by Mari Madison
I shrugged. “They worked . . . somewhat. It wasn’t until I got on meds that they really started going away.”
He scowled at this. I sighed. Here we went. I could have predicted Troy was anti-medication when it came to stuff like this. He was so manly. He would see it as a weakness, of course.
“There’s nothing wrong with taking medication if you have a problem,” I said. “I mean, if you had diabetes, wouldn’t you take insulin? If you had cancer, wouldn’t you do chemo?”
He stared down at his plate and I could practically see his thoughts warring through his head. “Sure,” he said at last. “But in this case there’s nothing physically wrong with me. I don’t have some chemical imbalance. I just went through something tough. And my brain needs time to get a grip. That’s what Griffin says anyway.”
“Griffin? Is that your therapist?”
“My mentor, actually. Griffin Walker—you remember him, right? The reporter who got his leg blown off overseas a couple years ago? He lives right here in San Diego. I feed him beer, he gives me good advice.”
I pursed my lips. “In addition to your therapist, right?”
Troy shrugged, not meeting my eyes.
“You are going to a therapist, aren’t you?” I asked, concern welling up inside of me. When he didn’t answer, I pressed on. “Troy, you went through something terrible. Something no person should ever have to go through. And while I’m sure Griffin is great at giving advice it’s not the same as—”
He slammed his fist against the table. “Sarah, don’t fucking start, okay?”
I shut my mouth, suddenly frightened at the look I saw in his eyes. This was not the look of the Troy I knew. It was as if a monster lay deep in its depths, warning me away.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean . . .” I trailed off, not sure what it was, actually, that I didn’t mean. I didn’t mean to help? No, that was crazy. I wanted to help him—that was why I was here. I didn’t mean to pry into his personal business? Maybe. But he was obviously hurting. And if he’d already shut everyone else out . . .
“No,” he shot back. “No one ever means it. They just want to help.” His voice took on a mocking tone that sent a shiver to my bones.
Oh my poor Troy.
He jerked to his feet. His body stiff and angry. As angry as it was frightened just twenty minutes before. I wanted to grab him and hug him again and tell him everything would be okay. That it was all right to admit that you were scared. That you were feeling your life spiraling out of control. That you needed help. That you weren’t coping well on your own.
But at that moment I wasn’t sure what he would do to me if I tried. The anger flashing through him was both bold and frightening. As if he were possessed by some raging demon he could barely keep under wraps.
“I need to get out of here,” he muttered under his breath.
“Wait, what?” I rose to my feet. “Troy, we’re eating dinner. Just sit down.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about this anymore if it makes you feel uncomfortable. We can just pop popcorn and finish our movie marathon. I brought Sunset Boulevard over—we can watch the rest.” I could feel tears of desperation prick at my eyes. I did not want him to walk out that door. Get behind a wheel. Not with the way his body was shaking with fury and frustration.
But he was already putting on his jacket and heading to the door. I watched, helplessly, as he grabbed it with jerky hands and yanked it open. I waited for him to say something—anything—but he just stepped through, slamming the door behind him. Leaving me alone in his apartment.
I slumped back into my seat, staring at the unfinished plates of pasta. I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach, and the tears fell down my cheeks like rain. Why I had pushed him? Everything had been going all right until I’d stupidly brought up the medication thing. But what was I supposed to say? He was the one who had asked. He’d asked and I’d given him an honest answer. I wasn’t ashamed to have taken antidepressants when I needed them. In fact, if anything, antidepressants were the reason I could be here today.
And Troy—Troy who had suffered a thousand times worse than me—he wasn’t even going to a professional? It made my heart sick to imagine him trying to deal with this all on his own, without any help. Well, besides his old war buddy who was probably just as messed up as he was. My mind flashed back to the scene I’d walked in on in the kitchen earlier that evening. Him on his knees, hands over his ears as the smoke alarm wailed. As the flames rose. What if I hadn’t been there to switch off the burner? To throw the pan in the sink? To smother the fire?
He needed help, whether he wanted to admit it or not. And I was clearly the only one around willing to tell him that. And I would have to continue to tell him that—whether he liked it or not, I realized suddenly. Whether it ruined any chance of friendship we had—whether it caused him to hate me or think I was some horrible bitch. I didn’t care. It didn’t matter in the end. I cared about Troy. And I would get him help—even if it destroyed us in the process.
Because his life was more important in the end.
Firming my resolve, I rose to my feet and collected the dishes, no longer hungry. I would clean up, then I would wait for him to come home. And then we would talk—really talk and I wouldn’t let him tune me out this time. I wouldn’t let him turn me away. He could be as grumpy and mean and dismissive as he wanted to be. Those emotions were only symptoms of a deeper issue anyway. His way of coping with his fear, by driving everyone who loved him away.
Sighing, I set about washing the dishes, one by one—by hand, instead of the dishwasher. There was something soothing, I’d found, about washing dishes. Your mind focused on a simple task. The rest of the world’s stresses fading at the edges. And I needed that right now. To wrangle control over my own emotions so I could be ready to help him when he returned. So I could be his rock—even if he was determined to cling on to quicksand.
• • •
I had just finished the dishes and was settling in to flip through some Netflix, still waiting for Troy to return, when my cell phone rang. A quick glance at the caller ID told me it was my father. I groaned. Seriously, could this day possibly get any crappier? I considered letting the call go to voice mail, but eventually gave in and answered. Otherwise he’d just keep calling back.
“Hey, Dad,” I greeted into the phone.
“Hey, baby girl,” he boomed back. “Where are you?”
“I’m safe, Dad.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I didn’t mean it to be.”
I heard his long sigh. “You love making things difficult for me, don’t you? I’m only trying to look out for you, you know.”
“I know, Dad. I’m sorry,” I acquiesced. I paused, then added, “So were you able to find anything more about the threats against me? Who might be making them?”
“Yes. That’s actually why I’m calling.”
He paused, and the silence seemed to stretch out between us, long and sharp. I frowned, feeling a small bit of anxiety rise inside of me.
“Well?” I asked, when I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Look, sweetie, I don’t want you to be alarmed. But I was just informed that Ryan Robinson was released a week and a half ago.”
I froze, my heart suddenly in my throat. “Ryan? Ryan’s out on parole? Already?”
“It’s been five years, sweetheart. And you know how overcrowded the prisons are. Time off for good behavior is almost guaranteed these days.”
Right. I sank back onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling, my pulse beating rapidly against my wrists. This was not good. This was so not good. Ryan walking the streets of San Diego. Me getting threats. The rock at the movie theater—only days after he got out of prison. It could be a coincidence, of course. But where I came from two plus two usually equaled four
.
If Ryan was out of prison, I could be in big trouble.
My mind flashed back to the courtroom scene five years ago. The judge sentencing Ryan to prison as I watched from the back of the room. I still remembered the look on Ryan’s face as he turned to me. The fury flashing in his eyes.
“You’ll pay for this!” he had raged, as the guards attempted to drag him away. “You think you’re untouchable. But you’re not. Someday, somehow—when you least expect it—I will make you pay.”
I shuddered, fear slicing through me like a sharp knife. I glanced at the front door, wishing Troy would hurry up and come back. I didn’t want to be here alone. I didn’t want to be anywhere alone, actually. Not with Ryan out there, somewhere, ready to begin his tour of revenge.
“Sweetie? Are you still there?”
I shook myself. “Yes. Sorry. I’m just . . . a little taken aback. I had no idea they’d let him out so soon. He was supposed to have ten years.”
“I know.” My father’s voice was tight. “You see? This is exactly why the crime bill needs to go through. To prevent this kind of thing. We have to instill tougher penalties and give prisons enough money to carry them out. Otherwise we’re just going to have more and more criminals roaming our streets.”
I raked my hand through my hair, my thoughts torn. While I didn’t necessarily agree with my dad’s crime bill—I did agree on one thing. Ryan being out on the streets was bad news all around.
“Look, sweetie. Tomorrow morning I want you to go down to the police station. I need you to file an official restraining order against Ryan. At least then if he does try something we can get him. We can lock that bastard back up and this time we’ll throw away the key.”
I nodded absently, staring down at my hands. “I can do that,” I said.
“Great. Where are you now? I can send Carl to pick you up. Bring you back to the house.”
I bit my lower lip, wondering if I should answer truthfully. “I’m at Troy’s apartment,” I said at last. “But I’m fine. Really.”
“Troy’s apartment?” my father barked over the phone. “Sarah! What the hell are you thinking? You do realize, don’t you, that getting mixed up with Troy was how this whole thing got started in the first place?”
When I didn’t answer right away, he gave an exasperated sigh. “Sweetie, you’ve spent years trying to get your life back together after what that man did to you. Don’t go backsliding on me now.”
I closed my eyes and opened them again, trying to reset my sanity. “I’m not, Dad. I swear to God. Everything’s fine,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “There’s nothing going on between me and Troy. I’m just helping him. He’s going through a rough time. He needs me.”
“Like he needed you five years ago? To rob your own family blind?” my dad demanded. I winced. Of course he would go there.
“Dad . . .” I tried, then stopped. Because what good would it do? My father would always think the worst of Troy. And I couldn’t really blame him, either.
“You know I could just track your phone,” he said quietly. “Find out where you are and pick you up?”
“I know,” I said. “But you’re not going to.”
“Give me one reason I shouldn’t.”
“I’ll give you three. Because you trust me. Because I’m a grown-up now. Because I don’t need you to save me.” I paused, then added, “This princess can save herself.”
He sighed. “Okay,” he said. “But I want you to fill out that restraining order. First thing—even before you go to work.”
“I can do that.”
“And if anything else happens, you let me know first, okay? Don’t rely on Troy or anyone else. I’m your father. I can help you. But only if you let me.”
“Okay,” I agreed. I paused, then added, “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, princess. More than anything ever.”
I hung up the phone, setting it down beside me. I squirmed in my seat, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. My eyes darted to the windows, then to the door. Then back to the TV. Of course now I was way too nervous to watch anything anymore. Instead, I found myself glancing back over to the door again, wondering when Troy would come back. If he would come back.
Then I thought about Ryan.
Ryan being out there, somewhere.
Ryan, ready to seek his revenge.
A revenge, in a weird way, he kind of deserved.
I sighed, thinking back to the first day I had met Ryan. At the Environmental Club meeting I’d attended at Troy’s request. Even from the beginning he’d seemed a bit—smarmy to me. Like he was secretly laughing at the rest of us behind our backs. Troy, on the other hand, clearly worshipped the ground he walked on. Everything Ryan said was law. And when Ryan said, “Jump!” Troy only wanted to know how high.
Turned out? Pretty damn high. Or low, if you wanted to be technical. Criminally low.
In the end, it was my testimony that sent Ryan away. That exposed him for being the fraud he really was. I still remembered how disillusioned his other little followers had been when they learned the truth about their fearless leader. That he wasn’t actually some hero, out to save the world, just a high-tech bank robber with a great spin. Sure, he tried to play it off like he was Robin Hood. Taking from the rich to help the poor. But I wasn’t so sure his motives were as altruistic as he wanted them to appear.
I probably should have gone to jail, too. After all, I was the one who’d tricked my dad’s IT guy into giving me the passwords to the accounts. The ones that allowed Ryan to hack the servers and hold them hostage until they met his demands. But my dad couldn’t allow my indiscretions to ruin his political future. And so everything with my name attached had been swept under the rug.
Ryan had gone to prison. The IT guy had lost his job. And I had gotten off scot-free.
At least up until now.
But it’ll be fine, I tried to assure myself. I’ll do the restraining order thing tomorrow. He’ll know I’m onto him then. And at that point if he even tries to come near me, he’ll go straight back to prison. No passing go. No collecting two hundred dollars.
I turned back to the TV, squaring my shoulders and firming my resolve. It would be fine. Everything would turn out totally fine in the end. I was here, I was safe. Troy would be back any minute now and we could talk things through.
But all the assurances in the world flew out of my head when suddenly I heard a knock on the front door.
twenty-seven
TROY
I was a bastard. I was such a bastard.
After leaving my house, I drove around for nearly an hour not being able to will myself to pull over. To turn the car around and go home. To apologize to the one girl who, for some crazy reason, still gave a damn about me. Who wanted to save me from myself.
What was I thinking? What had I done? She’d gotten me through that panic attack like some goddamned superhero. She hadn’t pitied me when I’d fallen apart on the kitchen floor. Instead, she’d respected my space. She’d talked me down. She’d given me the support I needed to get a freaking grip. Everything a stupid, pathetic bastard like me needed her to do, she’d done it—without complaint.
And then, when she’d dared to go one step further—to suggest I needed professional help (cause, like, duh), I blew up at her. I ran away like a fucking child.
She was right, of course. I did need help. This just proved how much I needed it. I’d tried to be strong. Wanting so desperately to prove to those assholes who took me that they weren’t able to break me. That I could come back doubly strong—doubly fierce. Like they’d never thrown me in that hole.
But I was just fooling myself. Refusing to admit what everyone else could clearly see. Because I was broken. Deeply and maybe permanently broken. And if I didn’t find a way to get my shit together soon, the last few people in the world who st
ill believed in me would be forced to give up and walk away.
Like Sarah. If she hadn’t already.
I wouldn’t have blamed her if she wasn’t at my apartment when I finally crawled back. What reason did she have to stay? I’d done nothing but bring misery to her life over and over again. She could find a lot of better things to do with her time than waste it worrying about me.
A screeching horn startled me back to the present. Heart in my throat, I swerved, slamming my car into a stop sign, snapping the sign in two. My car jumped off the road, almost flipping over as it hit the dirt and I screamed. Somehow, by the grace of some higher power I didn’t deserve, I managed to keep it upright. And stop before I hit a huge old tree.
I sucked in a breath, my vision spinning. The tree loomed before me, tall and strong. As if daring me to take it on. Thank God I’d managed to stop in time. There was no way my car would have had any chance against its solid trunk.
I slammed the steering wheel with my fist, fury raging through me again. Of all the stupid things. The stupid, stupid things. I mean, here I’d survived bombings, military coups, being imprisoned. Only to almost die in suburban San Diego at the hands of a fucking tree? What was wrong with me? I knew I’d been too upset to be behind the wheel. But I’d done it anyway. Because the anger raging inside of me had burned away all common sense.
Was I slowly going crazy? Would this only get worse with time? Griffin had promised me it would get better—but at the moment that seemed like an impossible dream. There was no way I could ever go back to being the person I had been. So innocent and naïve. The idiot guy who believed he could single-handedly make a difference in this screwed-up world.
Now I knew better.
I raked a hand through my hair. I couldn’t go back to being that guy. But I couldn’t very well live like this, either. Tonight alone, I’d almost burned down my place and slammed headfirst into a tree. Who knew what adventures I’d have tomorrow and if I’d manage to survive them?
My thoughts turned to Sarah’s suggestion of medication. Could something like that actually help? Or would it turn me into some mindless zombie, wandering through life, completely numb? Not that, at the moment, that idea didn’t sound somewhat tempting. Something, anything, to dull the sharp pain that was stabbing me in the back on a daily basis.