by Freya Barker
“Looks good.” I press my lips together and lean quasi-casually against the doorframe. From the slightly stormy look Ben sends me, I know he knows I’m laughing inside.
“We’re gonna have to send this back. There’s something wrong with it,” he grumbles, waving his hand around.
Atsa, who was sleeping in his bed in the great room earlier, saunters into the room, and nudges his big head against my knee.
“Need to go out, buddy?” From the enthusiastic wagging of his tail, I deduct he likes the sound of that. We haven’t really let him go off alone without one of us being outside.
“I’ll take him,” Ben offers, pushing up off the floor. “I need a break before I take this piece of shit apart and ship it back. Son of a bitch,” he swears under his breath as he walks out of the room, taking Atsa with him. Right before I hear the front door slam, he has one parting thought.
“But we’re keeping that goddamn mattress!”
Ben
“Let’s go, Atsa! I’m freezing.”
My face is numb with the wind coming up off the water. The temperature is well below freezing, and I can see the system they were warning about coming in from the west. Eight to ten inches of snow expected at higher elevations. A bit early, not even quite December, but anything is possible in the mountains.
“Atsa!”
Some stumbling in the underbrush, and out comes the dog, trying to drag half a tree trunk with him.
“Buddy, that’s not a stick.” I chuckle when he proudly drops the thing and stands over it, looking mighty pleased with himself. I have to stop him when he makes a move to drag it toward the house. “You’ve got toys inside. Sticks are for outside.”
We make it inside, me with a hand on his collar, while he struggles the entire way. I leave him whimpering at the door to kick off my boots and hang my coat. In the kitchen, I grab his bowl and fill it with kibble. In two seconds he’s there, his tongue lolling and the tree trunk forgotten.
With the dog inhaling his food, and my mind a little clearer, I head back to the bedroom, determined to have another go at that frame. Maybe I’ll have a quick peek at the instructions. I stop right inside the doorway.
“Come lie down with me.” Isla smiles and pats the mattress next to her. “Help me flatten it.” She’s talking about the mattress. The mattress that is on the bed, that now looks to be complete. I throw a quick glance around the room. Nothing left. Not a single piece of wood, screw, bolt, or nut is left on the floor.
Isla’s soft snicker draws my eyes back to her. On the bed, casually waving the instruction sheet between her fingers. Fuck me.
“I hate Ikea,” I mutter, as I drop down on the mattress beside her. “But I love you.” I reach over and pull her giggling on top.
“Ditto,” she says, propping her chin on her hands folded on my chest. “On the second part, because I love Ikea, too.”
“Whatever,” I gripe, lifting my head to kiss her.
“You’ve got a cold nose.”
“It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there,” I inform her, rolling her off me, and swinging my feet to the floor. “I should build a fire. Grab some of the smaller pieces for tonight. I’ll chop the rest tomorrow.”
“You know we still have about half a cord left behind the trailer, right?” she points out, lying on her side propped up on her elbow. “Chopped and ready to go.”
“Not the same,” I tell her. “I’ll need to chop a lot of wood to make up for my loss of manhood over this damn piece of Ikea crap.” The peal of her laughter follows me all the way to the front door.
-
I check one last time, to make sure I have the flue open, before I strike a match to the kindling. Sitting back on my heels, I watch as the small flame slowly licks around the dry wood.
In the end, I drove down to raid the woodpile behind the trailer anyway. Whatever I’d dragged from the woods was either too big or too wet.
The chassis of the old truck almost hit some of the dips and bumps on the gravel path of the campground, with the load of the snow blade in front and the wood piled in the back weighing it down. I’d need a wheelbarrow to haul the rest of the wood onto the small overhang by the door, but for now, I just brought what I could carry.
The dog lifts his head when a piece of dry wood snaps in the flames, only to drop it back to his paws, his eyes already closing again. Isla’s humming something in the kitchen as she throws together some dinner, and I grab an old paperback I found at the bottom of my duffel bag when I was unpacking.
Reading. For years it had been the only thing I could occasionally lose myself in, until it eventually became more about the exercise than it did the pleasure.
Now I want to read because I feel like it.
-
“Want to watch something on Netflix on my laptop?” Isla asks after dinner. Whatever Internet hookup she had at the trailer via HughesNet, works up here as well.
“Like what?” I ask, making room beside me on the couch.
“Have you ever seen The Shining?” she asks, spotting my old Stephen King book on the couch.
“If I have, I can’t remember. I’m pretty sure I’ve read the book,” I confess.
“Oh, you’d remember,” she says, smiling. “You’ll love it. It’s all about this snowed in place up in the mountains. Jack Nicholson? I love him.”
I listen to her rattle on about Jack Nicholson and what movies he was in, while she logs into her Netflix account on the laptop. From what I know about Jack Nicholson, he’s a bit of an asshole.
The movie is pretty good. Especially since it would seem Isla is a bit jumpy and thus is plastered against me during most of it.
Just as Jack is trying to prove he’s not a dull boy, by chopping down a bathroom door, a notification pops up on the screen, startling both of us. Without thinking, I reach over and click on it. Isla’s email opens automatically to the last received message. A grainy image with lettering in the top left hand corner, circled in red.
“That’s an ultrasound,” Isla says, leaning forward to look closer before I hear her suck in a sharp breath. “Of a baby,” she adds. “That woman’s name is on there.”
I lift the laptop from the table and enlarge the image. It takes me a second to process what I’m looking at, but when it sinks in, it feels like someone hit me upside the head with a sledgehammer.
Kaiser, Jahnee — 30, F DIAGNOSTIC CENTER
E31579-05-08-31GA:19w0d 31-08-2005
As if nothing happened.
I’d watched and waited, and then I’d finally got a break. I had to show her, she couldn’t claim what was already mine. But now it looks like the message didn’t get across.
Delivery trucks going up and coming down, but no sign of Brent, or that bitch. I don’t understand. He’d know by now it’s me. Surely there’s no way he can stay with her when he knows I’m out here. His.
He’s blinded by her.
Not even the decency to put drapes up. Cozy as can be, with her filthy hands all over him. The whole world can look in as she buries her face in his chest—MY chest—and he ruffles her hair with a smile.
That touch is mine.
That smile is mine.
Time to remind him for once and for all.
CHAPTER 17
Isla
I’ve never seen blood literally drain from someone’s face before.
Ben’s face is white, his jaw slack, and the sight of that scares me more than anything else ever has.
“Jesus,” he finally mutters, shoving the laptop aside and jumping to his feet. “Son of a motherfucking bitch!”
That’s a bit louder and has the dog up, growling low. When it is followed by a fist through the newly painted wall to the hallway, Atsa barks sharply.
“Ben! What the fuck?”
I rush up behind him, and just manage to grab his arm on the backswing, when he reels back to punch another hole in the wall. Jerking his arm free, he swings around, making me jump back with my hands up defensively.
Atsa slips between us, the hackles on his back up, and he’s whimpering in confusion. I take another step back for some breathing room. Not that I’m scared of Ben, but I’ve never seen him actually angry before. Even when those drug peddlers threatened to hurt me, he never lost control.
“Christ, Pixie,” he whispers in a pained voice, before looking down at the dog. I follow his gaze to his hand, which is dripping blood on the floor.
“You’re bleeding,” I point out the obvious, just because I don’t really know what else to say. I’m as confused as the dog is. One minutes we’re cuddled up on the couch, watching a movie, on our first night in the new house, all mellow and relaxed, and the next I’ve got a hole in the wall and a man who’s bleeding.
Since my brain can’t quite process it all, I do what seems like the first course of action: stop the bleeding. It’s at least something I can concentrate on while the world resets itself on its axis.
I nudge aside Atsa, grab Ben’s hand, and pull him along into our bathroom, where the first aid kit is shoved under the sink. Ben doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t resist either.
I turn on the tap and hold his hand under the stream of water. He must’ve hit a stud or something, because a nice deep slice runs along the back of his middle finger and hand.
“You’re gonna need some stitches,” I tell him softly, looking up in the mirror to his reflection behind me. Turmoil, that’s what I see on his face. When his eyes focus on mine, I see regret, and that hurts.
“Just tape it up.”
While I clean his cut, I feel his body curve around me from behind, his head dropping in the curve of my neck.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs there.
I’m not sure what it means—what he’s sorry for—but I have a feeling he’s not talking about the hole in the wall, and I’m not about to ask. It doesn’t matter how hard I try, I can’t ignore the possible significance of that image.
He doesn’t say anything else while I bandage his hand the best I can, and neither do I, but it doesn’t help; the elephant in the room only grows as we try to ignore it’s there.
“Go to bed,” Ben finally says, as I clear away the supplies. “I’ve got a few calls to make.”
I open my mouth to protest, but his single finger raised ever so slightly, has me shut it again.
“I’ll clean up,” he adds, as he slips past me out of the bathroom.
I go through my nightly routine, trying not to focus on the fact he didn’t kiss me, or that I didn’t stop him from walking away. By the time I strip off my clothes and pull on my nightshirt, that last thing is bothering me.
I’m not a coward. Just because I might not like what I’m going to hear isn’t reason enough to hide under the covers. Ben may not be ready to talk about why his earlier confidence there’s no chance of him having a child, is suddenly so clearly wavering—but I am.
I can hear his low voice as I walk down the hall behind the great room. I lean against the opening, watching Ben’s back, as he’s outlined against the large picture window.
“She used my fucking last name, Damian. The name she knew me by. The dates on the image match. I’ve sent you the email. There’s a file number on the attachment, see what you can come up with.” I watch as he runs his fingers through his hair before resting his forehead in his hand. “Something tells me this one is not a fake. I want to know, Damian. If I have a kid out there somewhere, I want to fucking know.”
I was right. I don’t like what I’m hearing. In fact, it hurts like a sonofabitch. I slip back into the hallway and down to the bedroom, where I slip between the pretty new sheets that don’t give me any of the pleasure I thought they might.
I don’t sleep. I just lie there, trying to figure out what is more painful; the possibility Ben has a child with someone else, or the fact that he clearly doesn’t trust me enough to talk to me about it.
I’m not sure how long it is before I hear the front door open and close, but it’s what finally triggers my tears.
Ben
That’s fucked up.
I have so many questions but unless I can find that bitch, I won’t have any answers.
Why start off with sending a fake picture? Why send anything at all after eleven fucking years? What does she want? Money? Fuck, all she had to do was let me know I had a kid. This, though? This is messed up.
What’s most messed up is the fact that a small part of me was excited at the implications of that ultrasound. A kid. My kid. And that made me feel guilty.
Isla...Jesus...
You think everything is falling into place, and the road is clear ahead, when a fucking bomb goes off and suddenly you don’t know where you are anymore.
I saw her, reflected in the window, when I was talking to Damian earlier. She looked so fucking lost. I wanted to go to her, rescue her, but what if I’m not a life preserver? What if I’m an anchor instead, just pulling her under?
“Come, Atsa,” I call out for the dog, who’s been a little leery of me since I put my fist through the damn wall. I’ll have to fix that tomorrow.
Once inside, he heads straight for the bedroom, where I know he’s checking up on Isla. I lock up, flick off the lights, and grab the dog bed along, so he can sleep with us—but on the floor.
She’s on her side, her back to the middle of the bed and her body curled tight. Protective. Like she needs protection from me. I forfeit any bedtime routines and instead strip down to my skin, dumping my clothes in a pile and crawl in behind her, carefully molding myself against her back.
“Ben?” Her sleepy voice cracks, as she rolls onto her back and looks at me with eyes that no longer dance like they used to. That’s on me. “I thought you left.”
“I did. Took the dog out.”
“No,” she sighs, her eyes swollen with sleep, and the remnant of tears, and puts her small hand in the middle of my chest. “I thought you left...me.”
Christ, she’s killing me.
“Never,” I grunt, cupping her face and pressing my forehead to hers. “Never gonna happen.”
“Good,” she mumbles, wrapping her arm around my waist and hitching her leg up on my hip, pinning me to the bed.
Everything I wanted to say dries up on my tongue when I hear the small, satisfied sigh from her lips before her breathing evens out with sleep. My thoughts keep me up until at some point, exhaustion wins.
-
The smell of coffee and soft voices wakes me up.
Before I have a chance to fling back the covers, the familiar soft padding of feet comes down the hallway. Isla’s smile is tentative when she walks in carrying a mug, and I hate that I’m the cause of it.
“Morning,” she says, too brightly. “It’s actually almost afternoon. Guess you needed your sleep. Damian is here,” she rambles. “He had a meeting in Cortez this morning and thought he’d drop in.”
The moment she puts down the mug on the bedside table, I snag her wrist and pull her down on top of me, trapping her body with my arms.
“Love you, Pixie.” I watch her eyes well up and before they have a chance to spill anything, I lift my mouth to hers and kiss her hard. “We’re gonna talk later,” I promise her when I pull back and release my hold on her. “But first I’ve gotta whiz and have a quick shower.”
I smile at her dramatic eye roll. It’s a fuckuvalot better than tears. I lift her off me and swing my legs from the bed. “Tell Damian I’ll be right there.”
“Ben,” she hisses, when I slap her butt on the way to the bathroom.
Feeling better with some decent sleep under my belt, an empty bladder, and freshly showered, I walk into the kitchen ten minutes later.
“About bloody time,” Damian ribs me.
“Miss me?” I smack the back of his head on my way to the Keurig. I need more coffee for this.
“Fuck no. Missed your girl’s cooking though,” he smiles, pointing at the empty plate in front of him.
“Yours is staying warm in the oven,” Isla says. She’s perched
on a stool next to Damian, with her laptop open between them.
“I was just telling Isla that my IT specialist is tied up with a case that is heating up, as we speak, but he sent his files to GFI, Gus Flemming’s outfit? Neil James is their techie and he’s going to have a look at it.”
“Is this your way to force my hand with Flemming?” I only half-joke.
“It’s not,” Damian responds with a serious look on his face. “But GFI isn’t bound by the rules and regulations my office is limited by. I can’t ask my guy to hack into a healthcare network without a warrant. It’s one thing if he bends the rules to get some answers on one of our cases, but for something like this, he and I both could lose our jobs.”
“Fuck, man. I’m sorry,” I mumble around my first bite of Isla’s spicy scrambled eggs and ham, which I just fished from the oven. “I’m so used to working without rules or guidelines, I didn’t stop to think.” Damian just shakes his head dismissively.
“I asked Neil to meet me here. He’ll be putting some tracing software on the laptop and on your phones. He had to pick up a few things.”
Atsa, who’d been lying beside Isla’s stool suddenly lifted his head and let out a soft woof. More like a humpf. The dog clearly takes his cues from us. As agitated as he was last night when I lost it, he’s alert, but almost casually so, now. He stretches his big body and walks to stand by the front door.
I have it open before the young guy standing on the other side can even knock.
“Nice place,” the guy, who looks like a big kid, waves his arm at the view.
“Thanks,” I grumble. “You must be Neil?”
“Neil James,” he says, sticking his hand out and when I take it, his grip is sure.
“Ben Gustafson.”
“So I hear,” he says easily. His eyes, much older than the rest of him, slip over my shoulder.
“And you must be Isla.”