STRONGER (Runaway)

by Lexie Ray

  It was because he had cancer.

  “I wanted to talk to you about it, but not like this,” he said. “I was going to talk to you about it.”

  “We can talk now about it,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself. Why were my teeth chattering?

  “I have cancer. The outlook is not good, the doctors tell me. I’m not going to die tomorrow, but it is going to get me at some point down the road. Maybe one year from now. Maybe a few years from now. But I am not going to die an old man.”

  He stood there among the glass shards and splattered juice, looking at me like he’d done something wrong. He most certainly had.

  “We were going to talk about it?” I repeated. “When? When you were on your deathbed? Before you told me you loved me? Before I told you I loved you? Never?”

  “I just didn’t know how,” Nate said. “I’m sorry, Jasmine.”

  “I don’t understand, I really don’t,” I raged. “I was honest with you from the beginning. I told you every horrible detail of my stupid life. Don’t you think the fact that you’re dying of cancer would be something I should know at some point?”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “Please forgive me. I just didn’t want you to think less of me. To pity me.”

  The bacon was smoking. I picked my way across the mess of the kitchen and turned off the burner, removing the skillet from the heat. I squirmed away from Nate as he tried to take me in his arms.

  “No,” I said. “You don’t get to do that anymore.”

  Nate recoiled as if I’d slapped him. “Jasmine…?”

  “It was so simple for you, wasn’t it?” I hissed, feeling both poisoned and poisonous.

  “Simple for me when?” Nate asked, his face ashen.

  “When you first saw me on that cliff,” I said. “I was about to throw myself over it, but you saw potential.”

  “Of course I saw potential,” Nate tried to argue. “You couldn’t just throw you life away like that.”

  “I know,” I said, my voice dangerously conversational. “Why let me do it when you could do it for me?”

  Nate’s injured look made my heart hurt, but some invisible force egged me on. I couldn’t stop now even if I’d wanted to.

  “I was at rock bottom and you knew it,” I said. “You knew it would be so easy to take me in so that you could just up and die whenever you wanted. I am fucking disposable to you. I am fucking trash.”

  I stomped out of the kitchen, ripping his shirt off of my body as I rushed down the hall. I couldn’t stay here another moment. I couldn’t do it.

  Wiping the tears angrily from my cheeks, I pulled on some clothes.

  “Where are you going?” Nate asked from the door of the bedroom.

  “The fuck out of here,” I spat.

  “Don’t just leave like this, Jasmine,” he said, “not when you’re so angry.”

  “I’m not angry,” I said. “I’m furious. You are like every other shitty thing that has ever happened to me. You are no better. No, Nate, you are even worse.”

  I felt a twisted sort of hateful victory as I took note of his red-rimmed eyes and red nose.

  “How is that even remotely fair?” Nate asked. “I’ve never treated you like that.”

  “Wrong,” I said. “You made me love you, and now you’re going to leave me.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he started to say.

  “Wrong again,” I interrupted. “You’re dying. You’re dying and you weren’t going to tell me until you knew you had the hook in good and tight. Then you were going to keep reeling me in until the day you kicked it and left me.”

  “It’s not like that,” he insisted, rubbing at one of his eyes. “It’s not like that, Jasmine, I swear to you.”

  “It is like that,” I said, pushing past him and back down the hall. “You’re just too blind to see it.”

  “Don’t go,” Nate said, taking my arm before I reached the door. “Please don’t.”

  “You said you’d never force me to do anything I didn’t want to do,” I said, whirling on him and pushing him away from me. “Are you going to force me to stay here? I hate it here. I want to leave.”

  A single, crystal tear fell down his cheek.

  “If that’s how you feel about it, then go,” Nate said. “But take some money. There’s no reason for you to be wandering around the city without.”

  He went to the office and retrieved a lockbox from the desk. My eyes widened as he opened it. It was stuffed with bills.

  “I always keep this for emergencies,” he said, sniffing. “It’s yours. Whatever you want.”

  “I think this is very appropriate,” I sobbed, my body shaking. “Very appropriate, indeed.”

  I approached the open box and took a handful of the bills.

  “You know,” I said, the tears still flowing down my face in rivulets, “this isn’t quite as much as my usual rates at the nightclub, but at least you’re trying to pay me for my services last night. I’ll give you that.”

  Nate turned quickly and grasped the desk, but not before I’d seen his face. I’d cut him deeply with that remark, which was my intent. Anything to hurt him as much as I was hurting in that moment.

  “I hope I was worth it,” I tossed over my shoulder almost flippantly as I walked out the door, but the damage was already done.

  I didn’t have to add anything at all.

  Chapter Ten

  I roamed the streets for hours, trying to find the pieces of my broken heart. Nate was dying and I loved him. No. Nate was dying and I hated him. No.

  I didn't know what I felt. What I'd had with him was real for me, but it seemed like just a relationship of convenience for him. If he'd known that he was dying, it made sense for him to try to coerce someone into living with him. That way, he could have a distraction until the end, and then a free caretaker to see him out. Someone he could use and then discard.

  Me. I was good at getting thrown out like trash.

  The wind dictated my direction down the streets. I found myself in Central Park, but the couples holding hands, the children shrieking and dashing around, the bright colors of the flowers were too much.

  I was too shattered inside to stomach much joy around me. Maybe I was destined to be alone and miserable.

  I mulled the idea of being homeless again and it didn't sit well. I was older and wiser, now, and understood the dangers much better than I did when I first ran away from Jack. Still, I wouldn't go to a shelter. I'd been there before and vowed never to go back.

  Extremely aware of the wad of Nate's money in my purse, I did the most sensible thing I could do. I opened a bank account. Practical Brenda and Jeff would've been proud of me.

  A checkbook and debit card stuffed securely into my wallet, I stopped into a coffee shop for a break from my aimless walking. I needed a new place to live, I realized.

  I sipped a latte and flipped through a free neighborhood publication that the coffee shop offered in one of several wire racks. I stared at the pictures of rock bands performing and scanned over the words in the stories. Nothing seemed to matter to me anymore, even though this morning I was sure I was in love.

  I perked up a bit when I turned the page to the classified section. Pulling a stub of a pencil from my purse, I began to circle promising employment opportunities. I paused when I reached the personals.

  "Roommate wanted for furnished apartment," one of them read. "Must be female, neat, non-smoker, non-drinker, no drugs, quiet."

  I circled the number several times and then the rent amount. Nate had given me a lot of money for my "services." If I made it stretch, I could pay rent for two months while still buying food. I couldn't get anything fancy, of course, but I knew I could be frugal enough to make it work.

  I finished the last of my latte and found a pay phone, dialing the number for the roommate wanted ad.

  "Hello?" came a wary female voice.

  "Yes, I'm calling in regards to a roommate wanted ad," I said politely.
>
  "Fuck off," she said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Oh, are you actually calling about the ad?" she asked, sounding chagrined. "People have been calling me all morning, telling me that I'm boring, I’m uptight, I'm anal, I'm blah blah blah. I'm sick of it. I'm getting them to remove the ad next week, roommate or no."

  "So you still haven't found a roommate yet?" I asked hopefully.

  "Nope."

  "That's because you were waiting for me," I said, excitement filling my voice. "I'm everything you put in the ad. I can move in immediately. We could meet in person today, if you want."

  "Is this some sort of joke?" she asked.

  "No," I said, shaking my head emphatically even though I was on the phone. "My name is Jasmine. I’m neat, I’m quiet, I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs. I'm your new roommate."

  And that's how I met Anne.

  Anne was a no-nonsense 30-year-old with close-cropped red hair and a serious collection of cats. There were no less than five in the apartment. A ginger one lounged on the back of a hair-covered couch while a tuxedo one scaled Anne’s denim-covered leg before settling on her shoulder, perched like a parrot. I stared into its green eyes, which were coolly assessing me.

  "Are they going to be a problem?" she asked me, the tone of her voice suggesting that they better not be. “My last roommate didn’t like them.”

  "Of course not," I said, though I'd never owned a pet in my life. The all seemed civil enough. No less than three curled around my legs simultaneously. “I like animals.”

  "When do you want to bring your stuff in?" Anne asked, sounding relieved.

  I grinned as nonchalantly as I could. "This is it," I said, holding out my arms and indicating my purse. I’d stuffed a few essentials into it before fleeing Nate’s condo. "I'm very low maintenance."

  Anne frowned, crossing her beefy arms. I could see part of a tattoo protruding from below the sleeve of her T-shirt. "You have the cash for rent, don't you?" she asked.

  "I have checks," I said, tearing one out of the book that I'd already made out to her with the rent amount for the month. "It won't bounce, I promise. I just opened the account today. Cash it. You'll see."

  Anne took the check and examined it before looking up at me slowly. "Are you in some kind of trouble?" She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

  Trouble? Only for my entire life. Sister, could I tell you some stories, I thought, but wisely decided to go with another route.

  I smiled apologetically. "I'm going through a big breakup."

  Anne held up her hands. "Men are pigs," she proclaimed, "say no more. Unless you want to. I can empathize. You're welcome to stay here as long as you like as long as the checks clear and you are who you say you are."

  "Thank you," I breathed. "You're a lifesaver."

  My room was furnished, which was a blessing. I wondered if it was Anne’s furniture or the roommate who hadn’t been able to handle all the cats. The bed, chest of drawers, and tiny closet were more than enough for me, the girl who didn’t have anything but rent money and a broken heart.

  The rest of the apartment was small and a little outdated. The kitchen had a stove and range but no microwave. The ancient refrigerator contained equal parts people food and cat food. I learned to walk carefully when I moved around the apartment—there were always felines underfoot.

  Overall, Anne tried to keep her home clean, but it was nearly impossible to do so with all the cats around. If they weren’t shedding their fur over every surface, they were kicking litter over the linoleum floor in the kitchen. They knocked over their water and food bowls constantly, shredded any sheet of paper lying around, and occupied my lap the moment I sat still.

  As soon as I got settled in and saw the state of Anne’s apartment, I fell into cleaning mode immediately, sweeping two times a day and keeping the litter box pristine after I watched Anne do it once. I wiped down every surface of the kitchen with hot, soapy water after I noticed the tuxedo cat prancing down the countertop. None of the cats were disciplined, but I realized they were probably some substitution for something missing in Anne’s life. She’d called men pigs and collected cats instead. It sort of made sense—trading animals for animals.

  “You’re really good at this,” Anne said one evening, stunned to sit down on the couch and not come away furry. I’d refused to believe it was past saving, running a tiny vacuum over the upholstery and having to change the bag twice before I’d gotten all the cat hair.

  “I’ve been a cleaning lady in several of my past lives,” I said, trying not to think of the most recent one. Thinking about Nate cut me to the bone.

  I walked a lot over the next few weeks, crossing and re-crossing streets while trying to exorcise the demons that were threatening to consume me over Nate. I thought his betrayal would get easier to stomach with time, but it only got worse and worse.

  A full month passed and I nervously wrote another check for rent and gave it to Anne. I’d been calling businesses that had listed their help ads in the same circular I found my new roommate, but none of them seemed willing to hire someone with no experience besides a nightclub waitress. I was extremely eager to avoid doing that again, but I felt as if my options were running out. What was going to happen next month when I could write a check but it would bounce when Anne tried to deposit it?

  Glumly, I began calling bars, offering my services as a cocktail waitress. I got several offers, but resisted committing to anything. Weren’t there any other options?

  One night, while petting one of Anne’s cats and feeling more than a little down about my situation, she cleared her throat.

  “Have you found a job yet?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” I said, “but I’m looking.” I hoped she would leave it at that, but I was disappointed.

  “Are you doing okay with money?”

  “The check cleared for this month, didn’t it?” I retorted. Why was Anne so concerned? I wasn’t in the mood to get needled about my financial situation.

  “It did clear, but I was just worried,” she said. “You seem to be eating only peanut butter.”

  I sighed, feeling a rush of gratitude toward my roommate. She was only concerned about me—and rightfully so. “I’m so tired of peanut butter,” I admitted.

  Anne laughed. “Well, I have good news for you,” she said. “The bookstore I work at needs to fill an open position immediately, and I told them my roommate would be willing to come in and work.”

  I perked up immediately. “You did? I love books! I organized a whole office full of them once!”

  I felt the pang of loss immediately when I thought back on accomplishing that task for Nate. Had that really been only four weeks ago? It seemed like yesterday when I was excited about finishing it, hugging him, sharing my body with him. It hurt so bad to think about being with him. Love had converted almost entirely to pain.

  “Come in with me tomorrow,” Anne was saying. “We’ll let my manager meet you, but I know you’ll be hired right away. They’re super desperate for help and can’t really go through a long hiring process.”

  “Thanks for this, Anne,” I said sincerely. “You won’t regret it.”

  The bookstore was an independently owned business, a welcome alternative to the big box chain stores that usually dominated the market. It had a fiercely loyal clientele and did well in serving its niche market. In one corner of the cozy store, a small coffee shop operated, brewing free trade beans from around the world. Overstuffed chairs dotted the floor, encouraging customers to sit with their purchases and read. The walls were covered in quotes from books both famous and not famous. I could bet that they were favorite quotes from the people who worked at the bookstore.

  The counter at the front of the store where people purchased the books that they wanted contained one old-timey register. It was mostly for show, Anne explained, but it did still function for cash and check transactions. For credit cards, there was a scanner.

  I liked the atmospher
e immediately. It felt warm and inviting, like a place for curious minds to gather and expand.

  The manager adored me, especially when I showed him how he could better organize a display table to make the books easier to find and more visually pleasing than before.

  “You have a real gem here, Anne,” he said.

  She nodded and I shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I just really love books,” I said.

  I learned the cash register fairly quickly, but it was the stocking that I truly loved. I loved to run my fingers over the new books, freshly shipped from the printers, and find them homes on the shelves. I liked to take stock of the very same shelves, seeing which books had sold, finding new homes in other people’s bookshelves, and needed copies replaced. I knew where every volume was in that bookstore and could help customers find anything as long as we were selling it.

  I pulled cash register duties one day as a new shipment of books came in. Anne was opening the box in the tiny storeroom behind me as I rang customers up.

  “Hey, Jasmine,” she called. “Got your book in here.”

  “Which book is that?” I asked. I’d also started reading all of the books I could get my hands on. The bookstore gave me a discount, but I’d also discovered the public library. There were lots of books that I’d consider “my book.” I couldn’t pick a favorite.

  “Check it out,” Anne said. She tossed me a copy of the book in question, titled “A Message to Jasmine.”

  “Very funny,” I called back, then choked on my words when I saw the name of the author.

  Nate King. Nate. King.

  Maybe it was just some screwed up coincidence, I told myself, my hands trembling as I held the book. It couldn’t be my Nate King. Well, certainly not the Nate King that had been mine. Could it?

  I opened the book to the first page and gasped.

  “To the real Jasmine,” the dedication page read, under which was the photo of me holding my arm up below the Statue of Liberty and grinning. I remembered that day well. Lady Liberty had been closed to visitors, but we still milled around her island home. I had always meant to go back to see if she was open.