by R. R. Smythe
“Dude, don’t you know she’s my girlfriend?”
Steve takes just one menacing step forward. Usually that’s enough.
I see Morgan’s hands ball into fists. His eyes shoot to me, but they’re eerily calm. “Is that so, Mia?”
I laugh. “I was… another life ago. Look, whatever you have to say to me, it’s fine to say in front of Morgan.”
Steve looks unsure. “Well, I — I wanted to tell you…”
Rage fills my nose with a sharp pang, and my eyes well. With anger — not sadness. “That you were with Apple while I was… almost dead? Is that it?”
“Mia, baby—”
“I am not your baby!” I shriek. “Take your cliché-spouting, unoriginal, white-bread behind off my land.”
“You know how much you meant to me.”
Morgan laughs, startling me.
I look up; his face is bitter and twisted. “You and your imbecilic head wouldn’t have a clue what to do with real love. A real girl.”
“Stay out of this, freak.”
Morgan smiles… a scary smile. An eager smile. “Bring it.”
He steps forward, leaving me swaying. He’s a full head shorter, but as their eyes meet, Steve winces. He takes a step back.
“Steve, isn’t Apple waiting? I’m surprised she isn’t in your car.” That you were brave enough to break-up without backup. I clear my throat. “It’s fine, honestly. Just get out of my sight. Consider yourself officially free.”
Steve’s eyes flicker through surprise and anger but finally decide upon sheepish. “Yeah, she’s waiting all right.”
“Great, go. Please.”
Morgan’s arms slide around my waist again, steadying me. Giving me a little dignity. I straighten up, squaring my shoulders.
Steve turns his bulk in the car’s direction and lumbers toward it.
I feel my feet leave the ground. Morgan has swept me into his arms.
“What are you doing?” I ask, flustered but pleased.
“Getting you back inside.”
The mask is back. His hard eyes are fixed on my bedroom window.
How does he know that is my room?
****
Morgan
The next day
I turn the horse around, checking my pocket watch. I have one hour before the next tour group will arrive, with its history buffs, old bittys, and an occasional screaming child. The children don’t bother me.
It’s the teens. They’re no more mature than the children — with their texting and gaming systems. No idea that at their age, long ago — boys were men.
Where I come from, boys were dying as men — so many, too soon. They weren’t overgrown infants, whining about phone chargers.
I dismount and head into Orchard House.
Beth stares as I enter, her lips pressed together, but she says nothing. She even winces a little at my presence.
I’m being a beast. I must stop. She is one of the most innocent, kind, and easily swayed people I’ve ever met. So eager to please everyone around her.
It’s hard to believe she and Lou are sisters.
“Hi, Beth. Any word from Edward?”
Her eyes instantly alight. “Yes! He should be home next week — I had an email from him this morning. How is Mia?”
Does she know something about last night? “I believe she is fine. Why?”
“Just asking. Did something else happen?” Her eyes are serious, but earnest.
I sigh. Feeling depression’s darkness seeping into my mind like a fog. Beth doesn’t understand. That I would’ve rather died. That I should’ve died. That was my destiny. But instead, they saved me.
Altered my destiny to intersect with their own.
I open my mouth to say this, stare into her childlike eyes, shut it… and sigh.
It’s like I am the older brother.
I search for the anger — to get me through. But today, something has changed.
When I think of Mia… it’s like a lone ray of sunlight shines and cuts through the fog. And I’m reluctantly, inevitably, drawn to it; a moth to her flame.
The stinging in my leg is quiet, and the sun is shining on my face through the stained glass window. I snatch a glance in the mirror, watching the red-tinged light slash across my cheek in weird, macabre patterns.
I see Mia trudging across the parking lot, and feel… okay that I’m still breathing in and out.
Guilt instantly sears my guts.
She is gone, I am alive.
My pain flows in a river from my heart, channeling itself into anger. Anger is the only emotion comfortable in my body. The only way I can survive the opening of my eyes.
Beth is watching me, evaluating my every breath. The anxiety is back in her eyes. I swallow, picking up a broom, trying to be glad — for something.
Mia drags her backpack on the floor, and I see she’s almost panting. She’s trying to do too much again. I picture her as I found her last night — sprawled in the grass.
My heart speeds with anxiety and a protective pang jabs my gut.
I don’t want to see her hurt. I want to save her, somehow. I want to know why Mia’s as lost as I am.
You want her to kiss you again. And more.
Anger returns. I wasn’t supposed to care about anyone like this ever again. And certainly, not so very soon.
“Morgan.” She nods. Her eyes are careful. She then turns to relieve Beth of a newly-baked tray of sweets. “Hi, Bethy. How’s it going?”
I nod at her, most likely looking foul in the face. I lay down the broom, trading it for my rifle. I block them out for a few minutes, tending my weapon while a bunch of feminine volleys are tossed back and forth.
In an odd way, it’s comforting. It reminds me of the hearth at my former home… and my cousins, talking with my mother. About nothing…
And now I desperately know those nothings — were everything.
I hear Beth leave, but don’t look up.
Alone in the same room with her. Good and bad.
I hope I can keep my mouth shut — something about her destroys my carefully cultivated self-control.
She stomps over to me, dark red curls swishing around her face.
My breath catches. She’s so beautiful — and the idea has never occurred to her. She’s self-conscious and awkward. And utterly lovely.
Her chocolate eyes are tight with anger. I vaguely wonder what I’ve done now.
I defended her from that walking boulder last night, didn’t I?
A little barb of jealousy jabs my chest. I picture his thick neck bending down to kiss her. I squeeze my hands together — blocking out the image.
I stand and meet her gaze.
Her eyes soften, and she knows it — she covers by biting her lip. “Thank you for last night.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I… wanted to ask you something.” Her eyes are tentative, afraid like Beth’s. I really am a monster.
“Go on then.” I break the eye contact. I return to sweeping.
Anything not to look at her. Before I grab her and pull her down to the floor before I can restrain myself. So much for a gentleman’s manners.
I give myself a mental shake. I am a soldier — trained to notice everything around me, evaluate the environment for every potential danger.
So why, when she stands so close to me, does the rest of the world fade?
Pale in comparison, till all my finely tuned senses focus solely on her. Leaving me vulnerable. I don’t like it. And I crave it.
Her smell. Lavender.
Her skin, ivory and petal-soft.
Her—
“Morgan?” She bites back a laugh.
I grin back, embarrassed.
“Yes, sorry. Your question.”
“Why do you hate Bronson Alcott?”
Angry red rage catches me completely off guard — as my emotions surge away from longing. It fills me, like a hot poker tip to the inside of my head at the mention of the toad.
My face flushes. “I know you’re an expert about Lou… erm, Louisa May Alcott. What do you know about him? Her father?”
Her eyes dart across my face, scrutinizing my anger. “Not as much. That he was an abolitionist and lost his job for teaching a black slave child. He seemed quite noble.”
“Did you know he couldn’t hold down a job? That the girls sometimes only had bread, water, and gruel?”
“No—”
“That he was a supposed adulterer.”
“No—”
“That he was stark-raving, blooming mad. With periods of near catatonia?”
Mia holds very still, watching me pace across the floor.
“I know — you said that during the tour. I’m sorry. I’ve upset you. I understand, he wasn’t as wonderful as the history books have portrayed him — but who is? What I don’t understand is why it makes you so angry. Your face is almost purple.”
My mouth opens, and for one horrible moment, the explanations almost leap off my tongue. Never to be taken back.
I shudder at the close call and snap it shut. “It’s complicated.”
She smiles, removing a garment from the rack. “It always is.”
She strides to the dressing room to wrestle on the period dress, as Beth calls it.
My eyes steal out to the battlefield. As I’ve walked it, I’ve felt the lingering energy from the horrific calamities that piece of ground has endured. I’ve marveled at how many souls have seeped into it. My eyes steal to the clock — the next tour starts in a few minutes.
“Morgan?” Mia’s voice, from behind the dressing curtain. “Could — Could you come here?”
Something about her tone raises the hair on my arms and the broom clatters to the floor. I reach the curtain in a tick, hesitating.
My hand pauses, inches from the fabric.
“Mia? Are you alright?”
Her face pokes out from behind it, flushed and red. “I need some help. I can’t get this dress on, and the guests will be here any second.”
I smile. “I’d be glad to help.”
I pull back the curtain and can’t stop the sigh before it slips past my lips. The creamy-white skin of her back is exposed beneath the crisscross of the lacings.
A light sheen of sweat glistens from her struggling. The curve of the small of her back… I shake my head and grasp her lacings, gently tugging them together.
“Alright, you’re decent now, Milady.”
She laughs nervously. “Thank you.”
I pull back the curtain and turn. And I hear it. Her head smacking the floor with a horrid crunch.
My stomach sours, dropping to my boots. “Blast, Mia. What now?”
I rip open the curtain and drop beside her. Her dress has shifted to expose the red railroad-track scar down her chest.
The world swirls. Lurches. I see her heartbeat in her neck and can almost count the beats. Staccato and unsteady.
My hand twitches and seems to move on its own toward the scar — like some siren call emits from her chest.
My fingers splay overtop of it, caressing the raised scar. I feel a drawing of two.
Completely separate compulsions, sets of feelings. I draw in a breath as I recognize the longing. It’s like Madelon is near, and I’m awash in old feelings. Madelon was strong and faithful, and made me laugh.
And Mia… makes me want to protect her, wipe away every purse of those full lips, and pummel any man stupid enough to get between us.
My legs go weak and I slump beside her. I fight the panic. “I — I don’t understand.”
I recognize, with a sickening, building horror, the familiarity of the draw. Know where I’ve felt it before. I imagine Madelon’s face transposed over Mia’s.
“How is this possible? Am I mad?”
Mia’s heartbeat accelerates through her neck, fast and hard. Sweat beads her brow.
Her tawny eyes bat and then open, scared and confused. My mouth drops open, and I try to retract my hand. Both her hands grasp mine, holding me close to her scar.
“No, don’t, please. I don’t want you to ignore me again, Morgan.”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
Tears brim and glisten. “You… push me away. The mask melts sometimes when you’re near me, but you put it back on. Leave it off. Can’t you leave it off? And trust me?” Her face flushes and she closes her eyes, embarrassed. She’s so shy.
I glance at the scar, but Mia’s face pulls me away from the old feelings. “I—I…”
My hands cup her chin, and I press my lips against hers. Fire rips through my core, my hands fly into her hair, pulling her tight against me.
The silver bell above the door tinkles, and Beth gasps — slamming the door shut before the tour group behind her.
She sticks her head back in. “For heaven’s sake get off the floor before you give one of these grannies a heart attack!”
****
Mia
Two hours later
Am I ready for this, an outside tour? My legs are still wobbly from the collapse. Morgan slipped out while Beth peppered me with questions like ‘Are you alright? Maybe you should go home?’
I estimate the distance of the tour; my eyes flick from Orchard House, to the barn, to the cannons. I’m still easily winded. My stomach twists as I picture myself doubled over, wheezing, as the group waits for me to recover.
Beth thinks I’m ready. I whisper to myself, “You can do this.”
My heart is lambasting my chest as I take stock of the tour group assembled before me.
Older, elegant ladies — check. They will be no problem. If anything, they’ll be mothering me with the slightest sign of illness.
Young couple — check. They steal a kiss and stare into at one another’s eyes. I chuckle. They aren’t going to hear a word I say.
A mom with three kids — check. Homeschoolers?
The two school-aged kids, a boy and girl, stare at the barn, infatuated with the horses.
Toddler little brother. Uh-oh. He could be trouble. The mom grabs his wrist as he fidgets and wails and drops to the ground, where he hangs like a writhing little firecracker.
I smooth my dress down and glance around the barnyard. Where is Morgan? And why is he constantly on my mind?
I raise my voice over the toddler. “Are we ready to begin?”
A chorus of enthusiastic ‘yeses’ reply.
I speak into my megaphone, walking backward, avoiding the gopher-holes. “The farm is self-sustaining. Most of the food served in the restaurant is grown right here.” I gesture to what’s left of the crops.
I turn toward the ancient, iron beast beside the barn. “In a few minutes we will have a cannon demonstration.”
If Morgan ever decides to stop being a crytpic, he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not, moron and show up.
“Jimmy!” The mom’s shriek freezes my blood.
The toddler breaks free of the group; his chubby legs working fast and furious as he darts across the field. Toward the stream.
Oh, laws. The whispers ignite.
The mom sprints after him, mud surreally splattering her flowered skirt. She trips on its folds. The little boy bolts faster, giggling.
His brother and sister run after him. I turn, tearing across the grass.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
Please, just let me run. Just this once. Please!
Little cherub cheeks grinning. Tiny tennis shoes. The creek is small, but fast. Very fast. He will drown.
The rush of the water amplifies, drowning out the mother’s screaming; the old ladies’ panic.
The young girl stops, stooping to help her mother. “Go, forget me! Save him!” she wails.
The boy and girl run faster. Too far. He’s too far. There’s no way.
An electric shock of rushing adrenaline infuses my legs. For a few glorious seconds, I sprint.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
“No!”
I’m gasping. My legs col
lapse. Like a switch flicked off. The grass rises in slow-motion as my head collides with the ground.
Hoofbeats. I hear their vibration, my ear pressed against the ground. I command my legs to stand and wobble upright, hobbling again toward the boy.
Inside, the whispers scream.
Morgan. On Beth’s white horse. “Ha!”
He is on the other side of the creek, barreling toward the water.
The white horse sprints forward and Morgan leans into him, their motions becoming one. His wide, wild eyes match the emotions ripping through my heart.
The mother is wailing, running. Every step she takes distorts her cries; they’re ragged and clipped, like a mother goat’s bleats.
The toddler looks over his shoulder, running full-tilt. He reaches the water.
His tiny faces screws up in horror for a terrible second as his feet leave the bank.
On the other side, hooves leave the ground; Morgan lurches sideways, fingers outstretched for the boy’s suspenders.
He swipes but misses.
Time surreally lengthens. The boy’s feet, trunk, and head slip beneath the water in slow motion. I hear the mother’s wail as if far away.
Morgan slips off the saddle, splashing into the water, instantly diving into the rushing current. The horse lands on the other side, shaking his head.
For a horrible moment, all is still.
We all reach the bank, panting.
The mother is dumbstruck; her mouth moves without issuing a sound.
The older sister’s voice breaks. “Mommy?” Her daughter’s voice breaks her trance. The woman lurches forward, stumbling down the riverbank.
A huge gasp and a splash erupt.
Morgan breaks out of the water; a coughing and spluttering toddler clutching his neck.
Morgan battles the current, cutting across the swift-moving water toward us. The boy coughs, vomiting up a gush of water. His tiny chest gasps as he fills his lungs with air and he wails in earnest.
Morgan’s eyes flick to mine. They’re bloodshot, but calm.
“Oh, my boy. Oh, my boy. Thank you so much—” The woman wades into the water, arms outstretched.
“Morgan.” I fill in her pause.
“Morgan.” She repeats his name like an embrace. He gently deposits the screaming boy in her arms, then supports her till she’s firmly on the creek bank.