Striking

by Lila Felix

  “We went to high school together—wait, are you jealous again? You’re making a habit of this.”

  She snorted across the table, “Whatever, you’re like a single woman magnet. I’m surprised some of them haven’t commissioned an iron baby crib just to be able to say your name and baby in the same sentence.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I shrugged.

  Say it. Say something—anything that will lead me to tell you why it doesn’t matter. Screw it, I’m gonna tell her why no matter what.

  “Why—because you’re a terminal bachelor?”

  “No, because it seems I only have eyes for one woman.”

  Let’s see what you do with that California Queen.

  But she didn’t say anything—nothing.

  Two could play at this game.

  Our food was delivered and I threatened my eyes that if they stared at her while she ate, I’d cut them. They didn’t listen. She bit into the burger and rolled her eyes back in her head and it made me bite down on my own lip, wishing to one day cause that same reaction in her.

  She mmmed and moaned through the whole meal and I thought at one point I’d have to remove her for public lewd acts—or sounds.

  She finally finished, fifteen minutes after I’d polished off the last of my onion rings.

  “That was so good,” she wiped her mouth.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. You up for one more job?”

  She tried very hard not to show her disappointment, “Yeah, ok.”

  I slipped on my aviators and she pulled down her big ladybug looking sunglasses from atop her head and after two solid minutes of primping in the pull down mirror in my truck, we were off. She was staring out the window again and I now knew this was the look of a woman with something on her mind.

  “Cami, you can tell me anything. I hope you know that.”

  She nodded once, curtly and I dropped the subject. This girl was like a lone wolf, you had to let her come to you or the connection would never be made.

  After the long drive home, I turned into the winding driveway.

  “Maybe, um, I think I changed my mind,” she said it so quietly, I barely heard her.

  “About what?”

  “Friends.”

  I chuckled, “Already? We’ve only been friends for one day. I ruined it in one day? That must be a record or something.”

  She didn’t say anything and with her silence my hope for something more wilted and decayed in me. I didn’t even deserve to be her friend. It’s funny how in a few seconds’ time, the mind can run through thousands of scenarios and if you’ve already come to a conclusion, all scenarios revolve around it. And for the few minutes it took from her non-speaking response until I came to a stop at the head of the driveway, my brain reeled through them all with one conclusion—Cami and I were finished before we’d even gotten started. And then it’s amazing how one sentence can refute it all with a breath.

  “I want to be more than your friend, Stockton.”

  I opened my mouth and a clamorous bang of metal came from me—no, wait, it was my nosey sister banging on the hood of the truck, vying for Cami’s attention.

  “I guess we’ll talk later,” I replied, trying desperately not to hide my disappointment.

  Will was already jerking her from the truck to do her bidding, “Wait, Stockton, I thought you said you had another job for me.”

  I smiled and pointed to Will, “She’s right there. She’s a job all by herself. Have fun.”

  I watched them talk about something, making plans and then they were off in the Jeep and out of my sight but not before seeing her looking back at me in the side mirror.

  I missed her already.

  I’m such a damned sap.

  Who stabbed me with a needle full of –female stuff?

  Ugh.

  I went inside and made a pot of spaghetti. I knew how to make spaghetti—it was one of the few dishes I’d perfected. I let the sauce stay on simmer and proceeded to complete Will’s chores for the second day in a row. I went back inside and gathered my laundry and put one load on to wash. I kept watch on the clock while I swept, hoping we’d get a chance to continue our conversation before she had to go home.

  Sometime later, I heard the truck pull up. I peered out the window to see Cami scramble from our truck to the Macon’s truck and flee the scene like she’d kidnapped a toddler. Will came in and I pummeled her for answers, “What happened?”

  She snorted, “Mrs. Macon called and not so gently reminded her that just because she was with you all day didn’t mean she could skip out on dinner.”

  “Did you have fun,” I asked her.

  “I did. She’s really great, Stock.”

  “I know. I made spaghetti.”

  We ate by ourselves and my sister, who usually spoke her mind, especially when we were alone, spent the meal sighing.

  I threw my fork and it clanged on the plate, getting her attention, “What’s—with—the –sighing?”

  “I shouldn’t say anything.”

  “Is this about Cami?”

  She nodded.

  “What has happened,” I feigned crying, “I’m your brother. What happened to family first, man?”

  She laughed, “Ok, ok, I just—Cami likes you like,” she looked to the ceiling, “wants to jump your bones, likes you.”

  “Willa Hayes Wright, don’t let me hear that come from your mouth again, young lady,” my father had somehow possessed my body and spoke through me.

  “Yes, Sir. But she was only supposed to come here for a few months. You don’t have time to waste Stockton. You and I both know that time is this family’s enemy. So if you’re gonna go after her, you need to start soon before it’s too late.”

  We finished eating and cleaned up together. I could see the wheels turning in her head and I had a feeling I was about to be given a lesson from a seventeen year old.

  Which wasn’t embarrassing at all.

  Maybe just a sliver.

  I was tempted to crawl into the cabinet under the sink and drink bleach.

  But I knew a thing or two.

  Ok, just the one thing.

  “What’s the plan?” She asked.

  I flopped the dish towel on the counter, “Do you remember the stories about Gram and Gramps not letting Dad see Mom?”

  “Yeah, they were practically drilled into us.”

  “Remember, he used to sneak over there and they would stay up all night talking? They built something solid there that had nothing to do with lust or anything else—it was pure love. At Mom’s window they formed a trust that went beyond the physical. And that’s what she needs. Cami’s got the attention of every man’s eyes anywhere she goes. She needs more than that. She needs someone to care about her and someone to trust.”

  I was talking to myself more than Will but I saw her swipe at her face with her own dishtowel. I could take a lot of things, but Willa crying wasn’t one of them.

  “Come here,” I pulled her to me.

  “I’m sorry,” she whimpered against my side.

  “What for?”

  “I told Cami the other day that you’d be lucky to have her. But that’s only half true. She’d be lucky to have you too.”

  “Thanks, Will.” I kissed the top of her head, like my father used to and she turned out of my hold and made her way down the hall.

  “Hey, Stock?”

  I looked over my shoulder to see her still in sight, “Yeah?”

  “Take a jacket, it’s supposed to be cold tonight.” And with that and a wink, she left.

  I finished cleaning up and did three more loads of laundry until the clock struck ten and I knew without a doubt that the Macon’s were out cold. This was my chance. I checked on Willa once, who was out like a light, grabbed my jacket and one of those God forsaken barstools from the shop and threw it into the back of my truck.

  The self-doubt poured over me, puddled around my feet, gathered itself back up and poured over me again. What if I was be
ing too old fashioned? What if she was asleep? What if I was just confirming my hillbilly status by pulling this stunt? What if I was a blithering idiot?

  But in no time I was there and as I approached the house I shut my lights off and situated the truck for an easy getaway. There were only two bedrooms in the Macon’s log cabin and I knew, without a doubt, which window belonged to Cami.

  I pulled the stool from the truck bed and hunched over, stalking towards the window of my desire. I propped the stool outside of her window and took one long breath for good luck. Then I knocked on the screen, hoping she could hear me without alerting her keepers.

  Please, let this work.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cami

  I had just brushed my teeth and washed my face when a knock on my window had me jumping out of my skin and biting back a horror-movie worthy scream. My heart hammered in my chest and goose bumps rose all over my almost naked skin.

  Then the knock sounded again, gentler this time and in a rhythmic pattern.

  And even though I sucked in a painful pull of air I knew two things. One, there was a person on the other side of my window-I highly doubted Sasquatch would politely knock on my window if he was coming to drag my body back to his cave and enslave me. And two, I’d never seen an episode of CSI: Miami in which the serial killer knocked first before filleting and then gutting their victims. Well, unless it was someone they knew and it was a crime of passion. Thankfully, I didn’t know anyone down here that would want me dead.

  At least, I didn’t think so.

  With careful, slow, stealth like ninja moves, I lifted the shade over the window and pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t scream needlessly. Stockton’s shaved head flickered in the moonlight and I let out a whoosh of relief.

  Then I realized I wasn’t wearing any pants.

  I slammed the shade down and leapt over to the dresser that came with the room. I yanked out some shorts and stumbled into them before sprinting back to the window. By the time I lifted the shade again, Stockton was halfway across the yard-walking back to his truck.

  What was that silly boy doing?

  I yanked up the window as noiselessly as I could and did my best whisper call. “Psst. Stockton! Psst!”

  He glanced over his shoulder and shot me a confused look I could only make out because of the clear night and bright moonlight.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered at me.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered back on a laugh.

  He sauntered back over to me, carrying one of those bar stools from his work shop on his shoulder like it was a two by four and he was a lumberjack. His enlarged left bicep was flexed in that position, and I closed my mouth to keep drool from running down my chin. How could something as odd as an extra-large arm muscle be so sexy? That just didn’t seem fair.

  When he reached my window he plopped the stool down and then fell back on it with a kind of manly grace. He gave me a lopsided grin and seemed to be settling in for the long hall.

  “I thought you took one look at me and ran for the hills,” he drawled.

  “I took one look at you and realized I was half naked.” I recognized I was still kind of naked and crossed my arms over my chest. What was he thinking just showing up here? A girl needed time to prepare for these kinds of events. I wasn’t even wearing any makeup.

  Stockton’s eyes heated to deep, endless pools of something that made me all shivery and hyperaware of everything he was doing. “Getting ready for bed?”

  “Mmmhmmm,” I nodded. “Some of us work in the morning.”

  “I work in the mornings, well, every morning but Tuesday morning,” his grin grew at my teasing. It wasn’t that long ago he’d accused me of not knowing what work was.

  “Thanks again for today,” I said seriously. “It’s good to get some perspective. It will help me reach my goal.”

  “And what’s your goal, Cami?” Stockton asked in a whisper, like he was afraid of the answer.

  “To grow up,” I answered honestly. I hated being honest with him, I hated how vulnerable it made me, how fragile I felt. But with Stockton, there wasn’t a choice. For the first time in my life, this boy made me want to be clear about who I was, made me want to be better than who I was. “I’m trying to grow up and find purpose in life. You know, all that existential bullshit.”

  “How old are you?” Stockton asked as if he were trying to piece me together.

  “I’m twenty-one,” I sighed. “I know I don’t need every part of my life planned or mapped out, but I need to at least have a five year plan or something. It might be hard for you to believe, but I was kind of a hot mess back in Cali. My parents exiled me to live with sheep because I was too wild for Hollywood. In the land where most high school graduates have already been through a twelve step program, I was too wild.” I shook my head, hardly believing the truth of my words. I had been way out of control. I could see that now. It took a sheep farm and Stockton Wright, but finally I had a little bit of perspective.

  “What happened?” Stockton asked, leaning forward on his stool.

  He listened in a way no other person in my life had ever listened to me-like he actually cared about what I had to say. He was taking the time to focus completely on me and my emotions were so stirred up they didn’t know what to feel-there was some shame and a good bit of humiliation because I did not want to tell him anything about the mess I left back home, but there was some respect, awe and value mixed in there too. I felt cherished by his attentiveness, treasured. My heart swelled in response, until it felt too big for my chest. I rubbed at the unfamiliar feeling and ignored the prickling of hot tears just threatening to spill over.

  I pulled over my desk chair and then explained, “I pushed every boundary I could. I was reckless and stupid. I was partying, and drinking too much. There were some drugs involved, but thankfully they never got out of control. The final straw was grand theft auto and destruction of public property.”

  “What?” he choked.

  I smiled, “It sounds worse than it was. The stolen car was out of self-defense. I ended up on a bad date, and it was his car. I just wanted out of there. But then I drove drunk and crashed it into my mom’s storefront. It was stupid, careless and I’m realizing now how lucky I am because nobody got hurt. Well, except for me, but those were minor injuries. It could have been so much worse.” My stomach lurched as all the potential consequences for my actions began to set in. How could I have been so stupid?

  Stockton sat there stunned for a few minutes, truly at a loss for words. I searched desperately for a way to console him, to prove-even though it had only been a short time-I wasn’t that girl anymore. But there wasn’t anything to say. I needed to let him come up with his own conclusions about me. I needed to let him decide if I was worth it.

  I was tired of trying to gain the approval of people who didn’t even see me.

  “Did he hurt you?” he finally asked in a growly voice.

  So many people that actually had hurt me-repeatedly- were spinning through my head, I felt confused. I paused, but then asked, “Who?”

  “The guy on your date. The one whose car you stole. Did he hurt you?” His eyes locked with mine and the raw intensity in them actually unnerved me.

  “Um, no,” I quickly assured him. “I took his car before there was any real damage.”

  “I don’t condone anything you’ve done,” Stockton snarled. “But there are no words to describe how lucky he is that he didn’t touch you.”

  “I agree,” I sighed. We sat there silently for a couple minutes, just at peace with being near each other. Finally I found the courage to ask, “Do you think I’m a terrible person?”

  He didn’t immediately answer, and when he did it was with real honesty, the kind that rang loudly in my ears and settled truth in the marrow of my bones.

  “Cami, some of the things you’ve done have been horrible. But you, in no way, are a terrible person. I’ve seen the good in you, the beauty in yo
u. And I would never think that about you, not in a million years.”

  A tear slid out before I could force it back. I swiped at it with a quick hand, but I couldn’t stop the need to sniffle.

  “Thank you, Stockton,” I whispered. “I needed to hear that.”

  “It’s all true. Some of us have been grownups for a long time. I know true beauty when I see it.”

  Because I had been so honest with him, because I felt raw and exposed and laid out for him to see, I asked, “What were you doing? You know, before you had to be a grownup?” From our talk earlier, I knew that Stockton had been away at college before his parents died in that fire. I wondered what kind of young adult he was before he was force fed responsibility and maturity-if he had ever been wild, or if he was always this committed, steadfast man in front of me. He shared some earlier, but now I wanted all the details, every single last element that made him into the man he was today. I was dying of curiosity, and could have easily asked Will sometime. But I knew that our relationship needed to happen organically or Stockton would bolt. I couldn’t push him into anything and I didn’t really want to. For the first time, maybe ever, I was Ok with being patient.

  He hesitated and I literally watched him grow uncomfortable in front of me. He was shutting down in grids, pulling into himself and closing off to me entirely. I started to get the sick, anxious feeling I’d asked the worst question I could have. Finally he said, “Following some stupid idea of a dream.”

  His whole countenance changed with those words. He stopped being the man I knew, the man I’d come to care about and transformed back to the closed off stone wall I met in church.

  “That bad?” I asked on a short laugh. I had no idea how to talk to Stockton like this, or how to make him come back to me.

  “It’s just,” he started, and then dropped his gaze to the hands in his lap. “I had this idea of life, this plan I was determined to follow. But it was selfish,” he cleared his throat and lifted his gaze to meet mine again. The most agonizing kind of pain flashed in their minty green depths, they were black in the night air but I had their color forever memorized and I could just imagine how dark that color was now. In that moment I hated the screen separating us. I wanted nothing more than to crawl onto his lap and wrap my arms around him. I wanted to hold him until I absorbed every last ounce of his pain, until he was the man that took care of people in need and raised his little sister and gave me-perpetual screw up and town outcast-his undivided attention. Eventually he mumbled, “I was selfish.”