Curveball

by Teresa Michaels

  “I can definitely understand the appeal. I love warmer weather but I’d miss the seasons too much,” she tells me.

  “Me too,” I agree.

  “I do business with a lot of companies out there. Where did she work?”

  “She did an internship at a start-up and then I got the endorsement deal with the Airline. I found out that the software firm they acquired was looking for someone to work with their security protocols. You know, all the behind the scenes calculations used to recognize your fingerprint and bring up your info…well, that and protect the information. Anyway, I helped her get in the door but she made sure she proved that she earned it.”

  Breanne’s eyebrows pull together and she looks at the ground. “What is it?” I ask.

  “It’s nothing,” she insists, but I can practically see her mind racing.

  “You sure? You look a little off,” I press.

  “It’s just that the last deal Mark was working on before he died was with that same software firm. They were in discussions and for some reason the firm decided to go with another venture capitalist for backing. It was before they were associated with the airline. It’s just…” she trails off.

  “Like six-degrees of Innovation Airways?” I say.

  “Something like that,” she shrugs, giving me a faint smile. I break my gaze and walk further into the barn. “Drew, I’m sure she knew how much you loved her.”

  “Maybe, but I should have done more.”

  “Why do you think that?” she asks.

  I think back to our last conversation. “Alexis had been trying to get me to come visit for weeks but I couldn’t because of my schedule. I had a small break come up but I had been traveling a lot so I asked her to call in sick for the next two days so I could fly her to Boston for a long weekend. She was really excited and started making all kinds of plans. She texted me before she left for the airport, saying she couldn’t wait to see me, that she needed to talk about stuff at work and that she’d see me soon.”

  “It sounds like you were trying to make time,” she says, but I barely notice and keep talking. I haven’t talked to anyone about her in so long. I’ve kept this in my head and just need to get it out.

  “I wish she had told me what was going on sooner. Thinking back, I should have known that she was having trouble adjusting to being on her own. And I should have made time for her and whatever office drama had her upset. I mean I assumed it was over a guy, but I had gotten her the job and if things weren’t going well I should have been able to help her fix it.”

  “I doubt she expected you to solve her problem. I bet it helped just having someone to talk to,” Breanne offers.

  “I’m sure it would have, but I never got the chance. She was driving to the airport to come see me when she was killed in a hit and run accident,” I explain.

  I glance at Breanne who gasps before frowning and staring at me with sorrowful, empathetic eyes. She steps forward with her arms outstretched to comfort me, but I shake my head and with my left hand grab hers and give it a squeeze before walking past her. I need a minute to myself to clear my head.

  Anyone else would likely follow me and try to console me; not Breanne. If anything beneficial has come from confiding in each other about our separate tragedies and being in our current situation, it’s that we recognize the need to be alone. Right now I’m too physically and emotionally drained. Breaking down about Alexis won’t do me any good and I know Breanne gets it.

  When I’ve pulled myself together I walk back to her where she is sitting at the bottom of a ladder. “Want to go upstairs and get settled?” she asks.

  I quirk my head to the side and raise my eyebrows, “I thought you’d never ask,” I reply seductively.

  The corners of her mouth twitch up. She bends to grab her purse and pauses for a moment when she’s upright, staring at nothing but deep in thought. And then, like a switch was flipped she looks back at me, her eyes blazing wickedly. In turn I give her a quizzical look. She slides her purse on her shoulder, turns to go up the ladder, then hesitates long enough to throw me a seductive gaze before she saunters up the ladder slowly, exaggerating each step.

  I know she’s playing, but I am seriously enjoying the view. As she climbs upward I can’t help thinking of how bad I want to hold her, run my hands down her back and clench her backside that she’s purposely taunting me with. She is the perfect distraction.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hunger Pains

  Breanne

  Famished. Starving. Ravenous. These words don’t come close to describing the depth of my hunger.

  Once upstairs, Drew and I get settled in a corner of the barn where bales of hay are stacked like cinderblocks. This is where we split our last bag of chips and half bottle of water, and then silently chew on gum to squelch the gnawing in our stomachs. This is all we have left; gum. If we don’t find help tomorrow I will resort to eating leaves or whatever else is around. Maybe in the daylight we’ll luck out and see crops in the fields that are ready for harvest, I tell myself, trying to remain hopeful.

  I briefly wonder what my kids are eating for dinner. But the thought is too depressing on so many fronts that I turn my attention on Drew who is fumbling with his splint. Taking his hand, I inspect my less than handy work and agree that it’s fine to remove it. Since he’s struggling with the knots I help him untie the remnants of my sleeves while he promises to replace my shirt when we get back. I tell him it’s really not necessary but he insists so I give in. I even tell him he can buy me a few if it makes him feel better. As we debate about what he’ll buy me and how much, I notice that he’s no longer dripping sweat. But when I feel his forehead I’m positive that he still has a fever. Soon the medicine will wear off and we don’t have any more of that either.

  Not sure what else I can do to help reduce his fever I decide to clean the wound again. I add more ointment and put a fresh bandage on it. I have no idea if this will help but I guess it can’t hurt. From what he tells me, and based on his reaction the pain is slightly less that it was a few hours ago, but the tingling is the same. I secretly wonder if the tingling is a sign of nerve damage. After what he shared with me earlier, about his fear over his career ending, no good will come from sharing my curiosity.

  “How does it look, doc?” he asks.

  “I think you’re going to be fine,” I say, slightly exaggerating the truth.

  As I put the ointment away I can feel his stare. I hope my face didn’t betray me, exposing my true thoughts about his prognosis. I’m not a very good liar and right now I don’t have the energy to try, so I quickly start thinking about sleep and set up our bed for the night.

  Once we’re settled, lying side by side under the blanket, he asks, “What are you thinking about?”

  “That I could probably give into cannibalism if the circumstances were right,” I respond flatly, and my stomach growls as if on cue.

  “Thanks for the heads up,” he replies, scooting a few inches away from me and taking the blanket with him.

  This is what’s so great about Drew. He has such a quick wit about him. He can easily turn any situation into one that’s not merely tolerable, but enjoyable. Once this mess is behind us, I really hope we remain in contact. I hadn’t noticed until now how lonely I’ve become. After years of preferring solitude to avoid reality, it’s as if I’ve found myself again and I know I owe much of that to him. It feels good to laugh and confide in someone; it feels good to have a true friend.

  “Your going to wake up to me drawing a butchers diagram of the different cuts of meat on your body with my eyeliner,” I tell him and yank the blanket back. “Don’t be scared, I’ll be gentle.”

  “I’m not scared, just thinking how unfair it is since you don’t have much meat. Not that I would be capable of such savagery, but you wouldn’t make a very good meal,” he says and we both chuckle. “So, what’s the first thing you’re going to eat when we get home?” he asks, rolling on his side to face me.

&nb
sp; “I’m going to eat an entire pizza by myself” I say, my mouth salivating at the thought. Gazing at the wooden beams that make up the ceiling I imagine that the imperfections in the wood are pieces of pepperoni. “Not just any pizza. Pizza from Sal’s in the North End. I’m going to eat that and drink coffee with Boston Cream Pie or pastries from Mike’s.”

  “Mmmm. That does sound good. But since you apparently won’t be sharing, I think I’ll go for a big, juicy steak with cheddar cheese mashed potatoes. Oh, and a huge glass of chocolate milk,” he says.

  “A huge glass of chocolate milk? What are you, five years old?” I snort, thinking how that’s what my kids would want.

  “Only at heart,” he replies. “I assure you, I am all man.”

  He winks and I make a ‘yeah right’ face, though I know he speaks the truth. I didn’t say anything earlier because I didn’t want to embarrass him or myself, but after he woke up and I was laying on him, I felt just how much of a man he is.

  “You never told me, how old are you?” I ask, rolling on my side to face him.

  “Does it really matter?” he replies as if he’s bothered by my question.

  “I’m just curious,” I admit.

  He sighs and collapses onto his back. “I’m a very mature twenty-eight year old. Hardly a child,” he says and turns to face me again. “Are you going to share?” he asks.

  “A lady never reveals her age,” I boast.

  “So then why aren’t you telling me?” he teases.

  “Thirty-five. I’m a very youthful thirty-five year old,” I confess.

  “That old, huh? No wonder you fall asleep so early,” he says, and I jab him in the ribs.

  Speaking of sleep, I am exhausted so I close my eyes and try to fall asleep. But instead of sleep, the faces of the other passengers haunt me every time I close my eyes. Earlier today, when Drew was unconscious, I did think about my family and all the other things I said I did. But the same images that haunt me now, haunted my waking thoughts then, as if their last moments were burned into my corneas. My own personal horror show, I think. A shiver runs through me and I think I may gasp because I feel Drew stir.

  “Are you cold?” he asks, giving me more of the blanket.

  “No, I’m fine,” I reply. “Drew, do you think we’ll get over seeing all those people die,” I ask, remembering not just their faces, but the few bodies that flew threw the air because they weren’t strapped in.

  He doesn’t respond right away and I regret starting this conversation. I passed out and missed a lot of action, a lot of death. But Drew wasn’t that lucky. The images must be worse for him, which is why I didn’t bring it up earlier.

  “I hope so,” he says.

  “I don’t think that I can sleep,” I whisper.

  “You should try,” he encourages and rubs my arm, “if you have a nightmare, just wake me up.”

  “One of us should sleep.”

  “Ha! You think I’ll be able to sleep after that Hannibal Lectar confession you made? I just want to know, do you plan to use your tweezers or nail clippers?” he asks, cracking up and my tension starts to evaporate.

  But when the laughter passes, it’s replaced by anxiety and images of lifeless bodies. Silence stretches between us until I feel Drew shift.

  “Come here,” he says, scooting towards me and scooping my head into his good arm so it rests in the crook of his elbow. Is it possible that he felt my anxiety? “Close your eyes,” he commands. “Imagine that you’re on the beach, watching the sunset after tucking your kids safely into bed,” he whispers in my ear. “Your belly is full from eating all that pizza and now you are sitting in a chair, drinking a nice glass of wine with your toes dipped in the water as the waved slide up and down the bottom of your legs.”

  I do as he says. I close my eyes and envision lounging in a beach chair on the edge of the ocean, with my heels buried in the sand and waves lapping at my toes after I’ve finished an obscenely large meal with my kids, just as Drew described. The warmth from his arms and the serene imagery he’s painted with his words soothe me.

  “Shhh,” he continues as I drift into peaceful sleep.

  That night, my dream is so vivid I could almost swear it’s real. All of my senses are in overdrive, so much so that I’m almost overwhelmed. And for once, I am not frantically chasing something, and I’m not haunted by the dead. I am casually walking on a beach of white sand so soft it massages my feet with every step before disappearing to it’s former state, seemingly untouched, leaving no footprints behind.

  The moon’s reflection is as equally breathtaking as the real thing, only further magnified in it’s beauty by the countless stars illuminating the sky brought to life by the tranquil waves they dance across. A gentle breeze moves in from the water and sweeps against my skin, causing my hair and the nearly weightless material of my sapphire satin nightgown to mimic the rolling waves.

  Barely audible over the sound of the rushing waves, I hear my name being called from a familiar voice that causes butterflies to stir in belly. Smiling with pure joy, I take a deep appreciative breath before making my way up the stairs to the villa.

  Inside, the moist salty air swirls beneath the ceiling fan and combines with the heady scent of his cologne. I scan the room only to find it’s empty and a twinge of disappointment travels through me. But it’s short-lived, as soon as I hear the sound of his voice calling my name again. Still unseen, I can at least tell he’s closer in proximity than before sending my pulse racing. I’m about to call his name when the elegant, flowing, cream-colored fabric that envelops the mahogany four-poster bed parts just enough for me to see his shadow. I bite my lower lip to conceal my elation, collect my nightgown above my knees and after three long strides I lunge through the canopy drapes, into his arms.

  His powerful biceps pull me tight against his chest, protectively. With my body pressed to his I can make out the texture of each individual muscle that defines his finely chiseled chest and abdomen. His cheek, which is flush with mine, is warm and sparingly covered with facial hair that is surprisingly soft to the touch. Our arms and legs are like vines and through the pads of my foot and hand I feel the contours in his back and calves. In a low husky voice he moans my name and reflexively I raise my hips to meet his only to hear him call my name again. Tossing my head back his lips take full advantage of my exposed neck and I dig my fingers into his back.

  A warm gust enters through an open door leading out to a balcony and lightly dances across my exposed skin; the few areas that aren’t blanketed by satin sheets or his body. He says my name again as his hand gently glides down my jaw, sweeping my neck, squeezing my shoulder for an instant before trailing down my arm, and stopping at my waist. His hand is motionless for what feels like an eternity. I gasp in anticipation, then frustration as he slightly pushes my hips away.

  “No,” I moan “this is my dream,” I explain before abruptly closing the gap by slamming my pelvis upward.

  I feel his mutual desire and get the forgotten familiarity of tightening in the pit of my stomach. This momentary satisfaction is destroyed by his hand, once again, pushing me away and creating distance between us.

  “Drew,” I practically beg.

  “Breanne,” he whispers. “This isn’t a dream,” he says slowly, annunciating each and every syllable. He’s right, this isn’t a dream, this is far better than any dream I’ve had before but I don’t know how else to describe it.

  “Hey,” he says again, this time shaking me a little harder and I feel my fantasy slip away. “Wake up.”

  Startled by his words, my eyes flash open. The darkness clouds my vision but I am fully aware that this is not the bedroom of a villa, and there are no satin sheets. However, I am lightly covered in perspiration and panting short, heavy, uneven breathes. What the hell was that, I think to myself, trying to get clarity. Shit, I was dreaming. Was I talking? What did he hear?