Saved

by Hazel James

  Dad holds up a hand. “I’m not saying there isn’t.”

  “So what are you saying?” I trade my rolling pin for a knife to slice the dough into small squares.

  “That it’s hard to see the people we love struggle, and it’s even harder when they push you away.” He rises and deposits his mug in the sink.

  “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? I thought you were going to have some wise words about how all men are assholes or advice on how I can get out of this damn rut that I’ve been in all year.”

  He studies me as I roll a piece of dough against the counter, flatten it, and pinch the center to make a peanut shape. “Did you feel like you were living in a rut two weeks ago?”

  Let’s see… two weeks ago, I had a job I loved, a hot boss, and a decent fucking future. Right now, all I have is a burning desire to eat my weight in junk food.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Dad continues, giving me a pointed look. “You of all people understand that life isn’t fair or easy, but did you ever consider that you’re right where you’re supposed to be?”

  “Coming back to my parents’ house with my tail tucked? Hot damn, it looks like I’m the poster child for adult success. Maybe I should head to the animal shelter this afternoon to get a head start on a cat collection.”

  That makes Dad laugh, which pisses me off even more. “Keep it up, and I’ll hide the Nutter Butters,” I mumble.

  “Relax, Limp.” He steps beside me, gently nudging my shoulder, and grabs a piece of dough. “You want sage wisdom and advice? Yes, men are assholes. We do stupid things for no reason. It’s a genetic thing. Some of us are just better at suppressing it than others. But I don’t believe for one second that your life was spared twice for nothing. And just like with gymnastics, you have to figure out what’s worth digging in and fighting for and what you should let go.”

  “It’s not like I can do physical therapy to fix everything that happened last week.”

  “No, but there’s this awesome thing called a telephone that lets you talk to people who live in different states. I think part of what you’re feeling right now is a lack of closure. Remember that while there’s nothing wrong with coming home and turning your phone off, you can’t hide forever. The sooner you face everything, the sooner you’ll feel better.”

  “Face your battles,” I whisper to myself. Clay’s voice instantly pops into my head. We can’t always choose our battles. Sometimes life chooses them for us. All we can do is turn and face them head-on.

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry with my next breath. Since I was little, Dad’s always had an ability to help me sort through my problems—it didn’t matter if it was about boys, school, gymnastics, or the Army. And rather than tell me what to do, he’d help me get all the puzzle pieces on the table so I could fit them together myself. “We all see the same thing differently,” he’d say. “As long as you’re happy with your solution, that’s all that matters.”

  As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right.

  Still, the thought of talking to Clay sends my stomach into a flurry of nervous cartwheels. I don’t know if he’ll answer the phone or what he’ll say if he does.

  “Fine,” I huff, “you win. I’ll call him.”

  A satisfied smile spreads across Dad’s face. “That’s my girl.”

  “But not before Kiki gets here. I’m going to need moral support and Nutter Butters to get through this.”

  “You’re stalling.”

  “No, I’m checking my email. That’s called being productive.”

  “Whatever makes you feel better,” Kiki says, crossing her feet on the coffee table.

  I purposely chose radio silence when I got back to my parents’ house—no cell phone, email, or social media. It may have been a cop out, but I couldn’t handle the thought of anyone from Oklahoma contacting me. Well, anyone other than Kiki, and I had the house phone for that.

  The downside is the hundred-plus emails waiting in my inbox. Seeing unread messages makes me twitch, so I have no choice but to go through one by one to get rid of that little red alert.

  Halfway through my backlog, I come to a message from Jesse Pritchett Photography. “Hell no.”

  “What?” Kiki leans over to look at my screen.

  “The pictures for the Battles advertising campaign. Jesse said he’d email them to me when he was done with the proofs.” I click on the trash can icon and continue plowing through the list.

  “You can’t delete it before you even look at them!”

  “I can, and I did.”

  “Aren’t you at least a tiny bit curious about how they turned out?”

  Yes, I admit to myself. “Nope.”

  “Liar.” Kiki yanks the computer off my lap and retrieves the message from my trash folder. Part of me hopes Clay looks like a troll because my heart can’t cope with seeing his gorgeous face and rock-hard body before I call him. In fact…

  I step over Kiki’s legs and head to the kitchen. “I’m getting some water. Let me know when you’re done.”

  Several seconds later, she breaks her silence with a gasp. “I know him.”

  “Duh.” God bless her, she must be delirious after her nine-hour drive.

  “No, not Clay. The other guy.” She pops off the couch and crosses the living room, laptop in hand, and turns the screen toward me.

  “That’s Marshall.” Jesse’s photography skills are even better than I realized. He managed to make him look like a friendly trainer instead of a slimy shit biscuit.

  A line forms between Kiki’s brows as she studies the picture. “The name doesn’t sound familiar, but his face…”

  My skin prickles. “I said the same thing when I started working at Battles—that I recognized him but couldn’t figure out how I knew him. I chalked it up to chemo brain.”

  “Hang on.” She sets the laptop on the kitchen counter and opens a new browser window, then types Nathan Powell stolen valor in the search bar. She switches to the image results and sure enough, a photo on the second row looks exactly like a blond-haired, blue-eyed Marshall.

  “No fucking way,” I whisper. Kiki’s first big news story after she was assigned to Fort Bragg was on a guy who was arrested for impersonating a soldier. She said it was the first time in her career she felt like a true journalist. That’s where I remember seeing his face. “Oh my God, his contacts. It makes sense now.”

  “Contacts?”

  I pull Jesse’s email up again and point to Marshall’s eyes. “They’re green. A couple of weeks ago, he showed up at work with blue eyes. He said it was because of some pharmacy mix up with his contacts. I bet these ones are fake.”

  “Along with the black hair.”

  Neither of us says anything for several moments as we process this development. I told her about Marshall embezzling money, but this? It’s a whole new level of fucked up. “You think Clay knows?” she asks.

  “I’m not sure.” Now I’m even more nervous. I can’t not tell him about Marshall’s real identity, but after the way he treated me in his office I have no idea whether he’ll hear me out or call me a liar all over again. I sigh and sink onto the bar stool.

  “Where’s your cell?”

  “On my night stand.”

  She disappears and returns with my phone. The screen is already lit up, showing me I have thirty-seven missed texts and half as many missed calls.

  “I feel like I’m going to hurl.”

  “That would be a waste of Nutter Butters. You can do this.”

  My stomach twists into knots as I navigate to my favorites list and press Clay’s name. His number goes straight to voicemail. I hang up before the beep because I have no idea how to tell him any of this, let alone say it in a recorded message.

  “What about calling Rebecca?”

  I shake my head. “She’s dating Marshall. I doubt she’d believe me after everything he’s probably told her about me in the past week.”

  While I figure out what to do next, I swi
tch over to check my voicemail. The first four are from Rebecca.

  Kiki gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Don’t freak yet. Maybe she’s reaching out to see how you’re doing.”

  “Maybe,” I mutter, playing the most recent one on speakerphone.

  “Leilani, it’s me again. Please call me as soon as you can.”

  I skip the next two and tap on her first voicemail.

  “Hey Leilani, it’s Rebecca. I…” She pauses and clears her throat. “Clay was arrested for child sex trafficking today and Marshall hasn’t been to work in two days and no one can get ahold of him and Battles is closed while they investigate Clay, and I have no idea what’s happening except that everything’s gone to shit and I really hope you call me back.”

  Kiki’s wide eyes mimic mine as we absorb Rebecca’s frantic run-on sentence. How the hell did we just go from Marshall embezzling money and pretending to be in the military to this?

  “Call her back. I’ll pack your bag.” Before I can argue, she’s gone.

  Kiki pulls into Clay’s driveway just before midnight. Our nine-hour road trip turned into twelve, thanks to construction and an accident in New Mexico. “You sure you don’t want me to stay?”

  “No, I’ll be fine.” The lights aren’t on, but his truck is parked on the side of the house and I can see the glow of the TV through the blinds.

  Rebecca didn’t have much information when I called her except that according to DH, Clay has been lying low at home since he got out of jail. Regardless of what happens between us, I know I can crash here for the night. I’ll figure out tomorrow when it comes.

  “Okay. I’m grabbing a hotel, but I’ll call you in the morning.”

  I wait until her headlights disappear before knocking on the door. He doesn’t answer, so I knock harder.

  Still nothing. Just as I lift to pound on the door for a third time, it opens. His hand fumbles along the wall, and when it connects with the switch to the porch light, I gasp. To say he looks like shit would be an understatement. The man I left a week and a half ago has been replaced by a haggard substitute in baggy sweatpants.

  “I’m dead, aren’t I? But wait.” Clay scrunches his face like he’s working something out in his brain. “Hell’s not s’pposed to have angels. Oh fuck, are you dead too?” He drops his hand on top of my head and lifts my right brow so he can peer into my eye.

  I smack his arm away before he gouges me. “I’m not dead, but…” I lean forward and sniff. “Oh my God, you’re drunk.”

  “I’m numb,” he corrects. “Numb. That rhymes with thumb.” He wiggles his thumb in front of my face. “How come we don’t say the ‘b’?” He pronounces the word again, this time adding the silent letter. “Well that sounds dumb. Ha! Dum-b.” He laughs at his joke and makes a sweeping motion toward the living room.

  I follow his lead and close the door behind me. The first time I came here, I was impressed by the cleanliness and order. Right now, it looks like nine bachelors have taken up residence.

  “You shouldn’t be here. Good girls like you don’t need to be around convicts like me.” He reaches for a bottle of vodka on the coffee table.

  Clay has never showed any signs of violence, even when we argued, so I pray he’s not a mean drunk. “Why don’t we sit down and watch—” For the first time, I notice what’s on TV. “Sesame Street? You’re watching Sesame Street?”

  He starts in on a slurred rendition of the theme song and plops onto the couch. If this were any other scenario, I’d be laughing and recording him for future blackmail.

  There’s nothing funny about rock bottom, though.

  The Fifth Smile

  ALCOHOLICS DRINK FOR A NUMBER of reasons. Last night, mine was because I didn’t want to feel anything. That’s funny considering I feel everything right now…

  The elephant stampede in my head.

  The fire under my eyelids courtesy of the sunlight pouring through the blinds.

  The stabbing sensation in my back. I fish my hand between the cushions below me and pull out my remote control. Look at me solving problems like a boss.

  Stifling a groan, I push myself to a sitting position and scrub a hand over my face. It takes a few seconds for my vision to focus enough to see the glass of water and four ibuprofen on the coffee table. In the Army, an eight hundred milligram Motrin is called Ranger candy. These days, anything less than that doesn’t work. If I wasn’t so stiff, I’d pat myself on the back for planning ahead.

  On the way back from the bathroom, I realize my living room and kitchen are spotless. Everything Mom silently judged me for has been wiped up, put away, or thrown away. It wasn’t her though—she and Dad stayed in Dallas last night to watch Hamilton for their anniversary. He scored tickets months ago, and I refused to let them miss out on it because of me.

  I guess that means I got drunk and cleaned my house before I passed out. Damn, that’s a whole new level of pathetic.

  My stomach still isn’t ready for food, so I opt for more hydration and grab a Gatorade from the fridge. That’s when I see her, frozen in the hallway with my laundry basket propped on her left hip. Her expression is impossible to read, but I know mine isn’t.

  I have an arrest record. I’m hungover. I’m a failure. Let’s add a heaping dose of shame to the list of shit I’m feeling this morning, shall we?

  I want to tell her how fucking sorry I am. That she was right about everything, and that I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting the moment I let Marshall’s lies cloud my judgment, but I wait because Leilani deserves to speak first.

  She slowly rests the basket on the counter and slides her hand over her yoga pants. I love those pants. “Hi. How do you feel?”

  “Hungover.” I use my drink to wash the gravel from my voice. Was she here all night? Is she staying today? Why did she clean my house?

  And most importantly, how much does she hate me?

  “I got in the car yesterday as soon as I heard what happened.” Her gaze bounces from the basket to the floor to the dining room window before returning to me. Whether it’s because she’s nervous or because she can’t stand the sight of me is anyone’s guess. “I thought maybe you could use another person in your corner.”

  Okay. That’s good. I can work with that. “I don’t deserve it, but thanks.” Her mouth forms a flat smile, and then she’s looking at other things in the kitchen that aren’t me.

  I never knew it was possible to be jealous of a toaster.

  “Uh, I’m going to rinse off before I drown myself in coffee.”

  The moment she tucks her bottom lip between her teeth and glances at my bedroom door, I know what she’s thinking about. I was perfectly happy with sex in the dark because my biggest concern was making sure she felt comfortable. But the night she walked into my shower and wrapped her arms around me? I nearly blew my load when I saw her. Nothing could have prepared me for how fucking beautiful she was.

  Ever the opportunist, my dick uses the memory to make it clear that he doesn’t have a hangover and is more than happy to rise and shine. I can’t say I blame him—the morning scenery is incredible—but the goal is to get Leilani to stay, not run for the hills. I casually lower my Gatorade bottle to my crotch and flee the kitchen.

  To my surprise, she’s on the couch when I come out of my room. More specifically, she’s the only thing on the couch.

  “They’re in the washing machine,” she says, answering my unspoken question on the whereabouts of the pillows and blanket I slept with last night. I didn’t even know you could wash throw pillows. Based on the before and after in my living room, I wonder if I have any laundry soap left.

  I sit on the opposite end of the sofa. The middle cushion is only a couple of square feet, but it might as well be a mile wide with a neon sign that says Friend Zone. Christ, this is excruciating.

  “Thanks for cleaning. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “It gave me something to do. I was too worried about you to sleep.”

  My
jaw falls slack. “You’ve been up all night?”

  “Most of it. I dozed on the chair sometime around four.” She lifts a mug off the table and brings it to her lips.

  “Joining the dark side?” I ask, extending a tiny olive branch. Leilani only drinks coffee when she’s desperate.

  “Hot chocolate. You still had some pods in the basket.”

  This time her smile is real. Small, but real. The vice around my heart relaxes slightly knowing she’s using the stuff I bought for the mornings she was here.

  “Yours is high-octane though.” She tips her chin toward a mug on my side of the table. I guess I was too distracted by the fact that she was still here to notice it.

  I grab the handle and make a show of peering into the black liquid. “Any poison I should worry about?”

  Her subsequent laugh, albeit soft, is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. “I thought about it, but you’re too heavy. I wouldn’t be able to properly dispose of your body.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “It should bother me that you put that much thought into it, but it doesn’t.”

  “No?”

  I shake my head. “You have a great sense of humor. It’s one of the things I like most about you.” I take a swig of coffee while giving myself a round of fist-bumps for not slipping up and saying “love.” I’ve been awake for a whopping thirty minutes without scaring her off and I’d like to keep it that way.

  We sit in mostly-comfortable silence for a few minutes before she speaks again.

  “Why’d you drink last night?”

  Ah, yes. The golden question. I could fill the rest of the day with answers, but it all boils down to the same thing. “Because I had no reason not to. I lost everything. Even if my attorney is able to clear my name, the damage is already done. The idea of having to completely start over in my mid-thirties is…” I take another sip of my dark roast in hopes it’ll kick my brain into gear. “It’s a pain in the ass is what it is.”