by Max Henry
My words from earlier come back to haunt me. “I didn’t mean what I said.”
“Yes, you did.” She touches my knee. “And I needed to hear it, because in all honesty, I would have carried on using you like a crutch, and blaming everyone but myself for the situation I’m in. If you didn’t hold a mirror to my vices, and show me how dependent I’ve become on others to fix everything for me, then what would have made me change?”
What on earth is she on about? How is any of this her fault? “You aren’t to blame for what he did to you, Jane. And it’s not wrong to need the help of people in a better position than you.” She doesn’t flinch when I reach for her face, and rub my thumb across her jaw.
“Maybe not,” she whispers. “But it is my fault for allowing it to continue. And as you rightly pointed out, not everyone around me is in a better position.”
I trail my fingers around the shell of her ear, tucking the lose strands back. She smiles, and any trace of my anger from earlier vanishes. Her presence is soothing. How could that asshole not see it? How could he waste such a woman?
“I’m a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, and there’s a right time for the answers to present themselves to us,” I say. She’s my answer. “Maybe you weren’t ready to step away until now?”
“Maybe.” Her eyes shut, and I can see her fight back more tears.
“Don’t cry again.”
She laughs. “Trust me, I’m trying not to. I’m kind of over it as well.”
The pain twists her features, and instantly I miss the smile she gave me moments before. It’s clear her thoughts aren’t in this room with us, and I can’t think of anything else I can do to pull her back to me.
I kiss her—slowly and tenderly. I don’t want her to run, and if I throw her down like every part of my being wants to, she’d be out that door before I could say ‘fuck it.’ At first, she tenses, but the crucial difference is she doesn’t flinch. There’s no fear in her stiffness, only confusion.
As soft, and sweet as her lips are, I pull back to give her a moment to digest what’s going on. She has to be clear on this. No way am I pushing the envelope. She has to want what I’m ready to give.
“What are we?” she asks.
I frown, pondering the same. Indeed, what are we? More important—should we be doing this?
“I’m not sure,” I answer in earnest. “I’ve never stopped to think about it.”
She smiles, and my chest fucking vibrates with something I don’t know how to handle.
“Then let’s not name it,” she instructs.
I nod, and lean my forehead into hers. Jane’s hands brace her weight on my knees. The warmth from her touch radiates through the thick denim of my jeans.
In this moment, I know above all else, that her touch is the one that brands me.
EIGHT DAYS ago I told Malice not to name this thing we have going on, but name it is all I’ve tried to do.
The papers arrived from the police to confirm the temporary restraining order against Dylan is in place while we sort the charges out. I plucked those slips of white from the stamped envelope, held them in my hands, and bawled like a damn baby.
Meaningless letters typed in sequence. Words on a page. A letter. Those forms are none of those things; they’re step one on the road to independence. They are physical proof that I, Jane Darrow, have found the gall to change my path in life.
The next day, Malice returned from work with four identical picture frames, A4 in size. He served take-out, poured me a wine, and sat us down at the table to have an impromptu craft session, placing those pages in the frames.
They now hang on a section of wall you can’t help but pass everywhere you go in the house.
That night was the first night I lay awake in bed, long after Malice had retired to his room, and tried to name what we were.
Lovers?
Partners?
A fantasy I’ll wake from?
I’m still trying to work it out. Rocco nudges my feet as I stir the coffee before me into oblivion. I glance down, smile, and rub his head. Even he behaves like he’s known Malice all his life. Last night I woke in the small hours to find Rocco gone. My overactive imagination thought the worst, until I rose from bed, stood in the bedroom doorway, and smiled like a nutcase at the sight of him curled up against Malice’s back.
Since my nightmare that first night, Malice always leaves his door open. I have to admit, there’s something about removing that physical barrier that puts me at ease. I’m not isolated, forgotten. Maybe he means to, or maybe he doesn’t, but it feels as if he’s trying to show that he needs me safe. He’s trying to show me that he cares.
It’s as though he can’t drift off unless he knows I’m okay.
I tested the theory last night, after I watched him sleep with Rocco pressed close. I shut my bedroom door. When I woke this morning, it was open.
Last I checked, dogs can’t open doors.
“Morning.” The husky timbre of his voice first thing does strange things to me. I gave up fighting them after the third morning together.
“Good morning to you, too.” The words sit on the tip of my tongue, yet I’m careful not to mention his new sleeping buddy. Not when it means I watched him.
“Shit, I’ve been hanging out for the weekend.” He stretches his bare arms over his equally bare torso.
I dump the teaspoon, and peer over the rim of my mug at the ink that covers sections of his body. The imagery is darkened by the impressive tan that disappears into his waistband.
“Hard week?”
“Had a few heavy orders, so yeah, I’m a little achy in places.” He rubs his neck, and shuffles to the coffee I’d made for him. “Did you know I’d be up?”
“You have a routine.”
“No I don’t.” Malice smiles, and takes a sip.
“Yes you do.” I smirk. “You’re always up ten minutes either side of seven.”
“Am I?” His eyebrow rises.
“Do you ever look at the clock?”
“Not on the weekends.” He winks, and I fidget on the spot.
“Your phone was ringing before.” I nod to where it sits on the bench-top. “I didn’t want to wake you for it. Figured if it was important they’d try again.”
“Probably one of the boys.”
He still hasn’t told me who the guys in the picture are. He was out again last night, and I wonder if that’s who with.
Malice snatches the mobile from the bench, and scrolls through the notifications while he sips at the coffee. Hot, brown liquid spurts from his lips, and he places the mug down to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “Shit.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Just something unexpected.”
You’re telling me.
I quirk a smile, and scull the last of my searing-hot drink. “Wanna share?”
He shakes his head, and tosses the mobile back on the bench. It skitters over the surface until it comes to rest against the coffee canister.
An awkward silence ensues, and the glazed look in his eyes says he’s far from where I am.
“So, since the police returned my ID the other day, I’ve been thinking there’s no reason why I shouldn’t get a job again.”
He re-joins me with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Thought there wasn’t a better way to get back on the horse than to earn some cash, and look after myself.”
“I’m in no hurry if you aren’t.” He takes a more subdued sip of his coffee.
“I can’t stay here forever. If I’m going to go it on my own—like I should have years ago—then I need to get my finances sorted. Getting a job is step one, Malice. I heard them mention on the radio that a new department store is opening this week. Thought I could start there.”
He nods. “I guess you have a point. Did you want to check the paper for properties, too? We could look this weekend.”
A smile pulls my lips into a soft curve. I haven�
�t been this excited in a damn long time. “Sounds great.”
“Well,” he starts, and then finishes his drink. “Give me some time to shower, and dress, and then we’ll go get a weekend edition.”
I nod, still smiling like a loony. The man is fine enough how he wakes—what the hell will a shower improve on?
“While I’m doing that,” he says, nodding toward his phone. “Why don’t you call your parents?”
“What?” I tip my head, wondering why on earth he thinks that would be a good idea.
“Jane, take a look at yourself. Look at how much you’ve changed already. You smile more; you look healthier. For fuck’s sake, you left the dirty dishes in the sink overnight the other day.”
“Did I?” I can’t believe I’d do something I would have considered so reckless a fortnight ago.
“You did.” He smiles. “You’re changing, babe, and it’s good. I just wonder if calling your parents might help purge the last of that shit in your head that makes you think you haven’t.”
Malice steps out of the kitchen, and a minute later, water rushes through the pipes beneath my feet. Only thing about a timber-floored house—no sound insulation.
I sigh, and scrub my hands over my face.
The mere idea of calling my parents has me breaking out in a sweat. How can he think I’ve changed when I’m still so weak when it comes to ringing them? I walk to his phone, and pick it up. My eyes trace out the numbers that would connect me with the people who brought me into this world—the people whom I trusted not to let me get hurt.
Again, I’m shifting blame. I’m looking for an out when in fact the misery with Dylan was born from my choices. I wanted to marry the guy, I moved out of home to be with him, and I picked him over my parents.
They used to warn me about spending too much time with him, about rushing into commitment. But what did they know? They were just a couple of old stiffs, and I was young and full of love.
I was stupid, more like.
My breath hisses between my teeth as I summon the last of my courage. If not for me, and not for them, I’ll do this for Malice. I’ll do this to show him that I was right, that they don’t care. I’ll do it to prove that he doesn’t have all the answers for me.
The rings echo through my head like the toll of funeral bells. The wait is ominous, and right as I prepare to hear the click of the answer machine, a blast from my past has me weak at the knees.
“Hello?” After all this time, my mother’s voice hasn’t changed a bit.
“Hello?” she asks again. I realize that I’m standing mute, stunned, in shock. Speak, Jane!
“Hi, Mom.”
More silence from the both of us before her sobs resonate through the phone, causing the earpiece to vibrate against my skull. She sniffs, and murmurs something incomprehensible. A lonely tear slips free, and crests my cheek. I can’t deny it—I’ve missed this woman. Knowing that she’s so overjoyed to hear from me tears at my heart. She did care. I was wrong.
My parents didn’t give up.
“I thought I’d never hear from you,” she finally manages.
“I never thought I’d call.”
“What changed?” I can’t deny the hope in her voice.
“I left him.”
She sucks in a sharp breath. “He had you under a spell, Jane. Your father and I, we tried to call so many times, but he always had the upper hand. We tried to come see you, about a year ago. He made it clear we weren’t welcome.”
My heart seizes. I thought it impossible to hate Dylan more than I do, but . . . I do. “He’s my past, Mom.” What’s done is done.
Shame on me for believing Dylan’s lies. Shame on me for thinking my parents didn’t love me. Shame on me for assuming they gave up.
“So, where are you? Where are you staying?” she asks.
“With a friend.”
“You thank them from me. I’m glad you have support, honey.”
“I am, too.” Where would I be without Malice?
“Can I come visit you?” The apprehension with which she asks churns at my insides. It isn’t right for a parent to be afraid to ask their child if they can see them.
“I don’t feel comfortable bringing you here.” Showing you him. “Can we meet somewhere?”
“Sure, honey. You name it and I’ll be there.”
The thought of seeing her is exhilarating; I can’t wait to iron out the creases in our relationship. But, at the same time, the concept of going out on my own scares me shitless. Like, seriously, my palms are growing clammy. If Dylan found me—restraining order or not—things could go south, fast. What if he happens to walk into where I meet up with Mom? What will I do? What would he do? Therefore, it seemed only logical to make a time today, when Malice will be near me in case things go wrong. I talk with Mom for another ten or so minutes—long enough to arrange where, and when we’ll meet at the mall.
Now is my time to embrace the chance to change. Sure, I’m terrified, but who isn’t when it comes to massive life-changing decisions? All those years I always thought leaving Dylan would be the hardest part, but how wrong was I? I never took into consideration how hard it would be to start over. Leaving was the first step down an untraveled, and obscured road—I have no idea where this journey will take me until I’m brave enough to experience it.
And the first step is going out on my own to meet my mom.
Doing what I should have done so many years ago.
SHE’S TALKING—muttering something about how she doesn’t like matching décor, but all I can do is stare at her like an idiot.
How I haven’t bowled over some old lady yet, I don’t know, but I can’t peel my eyes from the way her brow creases when she stresses her point, or the way she tips her head to the left when she smirks. I’m willing to bet she hasn’t talked this much without fear, or interruption for years.
Jane told me about her brief conversation with her mother on the way here. I threw that challenge at her, not expecting her to take it, but merely to plant the seed of an idea that could grow over time. When I stepped out of the bathroom after my shower and saw my phone had moved? Proud. There’s no other word for it.
“Don’t you think?” she asks.
Now I’m done for. I haven’t heard a fucking thing she’s said while we’ve walked the length of the mall, hand-in-hand. An odd word here or there, but not enough cohesively to know what she’s asked me about.
“I’ll take your word on it,” I reply, and hold my breath.
She nods, with that crease in her brow, and I let my lungs empty. That was too close. I’m well aware I shouldn’t be so wrapped up in her, but damn, it quiets my mind.
My phone burns in my pocket, demanding I answer the latest message from this morning. Yet I can’t. Not yet.
I’m still in shock. Seventeen years, and now he wants to talk.
“Can we duck in here before we go?” Jane tugs my hand.
I follow her into a woman’s clothing store, and I swear to God I want to cry. Why? Why would she do this to me? I’m a guy, for fuck’s sake; we don’t do dresses, and shit.
Her face lights up when she reads my poorly-hidden apprehension.
“Come on. I only want to try one thing on.” She beelines for a blue and grey dress. “I’ve seen this so many times in the same shop at the mall I used to go to.”
She doesn’t need to say it—I know. He’d never let her entertain the idea of buying something nice for herself.
Jane darts through to the changing rooms, and gestures for me to sit on the single stacker-chair by the entrance. I do as I’m told. Good little puppy. A few minutes later, and two visits to her cubicle from the attendant, a whistle snaps my head around.
“Malice,” she whispers in a harsh tone. Her arm waves wildly from behind the curtain. “Come look.”
“Can I go in there?”
“Of course.” I turn to take in the assistant who has magically re-appeared over my shoulder. “Wait here,” she instructs.
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I watch the svelte blonde make her way to Jane’s curtain, and poke her head in. A second later, she rips the curtain wide, and leads Jane out to turn before the full-length mirror at the end of the change area.
I swear these fucking legs worked a second ago.
“What do you think?” Jane asks.
My jaw drops and some odd croak comes out. Not exactly the word I had in my head.
The assistant claps. “I think he likes it.”
Jane twists her hips from side to side, checking out all angles. The dress fits her like a glove—like literally, as tight as a glove. It hugs her hips, and pushes her breasts up a little. The bottom falls short of mid-thigh, tight as hell, and showing her toned legs.
Damn.
She looks fucking phenomenal.
“I don’t think I could ever wear it out, though.” And like that, shy Jane is back.
“Why not?” Now my voice works. Typical.
“It’s kind of dressy for everyday.”
“Then wear it out to a bar, or something.”
She looks at me, and blinks. “When would I go to a bar?”
“Tonight.” How’s that for spontaneity?
“Tonight?” Her eyes grow wide.
“Yeah, tonight. Do you have somewhere else to be?” I narrow my gaze on her.
She looks at the assistant, who’s grinning like the Cheshire cat, and back to me. “I think you know the answer to that.”
Today suddenly got a hell of a lot better.
“Go find three others,” I say, and point out into the store.
“Oh, I don’t know. I can’t really—”
“Do it, Jane,” I order. “I can guarantee you’ll be begging me to go back next weekend, and I know how you women get about wearing the same thing twice.”