Drowning: An Angsty Standalone

by Marni Mann

  “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  Shrugging like it’s no big deal, he says, “It’s just coffee.”

  “It was just a hat, too.”

  “Do you get defensive about everything?”

  “Are you pushy about everything?”

  After what I’ve put up with, I have every right to be defensive. He has no idea what it’s like to beg someone not to kill you, to let you live even though you might be better off dead.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. It doesn’t really matter.

  Digging in my pocket, I pull out a crumpled five-dollar bill and hand it to him. The second he sees it, he shakes his head.

  “Please take it.”

  “I asked you a question,” he says as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Didn’t ask for money.”

  “I’d love some coffee. Thank you.”

  “Just watch my stuff while I’m gone, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  As soon as he’s out of sight, I stare at his duffel bag, wondering why it’s covered in tape. Each tattered and faded piece of material makes me wish he had taken my money. If he can’t afford a decent piece of luggage, he probably needs every cent in his pocket.

  Especially if he’s on the run, too.

  Clay

  I pay for the two coffees at the refreshment station, and then I fill my pockets with sugar, artificial sweetener, and those little tubs of creamer, not knowing what she likes.

  It’s she in my head since she hasn’t told me her name. That probably has something to do with the fact that I haven’t told her mine. It’s better that way. No need to make things personal. Personal will only make me feel worse every time I think of her face.

  And that face—nah, fuck that. Anonymous works just fine.

  Depending on where she gets off, we only have a little time together, and then she’ll be exiting with a new hat and an empty cup. As for me, every so often when I take the train into Manhattan, I’ll think of the girl who has my hat and hope she hasn’t returned to him. And, after her bruises heal, I hope to hell she’ll never need the hat again.

  When I enter our car, our eyes connect, and she watches me walk down the aisle. One of her hands rests on the brim of the hat, pushing it down so that it lays low over her eyes. She needs ice. Shit, I wish she hadn’t refused it earlier. The color of the bruise tells me how fresh it is. The way she favors that side of her face when she speaks tells me how much it hurts her. The cold glass she presses her face against isn’t enough. She needs something to bring down the swelling and numb the ache.

  But she won’t listen to me.

  I’m a stranger—a man with two fists who can leave marks that are just as dark as the ones she has with lips that can abuse her ears.

  If I were her, I wouldn’t listen to me either.

  “Here you go,” I say, holding the coffee out in front of her.

  I’m so close to her, the arm of the chair rubs against my thigh. It’s too close because, now, I can smell the peachy scent of her shampoo, and I can feel the heat coming off her body.

  I like both.

  Much more than I should.

  But, now, I can also see the small little red veins that have burst inside the bruises, and I want to strangle the motherfucker who hurt her. I want to put my face in front of his and tell him to punch me instead. I want to show him what it feels like when someone fights back.

  I want to make sure he no longer has a fist to raise.

  She wraps her hand around the paper cup, and her fingers touch mine. When they do, I hear her take a shaky breath. I feel the tremble in her hand.

  I see the fear in her eyes.

  He hurt her worse than I thought, and those wounds aren’t just physical. Her anxiety goes far deeper than just fear.

  She watches my fingers, and I can almost hear the calculations in her head—how long it will take for my hand to reach her face, how many steps before she can get to the restroom or the door to the next car, how badly she can burn me with both cups of coffee.

  But she doesn’t have to protect herself with me. I’m just a guy delivering coffee, a guy who had a hat to give.

  A guy who isn’t all that different from her.

  We’re just running for different reasons.

  “Thanks,” she finally says, pulling the cup into her hand. “Are you sure I can’t pay you back for the coffee?”

  “No, we’re good.” I reach inside my pocket and hold out everything I grabbed from the refreshment car. “I wasn’t sure, so I took a few of each.”

  She gently picks a creamer off my palm and reads the label. “I’m a little disappointed. No pumpkin spice?”

  The corner of her mouth lifts, and she gives me a smile, but I can tell it pains her.

  “Shit, I knew I forgot something.” I smile back and move over to my seat, dropping the rest of the creamer and sugar next to me before sipping the hot black coffee.

  “Psst,” I hear from behind me.

  I glance over my shoulder, and she says, “It’s Andi, by the way.” She points at the logo on the hat. “I’m so glad this isn’t a Mets hat.”

  Now, I have a name.

  I don’t know why, but suddenly, the purple on her cheek looks even darker, the swelling even puffier.

  And that smile—I don’t want it to leave her face.

  “Clay.”

  I hate myself the second I say it. How the hell can I lie to those bruises? And so easily?

  “Really?” she asks.

  I turn, so I don’t have to look behind me. “Really what?”

  “You don’t look like a Clay.”

  “What do I look like?”

  Now, I’m the one who needs the hat. She mentioned before that I looked familiar. Anyone who watches the news could have seen my face, especially if they follow swimming. The beard helps mask it along with the longer hair that I’ve grown. My body has changed, too. My muscles are bulkier and thicker now that I’m not training and keeping myself as lean. But, overall, the changes aren’t that significant. And underneath all this hair and mass is still the athlete everyone hates.

  Seconds pass before she answers my question, “I know this sounds strange, but I feel like I know you somehow even though we’ve never met.”

  I hold the cup up to my lips. “That’s what I look like? That’s an awfully long name, Hat Girl.”

  “Keep talking. Maybe it’s your voice I recognize.”

  “Doubt it.”

  I’m surprised when she leans forward to get closer to me. “Why?”

  “Because I’m not from around here.”

  “Where are you from then?”

  I glance at the cup, which I set against the armrest. She wants to keep talking. She wants answers. Once she figures out who I am, I bet she won’t want to hear another word from me. She’ll glare at me with disgust, like everyone in Colorado did before I fled.

  She’ll probably throw the hat at me.

  Worse, she’ll probably spit out the coffee, thinking I poisoned it.

  For one fucking second, I want people to remember who I was before this whole mess started, not the person I am accused of being now.

  “I get it,” she says. “It’s not a simple question to answer. What if we start with something a little easier? What’s your last name, Hat Boy?”

  She thinks that’s easy?

  Andi

  The way Clay looks at me, I might think he was an escaped convict trying to leave the country. I’ve never seen someone so petrified to tell me their name before.

  I’m the one who should be careful.

  If I were smart, I would have made up a name and told Clay I was someone who didn’t even exist. After all, the passport in my pocket is physical proof that I’m no longer Andi Harper—even if I’m too scared to look at it.

  Camille took care of the legal proceedings, so it’s all legit, but it doesn’t mean reality has sunk in yet. As ready as I am
to say good-bye to my old life, I don’t hate Andi.

  Though scared of her own shadow, she took each breath with purpose because she knew she might be robbed of her next one.

  Andi never took anything for granted, and on her worst day, she would find a way to mask her pain long enough to put one foot in front of the other even if she had to crawl across the bathroom floor to do it.

  Now, as I sit here, about to morph into someone new, my biggest fear is letting her down. What happens when I wake up one day and forget about the person I used to be? Will that mean I came out stronger on the other side, or will I be worse off, living in some other nightmare?

  History has a habit of repeating itself, but I can’t leave a survivor, only to come back a coward.

  “Andi?” Clay asks as he slides toward the end of his seat.

  “Yeah, sorry.” I adjust the brim of the hat and blink my eyes a couple of times, praying I can keep it together. “So, what’s the big secret, Clay?”

  Clay stares at me, like really looks at me, his eyes searching every inch of my face. What he’s trying to find, I’m not sure. But it scares me a little because, while I’m tucked under this hat, I’m still exposed and completely vulnerable.

  Before he has a chance to answer, the older woman at the front of the car moseys her way toward us. With her cane in hand, she raises it in the air.

  Clay ducks and stands up before she has a chance to swing it at his head.

  “You’ll go to hell for what you’ve done,” she tells him.

  “He didn’t,” I try to tell her.

  No man should ever be accused of striking another woman when he’s innocent.

  She pauses at the sound of my voice, and if she hadn’t just tried to bust Clay over the head, I’d think this was the first time she got a good look at my face. The gasp that passes through her lips almost knocks her over.

  I scare her so bad, she can’t get away from me fast enough.

  Stunned but not surprised, I slide back into my seat. I’ve gotten all kinds of reactions, and they’ve happened enough that I should be used to them.

  I’m not.

  “You okay?” Clay asks as he picks sugar packets up from the floor.

  A small nod is all I have to give. It’s better than letting my tears fall. “It happens more than you’d think.”

  “The bruises or her reaction?”

  “Both.”

  Pained, Clay squeezes his eyes together and leans the back of his head against the window. “I’m sorry, Andi. Nobody should have to deal with that shit.”

  “Don’t be.” If I’ve learned anything, it’s that hollow apologies and empty promises hurt the most.

  There was a time I thought, if someone was that sorry after seeing my bruises, they’d grab Brooks by the balls and throw him off the top floor of the building. Instead, it was more comfortable for them to look away and pretend they never saw me at all.

  I spent so many nights imagining how life would be if I really were invisible. Surely, it had to be easier than facing judgment.

  But, as my injuries got worse and lasted longer, my methods of revenge would get darker, leading to more devious thoughts about a slow and painful death for Brooks.

  The satisfaction it brought would only last a couple of minutes. Nothing changed. Other than Camille, words were just words. Nobody was going to save me until I saved myself.

  Clay hasn’t said much, and now that I’ve probably freaked him out, I’ve given up the desire to find out his last name. I wouldn’t want someone pressing me for details I wasn’t willing to give. And, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter who he is.

  Not when he’s been so nice to me.

  Thinking some quiet time might be best, I open my purse and search for the newspaper I tucked inside. A copy of The New York Times is resting on top, and as soon as I pull it out, chills inch up my spine.

  On the front page, Clay’s eyes are staring back at me, and the headline is damning.

  I thought he was my friend, but he lied.

  That woman didn’t come back here to accuse him of beating me. She was here because she was sharing a train with someone who was a part of one of the biggest scandals in Olympic history.

  Unless he has a twin, Clay is Adrian Dillon.

  Clay

  I stare at the back of the head of the elderly woman who almost smacked me with her cane. Maybe I don’t deserve a smack, but the words she spit at me are completely justified.

  “You’ll go to hell for what you’ve done.”

  That’s probably true even though she doesn’t know what really went down. No one does, except for Ravi, my business partner. The people in this country only know the side of the story they saw on the news or read in the newspaper. If I’d heard what they did, I would feel the same way.

  The world needs someone to blame, and that person is me.

  I just wish that old woman hadn’t said all of that in front of Andi or raised her cane near Andi’s face. Enough things have swung in her direction recently. She doesn’t need more yelling, more abuse, more accusations.

  But, fuck, that isn’t even the worst of it. Andi defended me.

  She said, “He didn’t,” to the old woman.

  That’s because Andi doesn’t realize the woman was accusing me of the scandal, not beating Andi’s face.

  Andi had my back, and I lied to her.

  And, now, I know more than just her name. I know this isn’t the first time he’s hit her, that she has suffered blow after blow. I’m not sure why that affects me so much. Why I want to put a stop to it. Why I want to take her by the hand and get her to run with me. Why I want to show her how to hide. My strategy isn’t perfect. My long hair and beard didn’t trick that old lady, but for the most part, I’ve been able to stay anonymous.

  I know I could help Andi.

  She has a suitcase with her, and it’s larger than what you’d take for a weekend trip. She’s going somewhere.

  Is where away from him?

  Or worse, is she meeting him there?

  I wait for the elderly woman to grab her bag and walk to the next car before I turn around and say, “Hey, are you…” My voice trails off when I see that Andi’s holding The New York Times. I didn’t see the newspaper in her purse when I looked inside as I gave her the coffee. It must have been hidden in her suitcase.

  With the swim trials taking place this weekend, I’m sure there’s mention of the scandal. There’s probably even a picture of me.

  Has she skipped the article, uninterested or maybe not into sports, or is she reading it word for word?

  Does she know it’s me?

  She slowly looks up. “Am I what?” Her tone is different. It isn’t shaky. It isn’t full of fear. It’s confident. Even a little snide.

  Maybe the cane got to her worse than I thought.

  “Are you getting off in Philadelphia?” I ask. “Or before?”

  “Philly.”

  “Listen, I know this is none of my business, but why are you headed there?”

  She tilts the paper down, so I can see more of her face but not far enough that I can read what’s on the page.

  Even her expression has hardened. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I think I can help you.”

  “Help me?” She folds the paper and tucks it under her crossed arms. “You wouldn’t even tell me your last name, and now, suddenly, out of nowhere, you want to help me?”

  “There’s a reason for that. I just can’t get into it.”

  “Right. Sounds like there are lots of things you can’t get into.”

  “It’s just…” I stop.

  What the fuck can I say?

  I don’t want to lie more than I already have, so maybe it’s better not to say anything. But it sounds like something is bothering her, and I have a feeling it’s more than just her face.

  “If I ask you what you do for a living, will you tell me you do lots of things? Or, if I ask where you’re from, will y
ou say all over? How about where you went to college? Will you tell me a school out west that I’ve probably never heard of?”

  Out west. That has to be a coincidence.

  She knows nothing; she’s just taking a stab at it. Our location now is hugging the East Coast, so west of here is an easy guess.

  “I’m a bartender.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You should.” I point at the back of my hand where the slice across my skin is just starting to heal. “A beer cap cut me when I was loading up the cooler. As for college, I did go to a school out west that you have probably heard of because it’s big into sports…if you’re a sports fan.” I look at the ground because it takes some of the pressure off me. “I want to talk about it, Andi. But I can’t. That reason has nothing to do with you, and it has everything to do with me.”

  “Do you want to know something about me, Hat Boy?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I can’t stand liars. I lived with one for years. I trusted him. I listened to every word he said, every promise, and I thought that, when he raised his fist at me, it was going to be the last time. But look at me.” She drops one of her hands and points at her cheek. “Does this look like the last time? Can someone who loves me really have done this to me?”

  It feels like the elderly woman is back, and she took her cane and stabbed it right into my fucking ribs. Andi is opening herself up. She’s unzipping all the pain and suffering, letting it pour out between us.

  And I can’t even tell her my last name.

  I can’t tell her anything.

  I’m too ashamed. Embarrassed. I’m resentful toward my partner, the one person I trusted in this business. But my hurt looks nothing like hers. I don’t have physical marks. I don’t have memories that will haunt me for the rest of my life. I don’t cower at the sight of a hand.

  “Andi—”

  “Don’t bother. I already have all the answers I need.”

  She lifts the paper from underneath her tucked arm and lays it across her lap. On the right side of the page is a giant picture of my face. I’m wearing a swim cap. Dillon is printed across the side. I’m in my Olympic suit, and the photo was taken while I was standing on the block right before my two-hundred-meter butterfly, which earned me the gold in the last Summer Olympics. It’s not the photo that takes every bit of hope I’ve been feeling and sends it into the pit of my stomach where it’s eaten away by the acid sloshing around inside. It’s the heading across the page.