part. Tossing her bold question back at her shocks her. The air between us fizzles and sparks. All of the hair on my body stands on end and a shiver runs up my spine. She leans toward me, studying me like she’s just seeing me for the first time, like she doesn’t already know too much about me. It was a test, and I somehow passed. Our meals forgotten, we take in the new boundaries of our fledgling relationship or whatever it is that’s happening between us.

  I’m as astounded as she is. I slide my hand across the table and take her hand. It’s small in mine. Her fingers are long and slim and cold. She doesn’t pull away or break eye contact, almost as though she willed me to touch her and I finally obeyed.

  She breaks the silence. “You’re not what I expected. Not at all.”

  “Neither are you.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  I nod.

  “I’m not really that brave.”

  “I know. Me either.”

  “I know.” She glances at our clasped hands. “Your hand is warm.”

  “Are you cold?”

  “Just my fingers.”

  I hold my other hand out, palm up, and she places her hand in it. Somehow this basic touch is more intimate in this moment than it would be if we ripped our clothes off and fucked on top of the table. She squeezes my hands, turning them back and forth, experimenting, studying. I let her. Her expression is the most open I’ve ever seen it. Everything about her transforms, from the set of her shoulders to the curve of her lips to the feel of her hands in mine. She seems almost giddy in her discovery. Questions begin to form about what made her the way she is, but I shove them aside, reminding myself that I don’t need to know.

  The only thing that matters is the here and now.

  Our waitress drops off the check. “Pay up front.”

  Vera asks her for a box to take home what’s left of her child’s meal. Releasing one of her hands, I reach for the check before Vera can grab it. She frowns at me and pulls her other hand away. I frown back at her. She does something under the table I can’t see and then produces a five and lays it on the table. I push it back at her.

  Her frown deepens and she shoves the five over with more force. “I pay my own way.”

  “I invited you.” I slide it back over.

  “Knock it off, Beau.”

  “Invite me to dinner and then it’ll be your turn to pay.”

  She slaps a hand on the five and it disappears under the table again. “Thank you.” She’s not grateful, she’s pissed.

  The waitress returns with Vera’s to-go container and clears away my plate.

  “You’re welcome,” I answer, when the waitress leaves.

  “You’re assuming I’m going to want to eat with you again.”

  “I don’t assume anything when it comes to you.”

  She’s suppressing a smile while making a show of putting the other half of her tiny sandwich in the box. “You have pretty good table manners for a guy.”

  I laugh and her smile deepens. Her compliment is ridiculous. It’s been a long time since I cared about having any manners at all. I stand and hold a hand out to help her up, practicing more of my rusty social etiquette. She keeps her hand in mine as we walk to the cash register. I don’t let go to pay, using my other hand to fish my wallet out and find some money for the bill and tip. Holding the door open for her, I wait for her to walk through before following.

  Out on the street, Vera swings our hands as we walk back to her motel. The night is cool and I fight the urge to put my arm around her and bring her in close. She seems content with the way things are, so I don’t push. When we get to her door I shake her hand and tell her I had a good time and thank her like we just went out on a date. There’s a funny quizzical twist to her lips as I back away, waving. I make sure she’s safely inside before getting into Cora’s car and driving off.

  Chapter 6

  Vera

  Since I texted Beau the links to Marie’s social media pages he’s been sending me little notes—sometimes questions about the case and sometimes funny, brief comments about his day. His are the only texts I get, so every time my phone pings with a message I know it’s from him. My stomach flutters at the sound and I can feel a grin forming before I even look at the screen. This guy makes me want to believe in things I didn’t think would be mine to believe in.

  My phone pings with another message.

  Beau: Meet me at the agency office at six o’clock.

  Me: Did you find out something about Marie?

  Him: Yes.

  I stare at his one-word answer, my heart banging against my ribs.

  Me: Did you find her?

  Little dots appear on the screen like he’s typing his response, and then they disappear without his reply. Twenty minutes tick by with nothing from him. Those minutes stretch into an hour. Just as I’m about to climb into my car to head over to the office to demand he tell me what’s going, on my phone pings.

  Him: No. Sorry. Had to help Cora with another case. I need to show you something.

  Me: What?

  Him: Marie has a Tumblr account.

  Me: Send me the link.

  Him: I need to show you. Meet me tonight.

  Me: Fine.

  Him: You’re pissed.

  Me: Duh.

  I can almost hear him laughing.

  Him: Sorry. I’m tied up with Cora stuff till then. Or we can meet tomorrow…

  Me: No. Tonight.

  Him: (smiling emoji)

  Him: Cora just put an emoji keyboard app on my phone.

  Me: Is this the important work you’re tied up with?

  Him: No (whistling emoji)

  Me: Right.

  Him: (angel emoji)

  Me: Are you going to stop using words entirely now?

  Him: (thumps-up emoji)

  Me: (angry emoji)

  Him: (sunglasses emoji)

  Me: Stop it!

  Him: Sorry. Gotta go. Cora’s giving me the evil eye. See you tonight?

  Me: Yeah.

  I glance at the clock. Three whole hours until I meet him. I open a new window on my computer and try to find Marie’s secret account that Beau found. It would have to be a secret for her not to friend me. What’s on there? What is she hiding? After half an hour I give up. I clearly don’t have the same skills Beau has. Or the patience.

  I go back to working on the book cover I’m creating for a client. Graphics has been a passion of mine since a class I took freshman year in high school. I’ve been able to make a business out of it and support myself after scraping together the money to buy my first computer. I use a file-hosting site to store all my projects in case I have to take off and leave my computer behind. I funnel client payments through online accounts so I don’t have to rely on banks. Basically, it’s a way for me to earn money anywhere, and I love doing it.

  I finish a mock-up for a client and send it off just in time to hop in the car and head over to the agency. The door’s unlocked, but the receptionist isn’t at her desk. I wait in the reception area for a moment, hoping someone will show up. Voices draw me down the hall. A deep, rich laugh like hot coffee on a cold morning drifts from a doorway on the right. It’s Beau. Caught by the sound, I put a hand on the wall to steady my suddenly weakened knees. I can’t move. He laughs again, but stops abruptly as though he’s allotted only so much time and not a second more.

  “Can I help you?”

  My hand automatically goes to my thigh as I spin around to see the man who snuck up behind me.

  He puts his palms up in an I’m harmless gesture. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “I’m here to see Beau.”

  He takes me in from the top of my head to my toes and back again. When he’s done I have the urge to knee him in the nuts. His face splits into a grin that’s meant to be sexy but comes off as overconfident. This guy’s a player, but he’s not using his moves on me. Yet. He does this thing with his head that knocks
the hair out of his eyes. Another come-on move meant to draw female attention.

  “What’s your name?” he asks, giving me the once-over again. This time it has a critical edge to it, like he’s trying to decide if I’m worthy.

  “Vera Swain.”

  “The new client.” He straightens. “Sorry.”

  I give him the same slow perusal he gave me. He’s got the I’m a fuckup thing down pat, from his shoulder-length hair to his scuffed skater shoes. He doesn’t look employable, so he must be somebody’s boyfriend or son.

  He sticks out his hand. “I’m Leo Nash.”

  I was right. Cora’s boyfriend and the owner’s son. His handshake is brief and dry.

  He motions toward the room where Beau’s laughter came from. “Beau’s in there.”

  No shit, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut and follow him into the room. Cora stands behind Beau, who is sitting at a desk. Beau points to something on the computer screen in front of him. She props her arm on his shoulder as she leans closer to the monitor. She mumbles something that has Beau wiping at a smile.

  “Beau. Vera Swain’s here to see you,” Leo interrupts.

  Beau glances up and releases the grin he tamped down. “Hey. Come in. I see you met Leo.”

  I nod.

  “Beau’s done some really good work on your sister’s case,” Cora says, giving Beau a look of pride. “He’s better at pulling stuff off the Internet than Leo and me combined.”

  “Good,” Leo says. “Does that mean I don’t have to do it anymore?”

  Cora shakes her head. “You’re not getting off the hook.”

  “You know, it just occurred to me that your apartment is empty right now…” Leo says with a sly wink.

  Beau clamps his hands over his ears. “Dude. That’s my sister.”

  Cora laughs as she gives Beau a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll see you later.” Then, to me, “Good night, Vera.”

  “Good night.”

  Leo nods at me. “Nice meeting you.” He throws an arm across Cora’s shoulders. “Later, Beau.”

  “Lock the front door, will you?” Beau asks.

  “You got it,” Leo says.

  When they’re gone, Beau gets up and brings the other chair around to his side of the desk. “Have a seat.”

  When we’re settled, he works the keyboard, opening a document with saved links.

  He smells good. I forgot about that. His scent comes with the memory of our conversation in the diner and the feel of his hands around mine. He’s steady and strong in a way I’ll never be. I try to imagine depending on that strength, leaning in to it and wrapping myself in it like a blanket. I’m not good with relying on someone else. I haven’t come across very many trustworthy people. Beau could change that. If he has an agenda, I have yet to spot it. I’ve gotten pretty good at sorting out what people want and what they want from me. It’s always take, take, take. But not with Beau.

  I pull in a slow, deep breath, inhaling him like a druggie getting a fix. His fingers are sure and confident on the keyboard, his focus on the screen in front of him. There are a lot of things about him that draw my curiosity, but mostly I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. I know what I want him to see. It’s what I want the rest of the world to see. But he’s not like everybody else. His look is a touch that vibrates across my senses like ripples in a pond, moving through me in tiny waves until I can feel him everywhere. It’s disorienting and thrilling at the same time.

  He catches me staring and does that slow-blink thing as though it takes him a minute to process what’s happening. His gaze drifts to my mouth and lingers. He’s thinking. I’m thinking. He shakes it off and stares at his hands hovering over the keyboard like he doesn’t know what to do. I cross my arms over my chest, making the decision for us both.

  “What did you find?” My voice comes out croaky.

  He doesn’t move for a moment and then his fingers fly over the keyboard again. He brings up a Tumblr account with the user name VacantSorrow. The profile picture is a black-and-white drawing of a teenage girl with hair hanging in her face, obscuring all of her features except her bright orange lips. I know that image. Marie drew it. I saw it posted on one of her other social media accounts.

  Beau points to it. “I did image searches of all the photos she had on her various accounts. This is the only one that hit. She posts to it fairly regularly. The last time was this morning. You should probably start reading from the first post.”

  He scrolls through the recent posts until he gets to the first entry, then scoots his chair over so I can work the mouse.

  The first post is dated almost two months ago. She talks about a man she met at the mall. He stopped her and told her she was beautiful and that she should be a model. He doesn’t pay any attention to her friend, who she thinks is prettier than her. She’s known him for a month and opened this account so she could write about him. She talks about how kind he is to her and about how she can tell him anything.

  This is how it all started for me.

  I move through the entries. Some are about school and how boring it is. Some are about the group home she’s in and the crush she used to have on one of the boys until she met her dream man. She calls this man Daddy and laughs at the irony of the nickname and how much he likes it when she calls him that. She talks about what a gentleman he is and how he makes her feel special. Special. Beautiful. Smart. These are all the things he makes her feel over and over and over. He feeds it to her like a drug and she’s becoming addicted. She’s never met anyone like him. No one’s ever made her feel the way he makes her feel.

  I called him Mr. Everything. He was my everything. Everything I ever wanted but never got, everything I wanted to hear but never heard, everything I wanted to feel but never felt. He was my heroin, and I mainlined as much of him as I could as fast as I could. I force myself to keep reading past the memories that cloud the screen in front of me, blurring Marie’s words, which could be mine.

  She actually does a photo shoot and he promises to talk to his agent friend about her. The pictures come out great, but Marie worries that her chest is too flat and that she still has too much baby fat under her chin and on her belly. He tells her she’s perfect and then takes her to a doctor for a breast augmentation consultation. During the appointment he sits in the exam room with her to make sure she’s comfortable with the doctor. She was nervous about taking her top off, but Daddy tells her how pretty and sexy she is and how she doesn’t really need the boob job, but he’ll get it for her if that’s what she wants.

  He fondles her breasts when the doctor leaves. His touch is brief and clinical. She doesn’t feel like she did when her foster father touched her. He talks her out of the implants and tells her he loves her small breasts. To prove it, he starts touching them…a lot. But he doesn’t go any further. Daddy calls her his good girl. He tells her he loves her. She likes his kisses and how out of control he makes her feel.

  I thought he loved me too.

  Theirs is a special relationship. He shares things with her that he doesn’t share with anyone else. He keeps her secrets. He’s the only person she can trust. She can call him anytime, day or night. She tests this several times. He didn’t lie, and they talk until she falls asleep. Sometimes he sings to her. She stops going to school to spend more time with him. Her friends complain, but they don’t understand. He’s her soulmate, her one true love. She talks a lot about love.

  I thought I’d die without him.

  He wants her first time to be with someone she loves and laments the fact that she doesn’t love him. She tries to tell him that she does love him, more than anyone ever, but he doesn’t believe her. He draws her in deeper with his promises and their shared secrets. He makes her feel special and wanted. He’s everything. She can’t live without him.

  And then the last entry…He wants her to get a tattoo…

  All of the air whooshes out of me like someone just punched me in the stomach. His MO hasn’t changed since he
was my everything. The flattery. The sympathetic ear. The only one I can trust. The isolation. The secrecy. The innocent touching that leads to more and more and more. The absolute control of my world. The mark I got for him that still mars my body.

  I shove away from the desk, saliva pooling in my mouth. I can’t breathe. Dots fill my narrowed vision. I’m too late. Beau says something, but I can’t hear him. My ears roar with the blood pumping too hard and fast through me.

  He has her. I’m too late. Too late.

  Beau shakes my shoulders. His lips move, but I can’t make out what he says. The world tilts. I grip the arms of the chair to stay in it. Bile rises up the back of my throat. Beau pushes my head down between my knees. He’s saying something. He rubs my back with one hand while pulling a trash can close with the other. I still can’t get enough air, but the nausea lessens.

  He has her. He has her. He’s going to brand her.

  Beau eases me upright and studies my face—for what, I don’t know. He makes a motion for me to stay put. I can’t move. I still can’t pull in enough air. The more I try, the less there is. He comes back and puts a paper bag over my nose and mouth. The sides of the back suck in, then puff out with each of my breaths. I blink away the dots and focus on Beau’s worried face.

  His coaching voice comes back to me. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

  I take over holding the bag, keeping my eyes on his. He kneels in front of me. His gaze roams my face like he’s looking for something or trying to find an answer to an unasked question. I can’t tell him. I can’t talk about it. I don’t have the words to express how disappointed I am in myself that He can still get to me after all this time and how fresh the memories still are. I knew this was a possibility. I should’ve been better prepared. Imagining Marie going through what I lived through brings on another wave of nausea. She’s in the honeymoon phase and she has no idea that her world is about to be ripped apart.