by Lucy Score
He’d wanted to get her a job, wanted to help her on her path, but the confidence she built by doing things on her own was even more gratifying.
“Get off your phone! You’re surrounded by loved ones, dumbass!” His mother’s shout, fortified by the better part of a bottle of wine, dragged Aldo back to the present. He was at his and Luke’s going-away dinner, a two-family tradition since their first deployment.
Aldo tucked his phone back into his pocket. “Sorry, Ma.”
“You’re a Candy Crush addict,” Ina complained, shifting into pot-and-kettle mode. His mother spent more time playing games on her phone than she did gardening, drinking, and sleeping combined.
He’d beaten her once at Words with Friends, and she’d thrown her phone out of the car window in a bad loser rage, earning a $200 fine for littering from Deputy Ty.
Claire, Luke’s mother, joined them at the table. Her eyes were red-rimmed.
It was due only in part to their deployment. Luke had just announced that Harper, the woman Claire hung all her hopes on, was leaving town for a new job. Their relationship was ending when Luke and Aldo got on that bus in the morning. Disappointed in his friend, Aldo had whispered “chickenshit” under his breath at the announcement, and his mother had kicked him in the shin.
He hated that Luke was too scared to make a commitment. Hell, Luke had already made a commitment. He was too much of a wuss to see it through. He and Harper were living together, were working together, and between the two of them had accidentally adopted two shelter dogs. They were in a damn relationship.
It was strange, thinking that as they boarded the bus tomorrow, Luke’s chance at happiness was ending while Aldo’s was just beginning.
“Well, I guess this is another goodbye,” Claire sighed. She reached for Aldo’s hand, squeezed. “You come home safe to us.” It was her traditional send-off. Claire and Ina had divided the mothering all through childhood and the teenage years and had never gotten out of the habit even though their boys were now men.
“I promise,” he said. And he meant it. Aldo wasn’t just coming home to work and family. He would be coming home to Gloria. If she’d have him. That alone was making him anxious about leaving. Deployments were difficult, generally boring, and sometimes terrifying. Knowing that there was someone waiting for him this time? Well, he was wishing it was all over already.
He could see himself coming home to her. Climbing off the bus and finding her in his arms, a flash of color and sweetness.
Aldo shifted in his seat. He wished Gloria was here tonight. He needed to see her one last time.
“Ladies, I think I’m going to call it an early night.”
The second pebble hit its target and the third. He didn’t have to toss the fourth because the light in the room came on. A soft glow behind white lacy curtains.
“Aldo?” Gloria’s voice was sleepy.
“Shit. I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” He was standing in the middle of her mother’s azaleas at 11 p.m. like a crazy person.
“A little,” she yawned. “How was your dinner?”
Harper would have told her or Claire.
“You weren’t there,” he said.
She gave him a sleepy smile and settled her chin on her hand. “I wasn’t invited.”
“You should have been. I mean, I should have invited you.” Aldo scrubbed his hand through his hair. He wasn’t doing this well. He was usually more suave, less desperate.
“Do you want to come in?” Gloria offered.
“Uh, can you come out?” Aldo alone with Gloria in her bedroom was probably not the best way to give her space to build her own life. Resisting those sleepy smiles and whatever flimsy pajamas she had on would be easier outside than next to an inviting bed.
She gave him a grin and slid her ass onto the windowsill. He moved forward, crushing plants under his feet, and caught her against him as she slid out.
Dear God in heaven. She was wearing tiny cotton shorts and a camisole thing. Her hair was tousled around her face, and in the moonlight, he could see she didn’t have a stitch of makeup on. He’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
Grimly, he set her down half a step away from him. They were not at the point in their relationship where he was comfortable sporting wood around her. Not yet, at least.
“I expected you to use the door,” he teased.
“I expected you to use the phone,” she shot back. Sleepy Gloria was spunkier. As if the veils between who she was and who she’d been told to be were thinner.
“Sorry,” he grinned without a hint of real apology. “I came to…give you my house key.” He wrestled his key ring out of his pocket. He’d bought a dozen houseplants this week for the express purpose of having Gloria in his house weekly while he was gone. He loved the idea of her being there, surrounded by his things while he was half a world away.
“I kind of thought you were kidding about the plants,” Gloria told him, accepting the key.
“I’m totally into plants. Plants make oxygen.” For the love of God, stop talking, Moretta, he told himself.
“How often do you want me there?” she asked.
Every damn day. “Once a week should be good.” At least he hoped. He was pretty new to this “having plants” thing.
She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest. Aldo couldn’t help himself. He closed his hands over her upper arms and rubbed warmth into them. “Is this okay?” he asked softly. He needed her to know that everything regarding her body was her choice.
“Yes.” Her response was breathless, and even in the dark, he could see the look of wonder in her brown eyes. He wanted every touch to be beautiful for her. To erase one by one, the hurts, the scars, the fears.
Any other girl he’d be reading the signals as pro-kiss. He’d feel confident about making his move, smoothly of course. But Gloria Parker wasn’t just any other girl.
“I should probably go,” he said, continuing to rub her arms. Everything about her was so small, delicate. He wished to God that he could be here to watch out for her. To witness her transformation back to who she was.
“You know, I was thinking,” Gloria began, taking a step closer. She was looking up at him with mischief in her eyes.
If he didn’t get out of this flower bed in the next ten seconds, he was going to do something stupid that he promised himself he wouldn’t.
“What were you thinking?” he prodded. Promises be damned.
“If we’re going to go out on a date when you come back, shouldn’t we make sure that we’re…you know”—she gave a little shrug, a tilt of her head— “compatible.”
“Compatible?” he parroted the word back to her.
“Imagine a six-month build-up and then we have our first kiss.”
He nodded, imagining exactly that.
“And it sucks.”
He blinked. “Excuse me. Aldo Moretta doesn’t suck at kissing.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know that. Now, would I?” Gloria teased. She looped her arms around his neck, bringing them body-to-body. His arms went around her reflexively as if they knew exactly where she belonged.
“I can’t have you worrying about a kiss for six months.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
She met him halfway, on her toes in the middle of a bed of spring flowers. And when those soft, soft lips found his, he heard music.
His body revved to life like it had been waiting for this exact moment, this exact kiss, to finally, finally live.
He brought his hands to her face, cupping her cheeks while he savored, sampled. When her fingers tightened on his collar, when she shivered closer to him, he fought the urge to press her against the house and take.
She’d had enough taking. It was his job to give. She opened her mouth beneath his, and he tasted her, gently, thoroughly. Her knees buckled, and damned if his own legs were a little unsteady. The innocence, the eagerness, of her mouth, nearly drove him to his knees. He wanted to touch her, to love her, to worship
her.
“Are you cold?” he asked, pulling back a breath.
There were goose bumps on every inch of her skin.
She shook her head, all heavy eyes and soft smile. “What’s the opposite of cold? My vocabulary seems to have deserted me.”
“Hot. Very, very hot.” He kissed her again. A little harder, a little more breathlessly. It was just a kiss, but his cock acted like she’d stripped naked and begged him to take her. He wanted her so badly it hurt. Aldo knew he’d spend the next six months taking this memory out and admiring it every five seconds or so.
“Yes. That’s what I am,” Gloria decided, settling back on her heels.
He wouldn’t push her any further. She’d given him too much already. And he was grateful, humbled, fucking leveled.
“So do you think there’s some chemistry there?” he asked. There was more chemistry between them than a Mentos and a Diet Coke.
She grinned, flashing him that white-toothed smile. “I think I might need to dust off my biochem books and study up on what we have here.”
He wrapped her in his thick arms and pulled her close.
“I can’t wait to come back to you, Glo.”
She rested her cheek on his chest. “Come home safe, okay?”
“Promise.”
“You should get some sleep,” she insisted, stroking her hands over his chest.
He’d rather stand here all night doing this. Slowly, reluctantly, he released her. She looked thoroughly kissed, with mussed hair and swollen lips. “Should I tuck you in?” he suggested wolfishly.
“We’ll see how our first date goes.”
Aldo shoved his hand through his hair. “Uh, I just realized. I don’t have a spare key…”
Gloria’s laugh sounded like a fucking choir of angels to his ears.
She handed him the key back. “Why, Mr. Moretta, did you make up an excuse to see me?”
“Six months is a long time,” Aldo told her, thumbing over her lower lip. “I needed to see you one more time.”
“Hmm.”
“I’ll leave the key under the mat on the front porch for you.”
“Okay. Thanks for…stopping by.” She grinned at him, and all was right with the world.
He took a step back to prevent himself from grabbing her again and tripped over a pink flamingo. It crunched under his foot.
“I’ll buy your mom a new one,” he promised.
She was laughing now.
“Hey, one more thing,” he said, picking his way carefully out of the flower bed.
“What’s that?”
“If you date…”
She cocked her head, listening.
“Just try not to fall in love.”
15
I got a job, and I kissed a man.
I know. I know. Before you say it, I can’t jump into another relationship. I read the books, remember?
I got the job through my membership with the Domestic Violence Survivors Club. I know I should feel grateful. But I’m tired of being “poor little Gloria Parker.” I want to be more…or less. Just Gloria Parker.
Will that ever happen? Will people ever look at me and not think about Glenn Diller?
I’m working my ass off, and it feels good to be needed and to exercise my brain. But it feels…surreal. Like at any moment, I’m going to wake up on that ratty mattress in that stinking trailer. I’m still having the dreams. I don’t know if they’ll ever go away.
Glenn’s gone. Hopefully for a long time. He never made bail, likely won’t get out for years. But I still feel like his shadow is following me everywhere. Why can’t the Gloria I was with him disappear, too?
I know I should be patient. But I have so much time to make up for. How much more time am I going to lose to him? Why can’t I just snap my fingers and be better?
Why couldn’t I drag Aldo Moretta through my bedroom window that night? He’s gone. Six months. I need those six months to decide if I want to have a relationship with him. I already know I do. But which Gloria is that? The battered victim? Poor little Gloria Parker who needs to be protected from life? Or a me I haven’t met yet? Who’s calling the shots?
I see the way everyone looks at me. I haven’t done anything to change their minds about me yet. I can’t be defined by Glenn anymore. I can’t define myself by Aldo, either. There. Happy?
I have a beautiful, kind, sexy man who wants me. And I’m not allowed to want him back. Glenn keeps ruining everything…or I keep letting him.
The abuse wasn’t the problem, not the big one. It’s the echo of it. In the moment, I felt like I won when he hit me. I pushed him. I made him lose control. Afterwards, he was sorry, so sorry. For a while anyway. I had the power. But there’s nothing healthy about a violent power struggle. And now there’s this echo of that cycle in me. Like it’s all I know.
A delivery driver was yelling at someone on the phone this morning, and I flinched like it was me. I flinched like I was going to take a hit. Della saw it. She looked…not disappointed but sad. Like maybe I’m stirring up her own echoes.
Glenn had me convinced that I was responsible for his every mood. Is that true? Can that be real? Isn’t it narcissistic to believe I was the reason behind everything he ever said or did? Am I responsible for how other people feel?
I hate that I don’t know who I am without him.
I think “poor little Gloria Parker” bothers me because that’s how I see me. And I don’t know how to see me without someone else in the picture…
Work is good. Hard. Terrifying. I don’t want to disappoint anyone. I’m still half convinced I’ll fail. My friend told me to talk to myself like I’m my own best friend. Which is ironic, considering I started talking to myself for company years ago. But I didn’t realize Glenn’s voice in my head is me, too. That I can change those words.
I can change that voice. When I remember. When I can take a step back and remember that it’s not the truth whispering around my brain.
I guess what I’m saying is I’m still lost. Still scared most of the time. Still lonely. I don’t know how to be a part of anything. Aldo’s gone, and I worry about him. National Guard. Afghanistan. Bad things happen to soldiers every day. I know we’re not together, and I know I can’t hang my happily ever after on him, but can I handle it if something happens to him? Can I handle anything? Everyone’s working really hard to build this safe, happy bubble for me. My mom, Harper, Della.
But I can’t help but wonder if I can survive without the bubble.
So that’s where I am. Grumpy, confused bubble girl.
16
The two dozen white lilies seemed funeral-ish to Gloria, but that’s exactly what Mrs. Nickelbee ordered for her fancy annual sorority reunion tea and pastry party centerpiece. Claire Garrison had done a lovely job making the arrangement pretty and fun with twists of greenery and baby’s breath. But as a whole, it still said RIP to Gloria’s thinking.
The customer in question bustled through the front door, chatting animatedly on her phone, her synthetic auburn wig clinging lifelessly to her shoulders. Cursed with low thyroid numbers, she had a different snazzy wig for every day of the week. Some were better than others.
“Of course I’m making mojitos,” she said in a huff.
A lifetime ago, Mrs. Nickelbee had taught Gloria’s Sunday school class. But it was likely she had no recollection of Gloria as she’d faded from existence, a shadow of her former self.
“Oh!” The woman’s eyes widened when she spotted Gloria behind the register. “I have to call you back, Flo.” Unceremoniously, she disconnected and dumped the phone in her purse. “Hello there, Gloria!”
Okay, maybe Mrs. Nickelbee did remember her. Perhaps it had been her stirring performance as donkey number two one Christmas Eve?
Mrs. Nickelbee cocked her head. “How are you, dear?” she asked, her tone dripping with sympathy.
Or perhaps it was that everyone in all of Benevolence knew that Gloria had spent the last decade getting knocked a
round.
Gloria forced a cheery smile. “I’m just fine, Mrs. Nickelbee. Aren’t your flowers lovely?” She slid the vase closer and stuffed her hands in the pockets of her bright green apron.
“Of course they are,” Mrs. Nickelbee crooned. She whipped out her husband’s credit card with long-practiced skill. Mrs. Nickelbee had never had a job in her life either. She claimed running a childless, petless household with a part-time housekeeper was work enough. Mr. Nickelbee either enjoyed having his wife home or was too terrified to voice his opinion. Either way, he spent his free time “yes, dearing” her.
“I hope you know we’re all rooting for you.” Mrs. Nickelbee beamed at her. “It’s never too late to turn things around.”
“Thank you,” Gloria said, feeling both humbled and humiliated. She swiped the card forcefully.
“Have you heard from that unfortunate Glenn since his arrest?” Mrs. Nickelbee prodded.
Gossip was a second language in Benevolence, and everyone spoke it fluently. With shaking hands, Gloria tucked a shallow cardboard box under the vase for Mrs. Nickelbee’s short drive home and wondered if she could sink behind the counter and lay on the floor until the woman left.
“Mrs. Nickelbee! I hope you like your lilies!” Claire, angel disguised as a part-time floral designer, appeared at Gloria’s elbow. “Are you using your ivory tablecloth?”
Gloria took the opportunity to duck into the back room, her cheeks warm with shame.
Of course, it wasn’t any protection from Mrs. Nickelbee’s stage whisper. “I think it’s lovely what Della did, giving poor little Gloria Parker a job.”
The stool next to the work table protested when she dropped down on it in a huff. Impatience niggled at her. How was anyone ever going to see her as anything else but “poor little Gloria Parker”?
She heard the chimes of the front door and breathed a sigh of relief knowing that Mrs. Nickelbee had fluttered away to wreak havoc on someone else’s life.
Claire poked her head into the room. “You okay?”
She was tall and lean with work-roughened hands and a soft smile. Her salt-and-pepper hair was worn in a dramatic pixie cut that suited her to a T. She was also incredibly kind without being condescending.