by Max Henry
Maybe I am safer with Malice? After all, he cared enough to take me to the ER. He cared enough to save Rocco. He cared enough to step in, and do something about a situation he could have otherwise turned his head to. He could have walked away, left us to it, but he cared.
The solitary silence in this house has to stop. I can’t take the quiet any longer. Without noise, my mind runs rampant. I could quite literally sit here and think myself into a stupor.
In search of something to fill the void, I get up, and march down the hallway. The place has to have a radio, surely? If not, I can always improvise with a TV. Damn, I didn’t notice if there was a bloody TV. Halfway to the living room, a photo hanging on the wall catches my eye. How did I not see this before? I hesitate, and turn to inspect it further.
Malice is in it, along with five other guys. They’re sitting around a table, each with a beer in hand. It’s the kind of picture you imagine to be a snapshot of happy times, yet the mood of the photo is off. They’re all smiling, hands raised in a toast, yet every single one of them has dead eyes. The whole lot of them are putting it on. Not a single one of them looks genuine.
I step back, tipping my head to the side as I continue to look it over. Why would anyone hang a photo like that? Why would you want a permanent reminder that everyone’s faking the good times? Truth be told, it’s a little depressing.
With my quest to find noise all but forgotten, I carry on toward the living room at a more sedate pace. He said I could know what I wanted to about him. Problem is, I’m not sure where to start. The guy is full of mysteries at every twist and turn. He looks so . . . on-track with his life at first glance, but dig a little deeper and it’s clear he has his own issues.
Maybe that was why he blew up at me. Am I that bad at playing the victim? Do I truly ignore the fact everyone has his or her own battle to fight? I hadn’t thought so, but looking back I can feel that niggle in my gut that says he could be right. After all, that picture speaks volumes about what his life outside of this is like, and I hadn’t taken a moment to consider asking him about it.
How fucking selfish am I?
“Come on, Rocco. Let’s go explore the garden.”
The clicks of nails on a hardwood floor follow as I head outside. I need some fresh air. And I need to think about how to start a conversation with Malice. Because I know that if I ask him questions about his past, he’ll expect information from me in return. It’s basic human nature to want people to reciprocate.
Except I’m terrified that by doing so, all I’ll do is cement his thoughts on my victim-complex.
After all, what have I got to share other than stories of neglect, and misery?
• • • • •
ROCCO AND I lie in the late afternoon sun streaming in the French doors when I finally hear his pick-up return. Last time I checked it didn’t take three hours to buy groceries. My suspicions about what he’s been doing are answered the minute he crosses the threshold.
Malice holds at least five bags in each hand as he edges through the door. I rush over to hold it open for him, and lose the war against ogling his arms while he carries the bags to the kitchen.
“Is there any more?”
He shakes his head, and his biceps flex as he lifts the bags to the counter. “That’s the lot.”
He’s changed clothes since he left, and now elicits inappropriate thoughts from me, showcasing his form in a pair of shorts, and singlet. My money’s placed on the gym taking up the remainder of the past few hours. Either that, or he has some kinky fetish involving sweat.
He catches me ogling, and glances down at his attire. “I needed to blow off some steam.” He shrugs, as though he had to justify where he’s been.
“You don’t need to explain yourself to me.” I open a few cupboards to get a bearing on where everything is kept in this kitchen.
“I would have called to tell you where I was, but I don’t have your number.”
“I don’t have a phone. Never have.” I can feel his eyes on the back of my head as I stack cans of tuna on a shelf.
“How did you plan on calling me the other night, then?”
“I didn’t.”
He grumbles something I can’t make out. “His idea?”
I nod. “Thought I’d use it to talk to other men.”
“That guy’s such a fucking asshole.” He shakes his head, and grabs the milk from a bag. “He wouldn’t have to worry about you wandering if he took care of you in the first place.”
I stop unpacking boxes of crackers, and stare at him. “I wouldn’t have cheated on him.”
Malice shakes his head, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’d be one of the few people excused for doing so if you had.”
“But I wouldn’t have. I’m not like that.” My husband may have been cold, uncaring, and manipulative. Still, it didn’t give me license to be unfaithful. I’m not wired to think that way. Fucked up, really,
“A person has to love you for you to be able to cheat on them,” he says coolly. “I’m wagering he didn’t love you.”
“I’m not sure.” I’d never thought about that. There was no doubt I no longer loved Dylan, but did he think he loved me? Surely not. The masochist in me wanted to believe he did though, and that was why he still came home to me when he had Deandra.
“Have you ever been loved, Jane?” Malice stands with his back to the counter, leaning against the edge with his arms folded.
I fixate on his muscular shoulders while I reply. “I want to say yes.” Definitely must have worked that body part today.
“But?”
“I’m not sure.”
He sighs, and unpacks the last bag. “Twenty questions.”
“Huh?”
“We’ll play Twenty Questions, turn-about, until you’re satisfied you know enough about me, and I feel like I know more about Jane than the terrified woman I used to watch limp to her mailbox every couple of weeks.”
“You used to watch me?” Yep. That’s the only part of that statement that stuck.
“Notice you, more like.”
Huh.
“Who goes first?” I ask.
Malice produces a coin from his pocket. “Heads, or tails?”
“Tails.” I’ve never been at the head of anything.
The coin flips into the air, and he catches it on the back of his hand with a slap. We both lean over, eager to see the result. He pries his fingers away one by one, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, and reveals the head.
“Damn!”
He chuckles at my outburst. “Are you ready for this, Jane?”
“Lay it on me.” I grin, oddly at ease with the concept of sharing information about myself with him. Earlier I would have been thinking of twenty answers to get out of it, but having him close reminds me how comfortable I am around him—when he’s not angry, that is. “What’s your first question?”
“Who proposed? You, or him?”
I raise an eyebrow. Hadn’t picked that to be the first question. “Him.”
“Why did you say yes?”
“I loved him, back then.”
“When did you realize you were wrong?”
“The first time it got serious enough that I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning.”
He cringes, and buries the hurt as quickly as it arrived. “How long were you happy?”
I look away from his expectant gaze, and run my eye around the moldings of the ceiling. I’ve been miserable so long it takes me a while to think back on it. “A year?”
“You’re not overly sure of your answer.”
“I’m not sure if I was ever truly happy.”
He nods knowingly. “Favorite memory?”
I smile. I know this one. “Sunday ice creams at the market with my dad when I was a kid.”
The corners of his lips curl up. “Least favorite.”
“Thinking I was pregnant last year.”
The smirk falls from his lips faster than a plane in a nos
edive. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not. If you had any sense about you, you’d be relieved, like I was when I got my next period.”
“Let’s go with something safe.” He swallows thickly. “Any siblings?”
“One. An older sister.”
“Why don’t you talk to her?”
“Haven’t since she left home when I was twelve.”
He nods. “Parents: married, or divorced?”
“Married.”
“How old are you?” A grin spreads across his face.
“What are you smiling about?”
“Don’t women hate being asked that?”
“Usually, but for whatever reason I couldn’t care less if you knew.” I smile. His grin is nothing short of infectious. “Twenty-seven. You?”
“Not your turn yet, Jane.” He narrows his eyes at me, the grin fixed in place. “I’ll give you this one though. Thirty-one.”
“I wouldn’t have picked it.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“How many questions are we up to?” It occurs to me that neither of us seems to have been counting.
“I’m not sure. You go.”
“It’s not twenty. I know that much.” I lean a hip into the counter, and cross my arms.
“Maybe, but I’m out of questions for now. I’ll save mine for the next round.”
I nod as he walks over to the remaining shopping, and pulls a few items out. “Fair enough. What do you do for a job?”
He stops unpacking for the briefest second, but I see the tension knot in his back as he carries on.
“Butcher.”
“Oh.” Hadn’t picked that, but it would explain the arms. “How long exactly have you lived next door?”
“Long enough.” He glances my way when I wait for more. “I can’t remember.”
His answer doesn’t wash, but I decide to press on. “Who are those people in the photo in your hall?”
He places the can of corn in his hand on the counter, and slowly turns to look at me. A frown pinches his brow. “Going straight for the personal ones, huh?”
“And asking a woman her age isn’t?” I laugh.
He doesn’t. “Next.”
I bite back the words itching to roll off my tongue; the complaints reminding him that he said he’d share everything I wanted to know. Memories of anger and fear still cling to my skin. I’m not quite ready to go back there yet.
“Brothers, or sisters?” I figure asking him the same thing he asked me would be a good thing to go with.
How wrong am I?
His narrowed glare causes every hair on my body to rise. I sidestep out of the wake of his anger after he looks away.
“How about we get this stuff in the cupboards, and then you can decide what we’ll do with that chicken for dinner?” he says.
Evasion: 101. Change the subject.
“Fine.”
I arrange the oranges and apples he bought into a large bowl I locate in the pantry. Bags rustle, and packets hit the back of the shelves with too much force behind me. I map out a mental safe-zone around where I stand, and ensure my work is confined to that space. The irritability that radiates from him singes every time I get too close.
A packet of pasta slides out of the cupboard he tossed it into, and he picks it up. The plastic wrapping flies into the shelving, and the bag splits open. Spaghetti lengths cascade off the counter, and into the space between the fridge, and cupboards.
“Fuck it!”
Every muscle in my body tenses. “Look, I’m sorry for asking the wrong thing, okay? Until I know anything about you, I don’t know what’s off-limits.”
“Shut it, Jane.”
He leans into the heels of his hands braced on the edge of the counter, and hangs his head.
“I didn’t mean to get you angry again. I’ll just, um, go to my room or something.”
“I said to shut it, Jane.”
“I just feel like I need to apologize—“
“Shut! Up!”
Whoa. Officially too much for me to handle right now. Fat, unwanted tears slide over my cheeks, and my nose becomes a veritable tap. Being in the same room as him terrifies the shit out of me when he’s like this. Why the fuck couldn’t he have shown me this side of him before I chose to come here?
I cry at the fear which courses through me. I cry at the injustice of leaving one asshole for another. I cry at my stupidity of daydreaming that we were something. What fucked-up fantasy did I honestly think I could carry off? Did it not occur to me that he’d see right through my pantomime sooner or later? Realize what a nut-job he’d taken on? Send me packing?
I should go, yet my feet won’t engage the ‘walk’ signal my brain gives off. My legs are disconnected from my body right now. My brain screams ‘run’, but my legs reply ‘hell no’. I’m that much of a failure that I can’t co-ordinate my own movements.
Hopeless.
Malice sighs, and turns to look at my puffy, snotty state. “I’m sorry, Jane.”
I stare. Does he think ‘sorry’ is enough?
“What can I do to make it up to you?” He throws his hands behind his head, and like the mind-fucked slapper I am, I lose my thought patterns in the hard swell of his chest.
Beyond hopeless.
“I . . . I don’t know.” Somehow I manage to steer my brain back in the direction of my flight instinct, and lo-and-behold, my legs work this time.
Each step I take comes faster than the last, until I jog around the corner of the bedroom door. Rocco enters, hot on my heels, and sits at my feet as I flop onto the bed. What the hell do I do? Stay? Go? Scream? Cry? Fight? Or give up?
I run with cry. It seems the most fitting for the state of desolation I’m heading toward. Nothing makes you feel more of a reject than not knowing how to solve your problems. What do I think will happen if I stay here? I’ll roll over and find a directive plastered to the ceiling? Malice will hand me a mud-map showing the way to a happy life?
Wake up, Jane. Nobody’s going to save you.
Knights in shining armor don’t exist.
WAY TO go, fucker.
I walk out of the kitchen, knowing if I even contemplate cleaning that fucking pasta up I’m going to go hulk on the shit. Pure, unbridled anger swirls beneath the surface, and if I don’t find an outlet to unleash this, then I know who’ll suffer.
Jane.
Why couldn’t I answer her fucking questions? What’s so hard about saying ‘I’ve watched you hurt, and heard you cry for months’? What’s so hard about saying ‘I’m an only child’?
What’s so hard about sharing, for a fucking change?
The boys are always on my back about opening up more, and now that I find a person—a woman—who actually gives two shits, I shut down.
Fuck you, asshole.
This guy I’ve become is a jerk, a grade-A fucktard. And to think I did all this on purpose. How’s that self-preservation working out now, huh? Having fun on your own?
No sound comes from her room, and I’m not sure if that’s something that should alarm me, or comfort me. Thank Christ she’s not crying anymore—that shit burned. But being so quiet? What if she’s tried to top herself?
Fuck. Would she try that? How could I have not thought about her level of stability before now? The woman’s walked out of an abusive marriage, so who’s to say her head’s screwed all the way on?
I head to her door, itching to settle this worry that’s taking residence in my chest. I hate that fucking feeling. I’ve done all I can to shut it out: pushed people away, stayed out of others’ affairs, kept to myself. Yet here it is, making camp under my ribs.
“Jane?” I knock lightly on the door, causing it to move. The fact it’s open is a start.
She pushes up to sit on the bed, lips pulled down into a pout. Why does that look so sexy on her? She’s hurt; it shouldn’t register. Fuck, I am as sick as that asshole she left.
“Do you get why I’m upset?” she a
sks in a cold, level voice.
“My anger scares you?”
She shakes her head. “Yes, but that’s not all of it.” She pats the bed next to her, and Rocco jumps up. “Not you, doofus.” She smiles. “I meant him.”
A simple nod of her head in my direction and I’m willing to fall at her feet and beg to be patted.
Rocco shimmies aside, and I take the spot next to her. Lifting my gaze to hers, I find such honesty in her eyes that it throws me for a six. This woman—this warrior—has lived, and survived her own personal hell for years, and she’s willing to take a chance, to open up to me, give me that sacred part of her that nobody can take away—the essence of who she is.
And I can’t do the same for her.
She’s supposed to be the fucked up one in all of this, not me. So why do I feel as though I’m the one with his head resting on the psychologist’s couch?
“I’ve been asleep for a long time,” she starts. “Mentally, not physically. This past day or so with you—it’s opened my eyes to how much of a coma I let myself slide into. By stepping away from that place, from his influence, it’s like you passed me a torch in a dark tunnel; I can see the way out now, and when I look back I can see how black that place truly was.
“Dylan did love me once; at least, I think he did. I have to believe it, otherwise the thought of how many years I wasted on a person who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about me makes me want to curl up under the bed sheets, and cry until I wither away from lack of bodily-fluids.”
She smiles, and I chuckle at her humor.
“He never beat me from day one. That started a few years into our marriage, but what I can see now is that he’d already broken me by that stage. I was so far gone in here”—She taps her head— “that I didn’t think twice about giving him the benefit of the doubt. ‘My Dylan wouldn’t do that on purpose,’ I told myself, ‘it was one bad day.’ I tried to justify everything. I made excuses, and the more he did it, the more I let myself believe it was my fault—exactly like he’d tell me.
“I can’t go back to that, but when you lose your temper like you did back there, I panic. I panic because if you’re the same as him, then what chance do I have on my own? If all of this”—She waves her hands around the room—“is no more than the same illusion I lived at the start of my marriage, then surely the real world will chew me up, and spit me out. I need to learn to do this myself, and to trust my judgment. I can’t let myself be brainwashed by people, and I can’t be the victim anymore. I can’t rely on you.”