A Long Way Home

by Becky Doughty

  “Kiss me back, Savannah,” he muttered, the timbre of his voice vibrating against my lips. I whimpered again, and the sound he made in response sent a surge of electricity through me. “Give me your hand so I have something to hold on to,” he practically growled, “and then kiss me back.”

  So I did. I laced my fingers with his and rolled onto my side, angling my face so our mouths fit together in a more intimate manner. I pressed my nose against his cheek, inhaling the fragrance of shaving cream combined with his unique Jordan smell, and his grip on my hand tightened in response to my ready participation, making me bolder. Even though he’d just shaved, I could feel the slight roughness of his skin beneath my lips. Without forethought, I flicked my tongue out and licked the corner of his mouth.

  Jordan stilled instantly, and then he withdrew just enough so only our foreheads touched. All I could hear was the pounding of my pulse in my head warring with the uneven rhythm of our breathing. “I need to talk to your parents,” he whispered, his breath hot on my skin. “Today.” He kissed me once more, firmly, almost chastely, as if he was sealing the deal or something. Before I could kiss him back, he rolled away, released my hand, and clasped both of his over his chest, his fingers laced so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

  As I laced my own hands together over my chest, I was momentarily taken aback at how small my fingers felt after being entwined with his. I tried to slow my breathing; I took long draws in through my nose and exhaled as quietly as I could, willing my heart to stop karate chopping the inside of my rib cage. My lips pulsed with sensation, and I resisted the urge to reach up and touch them to see if they still felt the same, if they’d ever feel the same again. I didn’t want to look like an idiot though. At least, not any more than I already did. I lay there beside Jordan, my mouth slightly open, my eyes half-closed in a sensual stupor, panting like a lovesick puppy.

  I pretty much was a lovesick puppy.

  Several moments later, Jordan finally spoke again, but not to me. “God, please let them say ‘yes.’” It was the most heartfelt prayer I’d heard in a long time.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  My parents gave Jordan their permission to date me, albeit not without some pretty strict ground rules about appropriate behavior wherever we went, about not being alone together behind closed doors, about respect, propriety, and making sure we were above reproach at all times. They assured us they trusted us, but that it was their responsibility to protect my reputation, as well as Jordan’s as my boyfriend. They didn’t mention their own reputations, but I knew the list included their names, too. I understood, and so did Jordan.

  I think they were just so relieved to get me out of my room again—Mom admitted to me privately that she’d been worried, but once she attributed it to me being so anxious for Jordan’s return, she understood. I let her run with that version of the truth; I could tell no one the real reason for my self-imposed isolation.

  To my astonishment, Jordan’s parents were a little more reserved than mine were when he spoke to them later that night on his own. His father asked him point blank if I wasn’t a little young for him. Jordan had reminded him that Mrs. Ransome was actually six years younger than Mr. Ransome, and that they’d known each other long before they started dating, too. His father had solemnly acquiesced.

  “But he warned me that if I did anything that might put you in any kind of a compromising position, he’d call the cops himself.” Jordan laughed when he told me, but I got the feeling he actually believed his father would do just that. Maybe he would, too.

  Over the next several weeks, Jordan and I were almost inseparable. Each morning, I meandered down the block to meet him in front of his house where he was doing another major overhaul on his car. He couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted to sell it after graduation, but he was determined to have a sweet ride his senior year of college. “I also need her dependable so I can come see you.” And on days we couldn’t spend every waking moment together, we exchanged silly texts and emails about how much we missed each other.

  It was at least three hours driving each way to and from Jordan’s school in the North Los Angeles area, and in the past, he’d simply opted to stay on campus, rather than fight the packed freeways through L.A. and Orange County. But he was determined that he would come home at least two weekends a month to spend time with me. “I’ve never looked forward to Thanksgiving break more than I am now.” Jordan laughed. “And that’s saying a lot, because Mom’s Thanksgiving dinner is pretty much the best meal of the year. But including the weekends, I’ll be home for nine whole days in the middle of the semester.”

  Midtown did a fantastic Fourth of July celebration at the university football stadium, and we were going with several families from my dad’s church. We all brought blankets and coolers and picnicked in a big group before the show started. Afterward, Jordan and I had plans to get together with a bunch of his old friends from high school for a pool party. Jordan had assured my parents the party was alcohol free and if any showed up unannounced, he’d immediately bring me home. We were being so careful not to rock the boat in any way, bending over backward to make sure no one could find fault in our relationship.

  But at the picnic, I started feeling sick to my stomach, and not more than five minutes after the first firework was launched, I rushed off the field and barely made it to the bushes where I threw up the measly half a hot dog I’d forced down earlier. I felt a little better after, but I was mortified and begged my mom to take me home. Jordan insisted he would take me so they could stay with the group. I assured my parents I would be fine, that I just wanted to go to bed. They exchanged a few meaningful glances, and I could tell what they were thinking. “Please,” I hollered above the pop and blast of giant bottle rockets. “I’m really sick, you guys. I’ll make him leave me at the door, I promise.”

  I was sick again on the way home, but when Jordan pulled over so I wouldn’t throw up in his car, there was nothing left in my stomach to come up. I just alternated between dry heaving and sobbing, humiliated beyond measure. I finally got back in the car and curled into a miserable ball, pressing my cheek against the cool glass of the window. When we reached Maple Avenue, he walked me to my door, his arm supporting me around my waist, and I let myself in. But when I stepped back to close the door, he came inside, too.

  “I’m not leaving you like this, Savannah. You’re really sick. You shouldn’t be alone.” He looked worried. Reaching up, he cupped my face, but I pulled away, not wanting him to smell my breath.

  “I’ll be okay. I just need to lie down, that’s all. I’ll eat a piece of bread or something so my stomach has something in it, and then I’m going to bed.” I pushed him gently back out onto the front porch. “Go to your party. Have a good time. Tell your friends I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there.”

  After much convincing, he left, but a few minutes later, there was a knock on the front door. It was Mrs. Ransome.

  “Hi, sweetie. Jordan sent me over to check on you. He wanted me to make sure you were going to be all right.” Without asking, she reached out and pressed the back of her hand to my neck, my forehead. “You don’t feel warm to me, so that’s good.”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Ransome. I think it’s just the flu or something. I’ve been a little nauseated all day.” I wanted to push her out the door, too, because my stomach was starting to make warning noises again. “I’m actually heading up to bed right now, so…” I let my words drift off.

  “Okay. You call me if you need anything, okay? We’re hanging out in our backyard. We can see three different firework shows from our roof.”

  “Thanks. I will.” My stomach mocked me with an ominous rumble. “I’d better go.”

  “Try to get some sleep, okay?” And she was off. I raced to the bathroom and stayed there for the best part of the next hour before I was finally able to brush my teeth and haul myself off to bed, too exhausted to even think about how embarrassing the night had been.

  A week later, I
was still sick. And my period was officially two months late. When I finally put two and two together, my world imploded on itself.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Present day…

  Now here I stood, nearly three years later, wrapped in Jordan’s arms again, knowing it was exactly where I belonged… knowing I was going to push him away again, too. Just as I’d done before. I eased back a step, hitched Killian up on my hip, and reached for my basket.

  “You’re a good friend, Jordan. Thank you for checking up on me. I’m fine.” I hoped I sounded reassuring. “We’re fine. But I need to go now. I’m sure Marek is… back, and I need to be where he can find me.” Jordan kept a tight hold on the basket, though. “Please don’t do this.” I tried not to let my mounting panic show. “I need to go, and so do you.”

  “You can’t go back there, Savannah.”

  “You don’t get it!” I let go of the basket since he wouldn’t. “Marek is Killian’s father. I can’t just leave.”

  “Then I’ll go back with you, and we’ll tell him you’re going home with me to see your parents. He won’t have a problem with you visiting them, will he?”

  “Actually, yes, he will. We’re in the middle of Faire season, Jordan, and I’m one of his lead dancers. I can’t just take off.” I hoisted Killian up again; he was getting heavier by the second. “Besides, he knows I’m not in contact with them, so he won’t believe us anyway.”

  “I don’t get this whole situation. What happened? How did you even end up with him?”

  I knew Jordan’s questions were fair, considering I’d broken up with him so soon after we’d started dating, telling him I’d changed my mind, that I really did feel like he was too old for me. He’d railed about it, begged me to reconsider, unable to understand why I’d changed my mind without even discussing it with him, but I’d held my ground. When Jordan returned to school two weeks early, without saying goodbye, I knew I’d hurt him terribly, and I thought my heart would simply stop beating. I lay out in my swing, waiting for it to happen. Waiting for my breathing to slow, for my pulse to fade. But I kept breathing. And my pulse kept tapping away under the paper-thin skin at my wrists, because my traitorous heart kept beating, pumping the blood through my veins like an automaton.

  When I felt the first flutter of movement low in my abdomen, I knew I had to leave. And I had nowhere else to go but back to Marek.

  Just like now.

  “I need to go,” I said again. “It really was good to see you, Jordan. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.” I turned away, not bothering to ask for my basket again.

  “I won’t let you go back in there.” Jordan stepped in front of me, blocking my way. “I’m not going to stand by and let you go back to him. This is insane.”

  I tried to skirt around him, but he sidestepped in front of me again.

  “If I don’t go back in there, he’ll be… unpredictable.” As soon as I said the word, I knew it wouldn’t go over well. I quickly expounded, “He runs a tight ship, Jordan. He’s responsible for making sure we’re all accounted for at the end of the day. And he’s not just our boss. He’s also Killian’s—”

  “Killian’s father. I know. You told me.” He practically spit the words out. “But he’s also dangerous, isn’t he?”

  “Unpredictable.”

  “Which translates to dangerous.” Jordan shook my basket in frustration. “You need to get away from him, Savannah. Now.”

  “No!” I cried out, startling Killian. His head shot up, and he blinked blearily. I pressed his cheek back down on my shoulder and shushed him. “It’s okay, baby. Go back to sleep.”

  Killian settled easily, his arm looped around my neck, and I trained what I hoped was a steely glare on Jordan. I straightened my shoulders and spoke low and resolutely, twisting his words in a way I knew would hurt him… and protect all three of us. “You have no say in my life now, Jordan. You need to get away from me. Now.”

  The basket he’d been holding out to the side now lowered slowly, his whole body seeming to deflate before my eyes. Before he could muster up a comeback, I moved quickly around him and didn’t look back, leaving the basket behind. If he tried to stop me, if he called out to me, I didn’t hear him. I pushed through the turnstile entrance, nodded at the group of sentries standing guard to keep any but performers and merchants out after closing, and hurried toward our stage, hoping I hadn’t been missed.

  Marek wasn’t anywhere in sight when I slipped through the curtained arch and joined the others, who were just beginning to tear down the food tent for the day. After laying Killian on a blanket someone had spread in the shade, I hurried over to help. I received a few covert glances, but I had a feeling the subtle discomfort stemmed more from Marek’s absence than my tardiness. This group, this surrogate family, had embraced me as one of their own. Even though everyone knew my relationship with Marek was based on something other than love, no one in the group—save maybe one or two of the single women he had yet to agree to sleep with—wanted to see me hurt, physically or emotionally.

  Pella, who had just swept in, came close and whispered in my ear. “I just spoke to your handsome friend. He asked me to tell you he will call you tonight at nine o’clock.”

  I froze, a plastic tablecloth half-folded in my hands. “But Marek…”

  “I told him tonight is good because Marek will be off seeking his fortune.” Only Pella would be so forthright with me, telling me in her not so subtle way exactly what our Gypsy King was up to.

  I wasn’t sure what bothered me most—the fact that I was relieved by the reprieve I’d have tonight or that I was unsettled about Marek flaunting Cassandra in my face… most likely as a result of my brief encounter today with Jordan. Even though he seemed driven by his passions, most of the time, it was just part of the show. Behavior like this, an action that could potentially create trouble for the whole troupe if things didn’t go well between Marek and Cassandra, wasn’t like him at all. When he acted on his passions, he did so with precision and a well thought-out plan of action. Marek was the master of manipulation, and Cassandra, as much as I feared to admit it, seemed more like a distraction, a pawn in some kind of weird game he was playing. What I really couldn’t tell, though, was whether I was his opponent or not.

  “Thank you,” I murmured and squeezed her hand. But I wouldn’t answer Jordan’s phone call tonight. Or tomorrow night. Or the next. There was nothing he could say that would change my mind.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After we had finished packing up anything that might grow legs and walk off our stage in the middle of the night, I’d awakened Killian and we’d made the long walk back to the campsite with a few of the others. Marek still hadn’t made an appearance, and I wasn’t sure what to do. Even though he often left in the evenings, he always came to the trailer first to change out of his costume. He went to great lengths to maintain his image. I didn’t mind being alone in our trailer at night, but I hated not knowing what to expect when Marek did show up.

  Jordan called me at a few minutes before seven. He must have just gotten home, if I correctly remembered how long the drive took. I let it go to voice mail, wondering what had happened to nine o’clock.

  Ten minutes later, he called again. And again. After the fifth time, I turned my phone off and focused on Killian. But he was uncharacteristically crabby and found a reason to complain about everything, even his favorite pirate pajamas. Suddenly taking note of how badly he was drooling, I stuck my finger in his mouth and felt around. He immediately bit down—hard—and I yelped and yanked my finger back. He half giggled, half-sobbed in response.

  “Poor baby,” I said as I wiped his nose. “Feels like you’ve got two new molars trying to push through back there.” I dug around in my little basket of homemade remedies, but to my dismay, I’d run out of my chamomile tincture to rub on it. I buckled him into a booster seat at our tiny table and gave him an orange-cream popsicle, hoping that would soothe him, but he even whimpered through that. B
ut while he was busy with it, I washed myself the best I could standing at the diminutive sink in the space we called the kitchen, and then changed out of my Gypsy garb into a colorful knit, ankle-length skirt—the wardrobe of choice when dealing with outdoor bathrooms and portable toilets—and a black tank top. After glancing at my reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the wall by the door, I slipped a lightweight hoodie on, too. The cutaway armholes on the tank top revealed old bruises at the top of my arms usually hidden from view by the cap sleeves of my costume. I didn’t want Marek to notice the marks, though; I never knew whether to prepare for his apologies or his anger when he saw his handiwork on my flesh, so I opted to hide them instead. At least the new ones were close to the middle of my back and even I could barely see them. Maybe they’d have faded enough by tomorrow that they wouldn’t look so much like fingerprints.

  By eight o’clock, I was on the verge of a meltdown after the day. I just wanted to go to bed, but I was afraid of what Marek might say if he came home and found me asleep already. He liked knowing I’d been sitting there waiting for him. And Killian seemed to be responding subconsciously to my mental and emotional state as well. I finally broke down, dropped to the floor of our trailer, and covered my face in my hands. I didn’t cry—my tears from earlier seemed to have dried up again—but I made a quiet, keening sound that went on and on. I ached for relief, but none came. Killian crawled into my lap and we sat there, patting each other’s backs until we were both drained. When he fell asleep, I put him to bed without bothering to brush his teeth, but I felt too gutted to follow suit.

  I’d left home right after Jordan returned to school, the week before my senior year officially began. I told no one where I was going, partly because I wasn’t exactly sure myself, and as soon as I had made the necessary arrangements to hook up with Marek, I got rid of my cell phone so I wouldn’t be tempted to call home. Or Jordan.