Lost King

by Piper Lennox

  Dad: So…Kimberly and I went on a date last night. I think.

  Amazingly, there’s one half-assed smile muscle still in operation. I start another latte at the machine while I write back.

  Theo: Think?

  Dad: Business party. Not sure it counts.

  Theo: Did you kiss her goodnight?

  Dad: ...

  Dad: Yes.

  Theo: Then that was def a date.

  I can tell he’s happy with my verdict, but the dude still hems and haws and bickers. It’s like he’s scared to believe me.

  If I could laugh, I’d find this funny as hell. Who wouldn’t know a kiss at the end of the night equates to it being a date? And why not just accept things as they stand, when it’s exactly what you want? It’s so damn simple.

  Then again, I’ve recently learned “simple” and “easy” aren’t synonyms.

  Dad: I’m landing in the city in two days. Kimberly is coming with, to see the tree at Rock.

  Dad: Think you can make it out?

  I stare at the messages too long, wondering why I don’t have an answer. Other than being in the city again, that desolate concrete hellhole where you start thinking ridiculous, optimistic things, I want to go. I’ve missed him.

  Then I realize why I’m so hesitant. As usual, I don’t believe him.

  Answering “yes” means trusting him, even though history says I shouldn’t. And answering “no,” while definitely the safer option, would be throwing away the chance to get something I actually want.

  “If things were different—”

  “They can be.”

  Turning my life around, making it different, would’ve been simple. Get a job. Move out. Stop living on my dad’s dime because I didn’t grow up with enough of his attention. Grow up.

  But doing all that isn’t easy. Meeting Ruby was the first time any of it felt not just possible, but crucial. I realized I couldn’t be happy until I did it.

  She was right. Things can be different. Forgiveness is remarkably simple, just like choosing to trust someone’s verdict. Or a person themselves. It’s just not easy.

  In the end, it comes down to how badly you want it.

  Theo: Yeah. I’ll be there.

  Let’s call this one a practice round.

  “I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

  I shiver again, deep down to the bone; it’s snowing today, the kind that swirls in all directions and sticks to you instantly.

  For the seventh or eighth time, I consider telling Callum we should move this conversation off my patio, but I know that’d be even dumber than answering the door for him in the first place.

  “I’m getting my shit together, babe.” He motions to his new clothes: slacks still stiff and creased from the department store shelf, a white button-down, and a black winter coat that, admittedly, makes him look pretty put-together. “This new job’s so much better than the landscaping. Real white-collar shit, you know? And I’m getting a place of my own next week. No more couches or crashing at Doug’s. I’m through with those dicks.”

  “And the drugs? The drinking?” I shouldn’t even ask. Not only will I not believe his answer, but he’ll take follow-ups to mean his little plea is working. It isn’t.

  I’m also not looking to actively piss him off, right now. Tomorrow during my lunch break, I’m filing a restraining order. I would’ve done it today, if my tires weren’t balding and the roads were salted.

  “Going clean,” he says, holding his hand up like swearing on the Bible.

  I snort; I can’t help it. “Going clean,” in Callum’s vocab, effectively means, “I haven’t taken anything in about two hours.”

  “Ruby, come on. We’re good together.”

  “No, we’re not.” I unfold the origami I put myself in, hoping to retain some body heat in my pajama pants and coat. “We’re a fucking mess, Call.”

  “I told you, I’m fixing all that.”

  “It’s not just you.” I knead the bridge of my nose. Telling him this might violate my decision to not piss him off, but it needs to be said. “I never had feelings for you. All these years, I stuck it out hoping friendship would turn into more, and it didn’t. Then even the friendship went away.”

  I pace around my patio and draw my numb lips between my teeth. Callum, more patient than I’ve ever seen him, waits.

  “Much as you don’t deserve it, I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “Letting you believe we had something that we just…didn’t. So, I’m sorry.”

  He really doesn’t deserve it. But I’m still glad I said it, if only for my sake.

  Callum stares at me. It’s a trait of his I’ve coveted since the day we met: how easy it is for him to look people in the eye. He uses his power for evil, though, purposely making others uncomfortable with it. Like me, right now.

  “He doesn’t want you back, Ru.” Call’s mouth draws up at the corner, flashing his teeth. I can almost see the missing molar when he laughs. “I hope that’s not why you’re doing this—because you think you’ve still got a shot with that motherfucker.”

  “I know I don’t.” My face is stone, voice so satisfyingly cavalier, but the sentence still aches its way through my body. “It’s got nothing to do with Theo. It never did. You and me...this is how it was going to happen, all along.” If anything, the only way Theo’s involved in this situation is that, while I was with him, I saw what my life could actually be. What it deserved to be.

  I deserve kisses that make my knees give out. Glances that make me feel dirty and treasured at the same time.

  I deserve soft lights in the distance, waterfalls underneath me, arms around me. Drives with no destination. Lovemaking that makes my head spin.

  I deserve to trust someone so completely, with so much of my soul, it scares the living hell out of me.

  I’ll never get those things from Theo again. I’ve accepted that. But I’ve also accepted that they’ll never come from Callum. And I’d rather be alone than settle for anything less than what I deserve.

  “Then do me a favor,” he says, after a long silence with nothing but wind howling between the townhouses.

  I look from the snowflakes in front of my face, to him. “What?”

  “Give me one last night.” He steps close, his new shoes leaving deep prints in the snow on the concrete between us. I tense when he touches my hair, now damp and feeling frozen, to push it behind my ear. “I want to say goodbye right, Ru.”

  For the first time in years, I feel it: that single spark of attraction I felt at fifteen, when he scooped me off the ground outside the Durham house.

  Then I realize all I’m feeling…is the memory. Not the path growing easier, but my foot landing in a print it already made. We’ve been here before. That’s why it feels so easy.

  But “easy” doesn’t mean “right.”

  “It’d be great,” he says. I suppress the urge to snort again. Even at his most generous, Callum’s lovemaking style wasn’t what I’d call great. I wouldn’t call it lovemaking, either.

  “You’d be a nice…distraction,” I tell him gently, pulling his hand off my chin, “which is one of several reasons I’ll have to decline. That’s not fair to you. I’d be using you.”

  “I don’t mind. Least then I’d prove everyone wrong who called me useless.” He winks, and I actually laugh. It’s a faded flash of the friendship we used to have. I miss our jokes, the shy glances at work…the alliance we had as kids of the help, pitted against the kids of the Hampton elite.

  But not enough to keep looking for it. I know all that is long gone.

  “Before November, I probably would’ve taken you up on that,” I admit with another laugh. It’s a risky confession, but true. “I’m a different person now, Callum.”

  His jaw hardens. I watch him step back a little, hands retreating to his coat pockets. “So that’s it? You think you’re better than me?”

  “No. I’m better than the old me.”

/>   This comes out with surprising confidence, and I realize it’s true, too. I’m broken to hell, navigating my imploded life with a half-formed backbone...but I’m better off for it. It’s better than what I was before: spineless, numb, and utterly clueless about everything I was missing.

  Callum’s eyes darken. “Makes sense,” he breathes bitterly. “Little Ruby got a taste of the good life with that rich prick, and now her own kind isn’t enough.”

  “That’s not at all what I said,” I snap. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

  “No, I’m putting some common fucking sense in your head.” He pulls a tin of chew from his pocket and tucks some into his cheek. I hate the thought of all this beautiful snow getting stained with spit, so I motion to the gate. He doesn’t move. “That’s always been your problem, Ruby. You always wanted more. Bigger. Better. But for people like us?”

  He sweeps his arms out to the dilapidated, stained fencing around my patio. Every townhouse here has a fence like mine. Cracked, uneven concrete like mine. Drafty windows, worn carpeting, and doors that barely latch. It’s similar to all the places my mom and I rented, every year.

  “This is as good as it gets.”

  “It will be, for you.” I refold my arms. “Because that’s always been your problem: never thinking it could be better.”

  And with that, I spin on my heel and stride across the icy patio to my door. I feel a weird peace I don’t often get after arguments with Callum. Maybe it’s because, deep down, I know this will be the last one.

  As soon as I touch the door, I’m yanked backward by my arm.

  “Ow! Let me go!” I pull myself back. Pain tears through my shoulder, then radiates down my side when I lose my balance and land against the siding. He keeps my wrist in his grasp the entire time.

  “Don’t fucking walk away from me.” His hissing whisper is too hot on my skin. I feel every shredded nail dig into my pulse point as he twists my arm behind my back.

  All I can think is, I fell for it again. The new clothes. The clear eyes.

  But no—I didn’t. From the moment I stepped out here, I knew better than to believe him. The only reason I decided to hear him out was because I wanted to avoid exactly this: the blow-up when he didn’t get his way. Until I had the law on my side to keep him away for good, I figured it’d be smarter to play nice.

  But Callum only plays dirty, so I know I’m not getting out of this unless I do the same.

  In the reflection of the porch door, I line up my foot between his shoes.

  Then I bring my leg up behind me, hard, sending the heel of my boot right into his crotch.

  He falls back with a curse and lets me go. My frozen hands burn as I grab the door and pull it open, then drag it shut behind me.

  I panic when it catches on its track. For a moment, all I can think about is how smoothly the doors open in my clients’ houses.

  By the time he gets to his feet, though, I’ve jiggled it loose, shut it, locked it, and drawn the vertical blinds. I hear the glass rattling under his fists all the way to the front door.

  I’m not thinking. Logic tells me to hunker down and call the police—to do exactly what I’d do if this were tomorrow, when I have that glorious piece of paper legally exiling Callum from my life. But panic keeps my pulse too high and my brain too busy. I’m in flight mode.

  My car takes a few seconds to start, sputtering in the cold, but I feel my first real relief when the engine roars to life.

  As I follow the road out of the complex, I see Callum outside my back gate, leaving. I don’t know if he sees me.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m coming over,” I blurt, as soon as Frankie answers. It’d be wiser to go someplace Callum wouldn’t expect, and better for my emotional state to be with someone who knows what kind of person Callum is now. Frankie’s in denial. Hale would bitch nonstop about me dragging him into my drama, but he’d invite me in all the same.

  And, if he had to, he’d beat the ever-loving shit out of Call.

  But it’s another reflex. I’m suddenly pulling into Frankie’s driveway, without any memory of the trip. She runs out in her slippers and her boyfriend’s coat.

  “What the fuck happened?” She takes note of my shivering and ushers me inside. I try to tell her that’s not why I’m shaking.

  As soon as we’re in the small kitchen of her rental house, the details spill. She’s wide-eyed through most of it—then fuming.

  “Ruby...I’m so sorry. You always said he was an asshole, but I had no idea he was like that.” Her hands push through her hair as she paces the tile. With a jerk, she turns and grabs her phone. “We’re calling the police.”

  “He’s probably left my place by now.” I sink into one of the mismatched chairs around her dining table. Now that the adrenaline’s gone, I’m exhausted. “I shouldn’t have come here. This’ll be the first place he checks.”

  “In that case,” she huffs, in full mama bear mode now, “I’m going to type 911, stand by that window, and hit Dial the second that asshole pulls up.”

  I nod, glad to hand the reins to someone with a functional brain. Mine feels like an overloaded outlet.

  The minutes tick past. While Frankie holds her furious vigil at the kitchen window, I text people who might be at Callum’s usual haunts. Maybe he stopped off somewhere to take care of that pesky two-hour clean streak.

  Actually, part of me hopes he did. True, drugs and alcohol make him worse...but they also make him considerably slower and clumsier. At least he’ll be easy for police to catch, and me to avoid.

  But when an hour passes and there’s still no sign of him, I get a strange, deep dread in my stomach.

  Frankie pivots from the window with a disappointed scowl. “Where is he? Dick knows where my house is. He hit me up for money, like, two weeks ago.”

  “I guess he’s finally done coming after me.” I sit back, the top slat of the chair popping.

  I should be relieved. This is what I wanted: for Callum to finally listen to me, accept that we’re over, and move on.

  “Maybe he thinks you went somewhere else,” Frankie says, listing a few mutual acquaintances while I nod along distractedly.

  Something’s wrong. I can’t figure out what, but I know Callum. He wouldn’t let this go.

  I sit straight. The shivering starts again as I pull up Theo’s number.

  There’s no answer.

  I try a second time, and a third, then curse when it goes straight to his voicemail.

  “What are you doing?” Frankie follows me to the door. “Christ, Ruby, don’t tell me you’re going out looking for the guy.”

  “I’m not.” Technically.

  I debate telling her what I’m actually going to do—drive past Theo’s to check, then call the police if I see Callum’s car—but decide not to. She’ll talk me out of it and tell me to relax, and I can’t do that. Not until I know.

  She tugs on the hood of my jacket when I try to step over the threshold. Through the house, her boyfriend yells at us to close the door.

  Frankie rolls her eyes, then steps out onto the porch. When her back is turned to shut the door, I use my chance to escape.

  “Damn it, Ruby!” she calls. “Don’t be stupid!”

  “I’ll call as soon as I can,” I shout back. The wind is picking up, but the snowfall has slowed to almost nothing. I feel my boots crunch through the frozen surface of her lawn to the soft, perfect powder underneath.

  “Ruby! Get your ass back here!”

  I ignore her, pry open my door, and gun it out of her neighborhood.

  Closer to Theo’s, the roads are slicker than I expected. I skid through a Stop sign, heart pounding as I feel the tires struggle to grip the asphalt. Thank God the intersection is empty.

  I slow to a crawl outside his house. Through the ornamental grasses near the street, I scan the driveway. It looks empty. I exhale with so much gratitude I could cry.

  Then I turn back to the windshield, and skid to a long, sli
ding stop again.

  Callum’s car is hiked on the curb in front of me, just to the right of the driveway entrance.

  My hands are back in flight mode. All of me is. Every movement is jerky, too forceful: yanking up my parking brake, tearing my keys from the ignition, stumbling my way out of the car and up the driveway.

  The stone pavers are like ice blocks. I slip twice, catching myself on what I now think is a sprained wrist.

  Footprints stagger through the snow ahead of me. Callum’s new shoes.

  I use them to get traction, following the same path he took to the door.

  The open door.

  Out of all the shocks to my system tonight, nothing makes me freeze quite like this: the sight of that enormous, luxurious, wide-open door, so heavy it doesn’t even sway with the wind.

  Unlocked, as always.

  38

  There’s blood on the floor of the foyer.

  I stare at it a second, as though I can tell from sight alone whose it is. As though that matters. If Theo noticed even a drop, he gave Callum a serious edge.

  There’s a handprint on the wall—faint pink; more blood—and the paintings are crooked. I hurry past them, my wet boots sliding and squealing.

  My pulse pounds through my skull. Please, let him be okay.

  When I emerge into the living room, I notice two things.

  First, it’s silent. For all the signs of a struggle, I can’t hear one, even when I hold my erratic, heavy breath to listen.

  Second: the shelf in the living room is pitched at a bizarre angle, the industrial pipe frame ripped from its brackets drilled into the wall. Each wooden plank slants off its base like a slide.

  Scattered at my feet are the skulls.

  Birds. Rabbits. Coyotes. Animals I can’t even recognize, jawbones dislocated, their wire connections twisted and bent. The smallest skulls are crushed into dust.