Beautiful Disaster

by Laura Spinella

  Not long after, the throaty words of encouragement were hers, whispering to him as he finally gave in, unable to control a writhing tremor that invaded his tarnished soul. That power she didn’t even know she had, it was exotic and dangerous.

  Mia combed her fingers through the mane of hair that had fallen free as she purred in his ear, still pressing tiny kisses to his face. He wanted to say something, forcing back the obvious, but his mind had drifted away from the erotic moment to something outrageous and sublime. For a split second, he saw tiny fingers and toes, Mia beaming over something no one could take away from her. Then like any real apparition it vanished as quickly as it appeared, gone. Flynn rolled away from her and sat up on the edge of the bed, reeling from the uninvited reverie.

  “What’s the matter? Are you mad that we did that?” Mia asked, leaning over, kissing his shoulder.

  “No, I’m not mad. But it can’t happen again, you understand that, Mia. You understand why?” He felt her head nod against his shoulder. Flynn reached to the floor and passed the sheet back to her. “I’ll, um, I’ll be right back.” I’ ll be right back, Mia, as soon as I figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with that mental picture. And in the wake of a fleeting image came his fate. The real price Flynn would pay for Alena’s death and the life he would never have.

  An hour later things had settled into a sweet lull, Flynn stealing comfort from the here and now. Mia was talking a blue streak, as he lazily revisited various parts of her sheet-covered body. The radio had turned on at some point. She was humming softly, having snatched his watch off the nightstand, twirling the metal band around her fingers. “Flynn, stop! That tickles,” she playfully commanded, pulling the sheet off his head. “Come up here and talk to me.”

  “We’ve been talking nonstop for almost an hour,” he said, sliding up next to her, pulling her into his arms.

  “No, I’ve been talking. Your mouth has been preoccupied.”

  “Well, I figured if you’re using me for sex, I’d better earn my keep.”

  “Oh, you will, I have no doubt. Do you know this song?”

  He listened for a moment. The only sound he’d been hearing was passionate giggles mixed with Mia-driven chatter. “Oh, it’s Gregg Allman. ‘I’m No Angel,’ I think. That’s kinda funny. Remember I told you, his band, that’s what I used to listen to under the covers when I was a kid.”

  “Well, isn’t that a sign? You’re still listening under the covers. The song is completely, totally you.”

  It made him laugh. “Hmm, really? I thought my theme song would have been more along the lines of ‘Jailhouse Rock’ or ‘Back on the Chain Gang.’”

  From that moment forward, Mia set out on her own high-stakes mission. She was determined to keep Flynn focused on the here and now, as he clearly had issues with the past and future. She threw out the calendar, cancelled newspaper subscriptions and never spoke of plans beyond the current week. As his focus shifted, the nightmares eased, only making one more memorable visit. She thought maybe a passing thunder-storm had triggered it. Mia woke with a start, relieved to find him a few minutes later. He was fighting hard to keep a bad dream from turning into a raging night terror. The parking lot was under siege. Flynn stormed back and forth like the soldier he simply wasn’t anymore. At three in the morning she stood in the doorway with a blanket wrapped around her, watching him. Forty degrees in a cold rain, barefoot, bare-chested, and still he couldn’t stop sweating. Mia lit a joint and coaxed him back inside with it. As she towel-dried his mane of hair, he sucked in drag after drag, shivering so violently it made her heart ache for him. She’d witnessed two nightmares now. They were disturbing and frightening, but each time, he moved farther away, not toward her. She understood that it wasn’t an alibi; it wasn’t proof of anything except the awesome guilt with which he lived.

  It was the normal things, the repetitious things, that Mia cherished the most. They were everyday things that in other relationships spelled boredom or monotony. Mia couldn’t get enough, committing them to memory, just in case. Small moments were bound to her heart as if pressed between the pages of a thick book of memories. Silly things, like he always made the coffee too strong. She never could tell him, instead dumping in five scoops of sugar to counteract it. Crossword puzzles were a snapshot of his mind; Flynn filled in the blanks faster than Mia could absorb the clues. She was fascinated to find that he was a voracious reader, devouring novels, how-to books, cereal boxes. And it didn’t stop there, as he admitted to a much different reason for frequenting those college campuses. “Pick a big lecture hall where the professor doesn’t know one student from another,” he revealed. “You can learn anything.” Highly resourceful, he’d managed to tailor a life on the run to include a college education.

  He unknowingly flattered her by remembering the most insignificant details—the oil in her car needed changing, she hated not only the taste but the smell and color of olives, and that Thanksgiving was her favorite holiday. And while he loved to watch her draw or paint, he was a one-man cheering section for those out-of-step designs. He’d compliment Mia’s everyday efforts, but fervidly encourage ideas that hadn’t yet found a rhythm. It made an indelible impression, making her believe that perseverance and passion would one day be in perfect tune.

  Conversations, even silent ones, ignited possibilities. With Flynn’s input, what-if thoughts found structure and shape. Inspiration came at the oddest times, from the unlikeliest of places. Places Mia would have never ventured to without him. A weekend road trip to the North Georgia mountains was among the most poignant. A defunct gem mine was a curious backdrop, set into the red and gold of October trees. They followed a trail and found an old rock bed, still lined with a rainbow of embedded stone. The colors were magnificent against the fall sky. Mia commented on their brilliance, saying something about marrying the natural elements with the simplicity of her designs. It was too bad, she quickly concluded, that mining semiprecious stone was counterproductive, not to mention costly. He didn’t reply. But she did have to tug him by the hand as he stood, mesmerized by the sight.

  They ended up spending the night there, the jewel tone setting also inspiring a keen sexual energy. Under a blanket of stars they made love until the campfire was nothing but a glowing ember. While Mia was surprised to find Flynn up and moving the next morning, she was less taken aback by her own achy body. The earthy surroundings were decidedly more comfortable when enhanced by moonlight and his heated body. But her sore muscles were forgotten as she glanced toward the fire’s spent ashes. Next to her was a riverbed of color, a collection of what appeared to be motley stone. While mining it himself, after a night of exhaustive sex, didn’t seem beyond him, she did realize that it was crushed glass. “Will that work like the stone?” he asked. “Plus it’s recyclable, right?” Through the morning light, Mia blinked up at him, utterly amazed. There wasn’t much he could have done to pass the hours before; but like only Flynn could, he managed.

  Over time he even found a way to converse with Roxanne, albeit on a rudimentary level. There was a passive grunt when coming or going, a communicative glare as they crossed paths in the kitchen. Mia did have one fond recollection, fleeting and fast though it was, when the two arch rivals did connect. On a dreary Saturday afternoon, sitting at the dining table layered with textbooks, notebooks, and two calculators, Roxanne appeared oddly stumped. Meanwhile, Mia sat on the floor in the middle of the room reworking the design her professor had obliterated months before. Flynn’s lanky body was sprawled across the sofa, his nose in a copy of Car and Driver, always opting for easy reading when Roxanne was around. After several exasperated gasps, a flying pencil and the final straw—a textbook, sailing past his head—he closed the magazine and sat up.

  “What’s the problem, Roxanne?”

  “Oh, like you could help. Go back to deciding if motor oil should be a compound word.”

  Mia glanced up, suffering her own frustrations over the lack of aesthetics inherent to reclaimed con
crete. She didn’t say anything. By then she had learned to let them work it out on their own, unless bloodshed seemed imminent. He approached, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and peered over her shoulder. “Really, I’ll take a look if you want.”

  Roxanne tossed him a wild-eyed glare, as if he’d suggested they take the problem into her bedroom. Mia snickered at the prospect, burrowing further into her work. “Ha! It’s complicated, Flynn, a little beyond greater than or less than. My study partner and I have been trying to solve it. What makes you think you can do it?” He shrugged, not about to defend the offer. “Fine, have a look. I’m guessing your working knowledge of differential equations is, um, limited.” She thrust her notebook forward, tapping her fingers on the tabletop.

  Mia watched in silent curiosity, her eyes darting between her design board and the two of them. It was more dramatic than two warring nations agreeing to peace talks. Flynn studied the problem and picked up the pencil, calculating something. His brow furrowed as he refigured the problem, snapping the point against the answer. “Here.”

  “Here, what?” she said, giving a skeptical glance over his hand.

  “In this problem the boundaries are between one and four. You were integrating the numbers wrong, zero through four—once you start down that road, you’ll never get it. It’s one through four, see?”

  Roxanne snatched the notebook away, furiously punching numbers into the calculator. She pounded at the clear button, repeating the equation. “It’s right. How did you do that?”

  “Lucky guess,” he said, returning to his position on the sofa.

  “Right.”

  “Roxanne, don’t you have something to say?” Mia asked, concentrating on her project.

  “Oh, yeah. I guess, um, thanks,” she said, her eyes still curiously trained on Flynn.

  “Don’t mention it.” He flipped the magazine open and things faded back to normal.

  After Flynn had left that night, Roxanne poked her head inside Mia’s bedroom. “Michael Wells and I worked that problem for days—neither of us could get it. First those chemical compounds, now the math. He’s very smart. Why doesn’t he use it to do something with his life—why doesn’t he want anyone to know?”

  With closed eyes, from the brink of the dream she wanted, Mia murmured, “Not everybody has to scream to the world what they’re all about. He’s got other things on his mind.”

  The Widow Montgomery, as Mia fondly referred to her mother, was an intermittent disruption, generally relegated to weekend phone calls. Most conversations gravitated back to her social calendar and what she perceived to be her daughter’s nonconformist pursuits, namely what defined good interior design. She just didn’t get it. After a time, Mia cut the calls short or avoided them completely. Clarice Montgomery would never appreciate an interior that didn’t involve a high-gloss cherry finish or pinch pleated drapes. She hadn’t seen her mother since spring break, since before Flynn. Thankfully she’d been preoccupied dating a defense attorney against whom her father had often faced off. Mia could imagine how that bit of news would sit with Lincoln Montgomery’s sense of symmetry. No doubt her father would see it as sleeping with the enemy. Then she realized how it might apply to her as well. Her mother was adamant, insisting Mia fly home for Christmas, wanting to know what possible excuse she could have not to. In all those months, she never said a word about Flynn. As nonconformist pursuits went—well, even Mia had to admit that Flynn made innovative interior design seem tame.

  There was no way out of it, and worse, Mia knew she would have to go alone. She couldn’t consider asking him; airplanes meant security checks and proof of identification. It was nearly equal to the risk of turning her mother loose on him. She wouldn’t allow it. Mia left Flynn for five dismal days in December, making polite conversation with the man who was obviously being groomed to be her mother’s replacement husband. Listening to him say he was thinking of switching sides, taking a run at the DA’s office, Mia was doubly glad Flynn wasn’t there. But it did make her think. What would her father have said about Flynn? Would he have only seen the fugitive, or would he have considered the whole story? The probable answer seemed grim enough. It didn’t matter; Mia had made this choice on her own and with no regrets. Lying awake alone on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day night, she promised herself that next Christmas would be different.

  The days apart agitated nagging worries, rubbing raw like a blister. A million horrid things could happen in five days, and she couldn’t do a damn thing about a single one. Things like Flynn getting busted for that medicinal dime bag he carried. Not so bad until they fingerprinted him. No doubt the state of Georgia had its own zealous lot of DAs; they’d take him away before she ever made it back. Smothering that scenario, a different fear cropped up as her flight landed. Airplanes, lunch dates, meet me at the mall at two—would he be there? Or would he decide to call in the marker early on that borrowed future? The time away was too costly. Winter didn’t last long in Georgia. Spring was a heartbeat away, then would come June.

  It was all momentarily forgotten as she stepped from the gate. He was waiting. That day it was all fine. Flynn was very much there, greeting her with a tremendous kiss, grabbing her up in a hug so warm and full that the worry melted away. Before letting go, he whispered in her ear that it felt longer than all the days he’d spent in prison. As she held tight to his arm they made their way through the bustling airport to the parking lot. A small package wrapped in the prettiest Christmas paper she’d ever seen lay on the front seat of her car. “For me?” She gently unwrapped it with every intention of keeping the paper. Inside the velvet box was an antique silver cross with filigreed edges. Her mouth dropped open. “I . . . You’re not going to believe . . . ”

  “You don’t like it.”

  “Oh, no, no, I love it. It’s just that . . . Well, here.” She reached into her purse and handed him a similarly shaped gift. He tore off the paper, opening a slightly larger, black velvet box. The smile was instant. Flynn pulled it out and held it up for her to fasten around his neck. She did so, smoothing the handsome cross down around his chest. “A sign of faith,” she murmured, falling into his arms.

  Chapter 23

  After he vanished it was moments like that to which Mia held tightest, eventually taking a reflective inventory of what Flynn did leave behind. When the initial shock didn’t kill her, which took some realization, Mia compiled a tidy checklist. She thought it might be a route to comfort, a Band-Aid over a deep gash. She should have known better. Even the memory of such a complex man required a learning curve. And Mia soon discovered that everyday life best demonstrated his impact. Hers for the taking, time revealed an amazing cache of resolve. Mia latched on to that steely will, finding a starting point—or at least a way out of bed. She thought it was a monumental accomplishment, but it hardly stopped there. Flynn hadn’t just influenced Mia; he’d changed her in every imaginable way. And while the hurt and disappointment were excruciating, Mia found that she much preferred the woman who now looked back in the mirror. So it was something like that, along with a shiny coat of armor and lipstick, which she hesitantly donned upon venturing into a world that no longer included his physical presence.

  It was a rite of passage. The graduates who’d earned a degree in Textile Applications were invited to display their senior thesis at an on-campus gallery. If you managed to make it through the program, which was significantly more difficult than someone like Roxanne might believe, there was the prospect of a big-name furniture manufacturer or mid-level design house scooping you up. It was unnerving, the heated competition for fresh-out-of-college grunt work. Along with everyone else, Mia was considering it. There was the Atlanta internship—hers if she wanted it, but it would barely pay the electric bill. The idea had more appeal when it included Flynn. Now she’d have to go it alone, supplementing a meager paycheck with what was left of her trust fund. It didn’t seem like a wise choice. The balance of the trust fund was a nest egg. For what, she wasn’t exactly su
re. Perhaps a life that didn’t include a significant other; she felt prepared for as much. Then again, the money could back a design studio of her own. But that was an unlikely scenario. Mia’s ideas about what she wanted to design didn’t seem to mesh too well with the industry’s stamp of success.

  As she hurried into the gallery on a steamy June morning, she was having trouble negotiating the high heels she’d swiped from Roxanne’s closet. She figured if her design didn’t impress anyone, perhaps she’d better. Mia stuttered along feeling oddly dressed and out of place. She glanced left and right, seeing elaborate three-dimensional mock-ups, postmodern fare, and themed rooms. They ranged from the glitz of the Taj Mahal, complete with working fountains, to chic urban lofts involving more metal rails than a train track. Her design was not among them. A flutter of nerves eased when she saw familiar faces, other students who’d made it through the program and some she’d socialized with in the years before. While her work didn’t reflect theirs, she’d always found them to be a fun crowd.

  A few moments later Mia was absorbed by the small talk. She was distracted for a time, dabbling in topics that didn’t remind her of Flynn. Memories, freshman through junior year, that didn’t include him. Reacquainting herself with the crowd while drinking watery punch, she was amused by the mindless chatter. During the past year, socializing with a group had fallen to the wayside. There had been no need to put Flynn in a situation where someone might look twice or ask an unnecessary question. Roxanne instigated enough issues on that front. Mia never thought of it as sacrifice and had no regrets. Even so, her close friends were something that always mattered to Flynn. He’d gone out of his way to keep them in her life, and now she understood why. Every so often he’d insist that Mia spend an evening with her usual crowd—Roxanne, Lanie, Sara, a few others. She’d begrudgingly agree, unable to get back to him and the cottage fast enough. The lost time dug at her now. Mia glanced around a room filled with perfectly nice people, none of whom she’d ever see again. She’d swap them all in a heartbeat for one more day with Flynn. The improbable fantasy faded as Mia took a cleansing breath. She crumpled a napkin and tossed it into an overflowing trashcan. She was stuck in reality. There was no cottage, no one to rush back to.