Ravel

by Ryan, Shari J.

  “Don’t even tell me you haven’t had the hash here? You’re a southern girl who doesn’t know how to order properly at The Waffle House? You’re an embarrassment to this state. You know that?”

  I playfully squint my eyes at him and purse my lips. “Fair enough. You order for me.”

  “Well, okay, if you’re sure. I mean, this is kind of a big deal—a risk, even,” he says.

  “Suddenly I’m feeling a little dare-devilish. So, do your worst.”

  I don’t know who I am around this guy, but I am not the Daphne I always thought I was—the one who was held under the thumb of my parents until Trent took over. I’m starting to think I don’t know who I am at all. It’s like I just stepped in front of a mirror for the first time.

  When the waitress comes around, Kemper spouts off some more gibberish, which the woman doesn’t even write down. She just smiles and places napkins and forks down in front of us, “It’ll just be a few minutes,” she says.

  “So what do you Marines do when you get home from a deployment? Do you work or anything or just party for a week straight?” I can’t imagine they have free rein to do whatever they want in between tours, but this is the third day in a row that I’m pretty sure he hasn’t worked.

  “Right now, I’m on leave. I saved up my time over the past couple of years, and I’m taking a couple weeks off to regroup, but when I go back, I’ll train for the next tour.” My blood feels like it runs dry, and my heart stops beating for a second. I’m not sure why I didn’t think he’d be going back. This is his career. It would only make sense that he’d leave again. Dammit. Go figure, I finally make a friend and he’s going to leave.

  “Oh,” I breathe out. “How much longer are you in?”

  “Three years. I reenlisted before my last tour.” I need to change the subject. I can’t go looking all upset because this man I met two days ago is going to do his job for the next three years. It’s ridiculous.

  “What are the chances you wouldn’t have to go back over there?” Why did I just ask that? He’s not mine to try to hold onto. I’m losing it. I’m going the, throwing shit across the room, screaming into a pillow, punching my fist into a wall, kind of crazy inside. I need arms to curl around me and hold me until the pain stops. Why am I always in pain?

  “You never know. I may never go back again.” And just like that my nerves calm, my heart starts beating normally again, and hope fills me. “So when you live your life not knowing what tomorrow brings, it forces you to live by the seat of your pants. And when you do that, you get to fully embrace what life has in store for you. Hasn’t anyone ever told you to live like you’re dying?”

  I find myself staring at his mouth while he gives me the best advice anyone has ever given me. He may be the smartest person I’ve ever met. “No.” I think I’ve been living like I already died.

  “Well, you should consider it,” he says with a smile.

  Large plates of food are placed down in front of us, which sways my overactive mind from the heaviness of our conversation. “Am I supposed to eat all of this?” I laugh.

  “You won’t be able to stop yourself. It’ll be a hash-brown-frenzy. Trust me,” he says, shoveling his first bite into his mouth. I watch as his eyes close and his head falls back against the chair. “Oh yeah.”

  “Are we about to experience a When Harry Met Sally diner scene?” I ask, feeling my face fill with warmth at the thought.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but stop talking and see for yourself.”

  So, I do. I take a bite. Then another. And another. Wow, he was right. He seems to be right a lot. “Ah-mazing,” I say.

  “Told you,” he sings.

  I’ve obviously been missing out. I don’t think I’ll need to eat again today. “I’m probably going to break your bike when I get back on it,” I joke.

  “I’m pretty sure the bike can handle all one hundred pounds of you if it can sustain my whopping two-hundred pounds.” He scrapes up the last bit on his plate and drains the rest of his coffee. “Oh, I didn’t even ask, are you working today?”

  “Yeah, I have to be there at twelve.” He’s probably thinking, “What now?” At least that’s what I’m thinking. I take my phone out of my pocket to check the time. Oh crap. It’s still off. My pulse quickens as I press the power button, knowing I’m about to get inundated with voicemails and texts. The phone flashes on and sure enough there’s a stream of beeps as alerts pop up, showing ten new voicemails. I imagine the look on my face must be reflecting what I feel inside because Kemper taps on the table to get my attention.

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  I lift my gaze, finding concern in his eyes—the same thing I feel inside. “I’m afraid of what he’s capable of. I’m afraid he’ll do more than what he did to me last night.” At first I can’t believe those words came shooting out of my mouth. Now I realize out of all the truths I admitted to throughout the night, being afraid of what Trent’s capable of wasn’t one of them. This is definitely the first time I’ve said this out loud. “I don’t know what he’ll do to me if I end us.” The question mark hanging above us is what I’ve been avoiding, but the worst seems almost inevitable with the history of his possessive behavior and promising threats, so all I’m doing is prolonging this. “He left me ten messages,” I tell him.

  “Do you want to hear them?”

  “No,” I respond without hesitation.

  He takes the phone from my hand and fumbles with it for a minute. “There. They’re gone.” And just like that, he eliminated the problem. He makes it look so simple. Why is it so complicated to me?

  ***

  I’m back in the parking lot of the bar, leaning up against my Jeep, trying to figure out where I’m going to go when I leave here. “You sure you’re going to be okay?” he asks as his thumb brushes over my cheek. How am I supposed to be okay when you’re touching me like that? Can’t he see what he’s doing to me? Surely the increase of my breaths is noticeable—although if it is, he doesn’t acknowledge it. “Your cheek looks a little better than it did last night, but you’ll probably be left with a nice bruise. You should ice it again.”

  I look up through my lashes, past his hand, and into his eyes. “I will. And yes, I’ll be okay.” I let out my held breath and tell him the truth, “You know, you opened my eyes last night—you made me see.”

  His brows furrow, seeming confused. “I don’t understand. What did I make you see?”

  “Everything,” I sigh.

  He’s less than a foot away from me now, looking down into my eyes as I become lost within his gaze. “I want to kiss you,” he says in a hush of a whisper.

  He wants to kiss me. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more, and I don’t think I’d stop him if he tried. Can he read my mind? Because his hand cups around my cheek, forcing me to close my eyes and press my face into his hand. “I want you to kiss me,” I tell him, letting him know I’m okay with it. I’m more than okay with it. I’m on the verge of craving it. Yet, the words taste sour in my mouth and the truth is weighing heavily on my mind. “But—“ He’d hurt you.

  “I know.” He pulls his hand away. I want to reach out, grab it, and put it back where I wish it belonged. Instead, he wraps his arms around me, squeezing me against his hard chest. “Thank you for the best night of my life.”

  My arms find their way around his back and I exhale, feeling emptiness in my chest. Is this it? Is he going away and leaving me with my heart half full—half empty, rather?

  I didn’t ask him if he was coming back to the bar tonight, and I didn’t ask him if I’d see him again. I don’t want to know the answer. I want to remember last night, untainted, and hang it up like a picture on a wall—an image I can stare at forever—a memory I can live for.

  I drop down into the seat of my Jeep, throw my head back and tell myself to smile because it happened instead of feeling upset because it’s over.

  This sucks, but it should have to suck. />
  The sound of a bike’s engine snaps me out of my daze and I look out the window in time to watch him take off into the wind, leaving a cloud of dust in his place. Should I pinch myself now? Was last night even real?

  I look down at the time on the dash. It’s only nine, so I drive through familiar roads until I pull into Trent’s driveway. My hands are curled around the steering wheel, squeezing tightly as my knuckles strain. I turn the key, allowing the engine to calm, which in turn makes my chest ache.

  Deep breaths. I can do this.

  I walk up to the front door, not bothering to plead for the garage door to be opened this time. Instead, I knock and ring the bell. After a minute, I assume he’s not coming, so I twist the knob, checking to see if it’s unlocked. It is. As I press the door open and step inside, a cool sweat drapes over me, telling me I should run as far away from him as possible, but I have to do what’s right…and I need my things. I should have done this three years ago. I should have done this every time he’s hurt me. I have to be strong. I can’t be afraid of what he might do.

  I walk through the kitchen and into the living room where I find Trent slouched on the couch. He doesn’t move any part of his body as I walk in, but his eyes find me. “What?” he asks.

  “I’m just grabbing my things,” I say, turning to head up the stairs.

  “Wait,” he mumbles. I turn back around, interested to hear what he has to say. Not that I should care. “I’m sorry for hitting you.” His jaw slides back and forth and his head drops. “I shouldn’t have done that. I just—.” He stands up, making his way toward me. “Seeing you working in a bar full of Marines and realizing you had lied to me—”

  “Stop.” I place my hand up, warning him not to come any further. “I don’t want your excuses.” He looks surprised to hear this, probably because I don’t stand up for myself. Ever. I cave. I give in to everything he demands, but I’m not doing that anymore. “You will never touch me again, never mind hurting me.”

  “You’re right. I will never hurt you again.”

  “Trent—“ Just say it, Daphne.

  “I promise you. I’ll change. I’ll—I’ll go with you to the rink. I’ll stop smoking. You can sleep in my bed.” I’m shocked to hear these things. What has suddenly made me so desirable to him? I don’t get it. “I love you, Daphne. I do.”

  But this isn’t love… “No,” I say.

  “Are you breaking up with me?” he asks. “Don’t you dare say it, Daphne.”

  I don’t respond. I can’t. I’m too scared of what will happen. I know what will happen. Forgetting about my things upstairs, I walk back out of the house, knowing I blew my chance. It’s not too late. I can still say it. I’m no further than the first step outside the front door when he appears behind me. “Please don’t go. Let’s talk.”

  I don’t turn to see him, but rather bury my hands inside the sleeves of my sweatshirt and fold my arms over my chest, trying to forget where I am right now. I wish I was still on the beach, but the memory pops like an overfilled balloon when Trent’s arms loop around my neck. His lips press into my cheek, and I imagine for a second that it’s Kemper, but only until he turns me around, forcing me to see the truth. He pulls me back into his house against my will and kisses me, shoving his tongue down my throat, making me want to gasp for air. “I know what’ll change your mind.”

  “I need to go,” I say, pulling away.

  “Go where? Where the fuck were you last night, anyway?” I jerk my head back, giving him a look to remind him of all of those promises he made no more than sixty seconds ago. “I’m sorry. Where were you last night? I was worried when you didn’t come back here.” His voice lightens and he’s forcefully trying to remain calm.

  “I spent the night at the bar, and right now, I’m going home.” I can’t tell him I spent the night at home because most likely he went out looking for me and saw that my Jeep was at the bar.

  “Don’t you dare leave me,” he says. “Daphne, I swear to God, if you leave me—“

  I close the door before he finishes his sentence. Regardless of his threat, I find the strength to walk away—something else I’ve never had the courage to do. Although, I know courage will only take me so far. Please don’t come after me.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CURRENT DAY

  KEMPER

  I’M NOT SURE HOW many times I can drive around this town, acting like I have somewhere to go. I know I can’t get myself to walk into that apartment—it’ll all hit me, so I do what any irrational person would do and pull into a motel lot. People are always coming and going from this joint for various reasons, so I doubt anyone will bat an eye at my hour-long stay. I acknowledge that this is a new low point of my life, but there’s a bed and clean sheets, and I haven’t slept in a real bed in a year.

  I get the keys and head around to the back of the building, weaving in and out of the parties dispersing from previously occupied rooms. People are still cocked from last night. Nice. I find my room all the way at the end of the strip and push through the door, seeing the beautifully made, two-star-motel-room bed, covered in a nubby floral quilt—looks like heaven. I yank the curtains closed and power the TV on before dropping my bag in the bathroom.

  The first thing I do is take a shower, the most amazing shower I’ve ever taken. We all took showers when we returned to U.S. soil, cleaning ourselves of whatever bacteria we may have picked up overseas, but it was like a three minute, lukewarm, no water pressure kind of shower. I want, and need, burning hot water, steam, and pressure. Yes, I realize I could have taken one sooner if I could just get the hell over my issue with my apartment, but right now this is easier.

  I strip down and crank the water as far as it’ll go, already reveling in the steam filling the small room. Tearing open my backpack, I pull out my toothbrush, soap, shampoo, and clean clothes. This soap is so much better than the generic shit they gave us when we showered a couple days ago. That stuff smelled like dirty water; although, it was better than the scent of rotting bodies, gunpowder, manure, and trash, which I’ll probably never forget. When I was over there and I slept long enough to dream, it would be of a nice scent or something that tastes better than MRE’s (Meals Ready to Eat). I didn’t know a person could dream of a scent or a taste, but I guess it’s possible in desperation.

  Since I’ve been home, the Waffle house has satiated the taste issue and Daphne has done an amazing job of fulfilling a desirable scent, but I can’t smell her right now because I’ll do regretful things. Well, not things I’d regret—only things she’d regret. I have to admit, the thought of stepping into the shower with her right now is not unpleasant. I’m still trying to convince myself that I don’t want to be the reason she gets rid of that asshole because I’d actually kind of like to be the reason.

  I step into the shower, letting the scalding hot water run over my shoulders. It stings at first, but I know if I hold out for just a second my body will comply with the heat. And, oh God yes, it does. I lean my head forward against the shower wall, forgetting I’m in a nasty motel—I don’t give a shit where I am right now.

  Before I’ve had the chance to douse myself with shampoo and soap, my phone starts buzzing on the counter. Who the hell would be calling me? Daphne doesn’t have my number, Mom hardly ever calls, and Rex is dead. I don’t know why I bother having a phone. Ignoring it, I pour soap all over me, letting the scent fill my nose. Fuck yeah. I breathe in so hard I think I may have inhaled soap into my lungs. It’s fine. Lungs need to get clean too.

  When the heat starts to lose its strength, I grab a towel from the rack above the toilet and shut the water off before I lose the memory of the warmth. Unlike the three-minute shower I took the other day, I actually feel clean this time, and I can kind of breathe a little easier. The knot in my chest has loosened a bit.

  I snatch my phone off the counter as I run the towel through my hair. When I press the display button, the knot in my chest instantly returns. My lungs tighten and the pit in my st
omach grows. I tap the voicemail icon and press the phone up to my ear.

  “Hey baby, it’s Tara. I just found out y’all got back. Sorry I wasn’t there at the homecoming, and sorry I stopped writing. Life got a little messy while you were gone. Maybe we should talk. I want to see you.”

  I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at the empty display on my phone. Life got a little messy? What, did she break a nail? I was warned about this. “They all come back,” I was told. No one wants a deployed Marine, but the party’s back on when we get home. Well, this ship has sailed. I don’t want to talk to her or hear her voice. I open the text app and start tapping my thumbs along the buttons.

  ME: I can’t. Sorry. Hope all is well.

  The little flickering dots go on and on and on and on to the point where I consider shutting my phone off. I don’t want to hear her sob story. She doesn’t even know about Rex and she probably wouldn’t care.

  TARA: I just want to explain, Kemper. Please, can we meet up?

  ME: No.

  I power my phone off. Fuck her. Falling back on the bed, I throw the phone against the wall, grab the pillow from behind me, and smother my face with it, needing the darkness in order to avoid what I see whenever I close my eyes. If I press the pillow into my face hard enough, I only see blurry spots. I lie like this for what must be an hour before I give up and consider that I may have become an insomniac. I’ve slept less than eight hours in the past three days. Maybe things will be easier after the funeral tomorrow. They do say closure is supposed to help, but I don’t know. It’ll be like the final nail in the coffin—no pun intended. I wonder if it’ll be an open casket. Besides the bullet wound, the rest of Rex was in fine condition. I don’t know if it’ll be better seeing him or just the closed box he’s going to remain in.

  I talked to Rex’s old man yesterday, asked if there was anything I could do. He told me he’s going over to the apartment after the funeral to clear his stuff out. I know I should help him. I know I need to quit being a puss. I did tell him I’d be there. I had to—the poor guy was crying into the phone, trying to get his questions out.