Where One Goes

by B. N. Toler

  “Like, love,” I say, simply. “You know what I mean.”

  “If by love you mean I dated a girl all through high school and planned to marry her, then yes, I was in love . . . or at least I thought I was.”

  “What happened?”

  Ike smirks and runs a wide palm down his face. “Eh, you know. We graduated and she went to college, I joined the army, and we went our separate ways. We just kind of grew apart. She did come to my funeral and she cried. Just because we grew apart doesn’t mean we didn’t love each other, we just didn’t have that forever love, I guess.”

  I roll to my back and stare at the ceiling just like Ike. “You miss her?”

  “No,” he answers quickly. “What about you? Ever been in love?”

  Now it’s my turn to snort. “Hardly. My brother made sure no guy came near me in high school, and in college I—” My moment of sharing is interrupted by a knock at the door. “Who is it?” I ask Ike.

  He morphs and returns within seconds. “It’s George.”

  “What the—” He knocks again, interrupting me.

  Climbing out of bed, I tromp to the door and whip it open. George steps back, his gaze running up and down my form, causing heat to blanket my entire body. I’m wearing nothing but a large T-shirt that cuts just below my ass. It was Axel’s—one of his favorites.

  “That your boyfriend’s shirt?”

  Pinching my lips together, I look down and fight the urge to punch him in the jugular. “Hello to you, too, George. What an unexpected surprise. Should I just start expecting you to show up at my room unannounced every day?”

  He rolls his eyes. George looks a little more groomed this evening; his hair is combed back and he’s wearing jeans and a black dress shirt. He actually looks . . . hot. “It’s Sunday,” he says, sarcastically.

  “And?” I ask pointedly.

  “You were invited to dinner at my parents.’ But if you’re busy, I’ll just let them know you can’t make it.” I can tell by the lilt in his voice that it’s exactly what he hopes I’ll do.

  “Fuck. I forgot.”

  “You’re going,” Ike states.

  “Clearly,” George mumbles. “As much as I’m sure my parents and little brother would love to see your ass hanging out of that T-shirt, maybe you should put something a little more modest on.”

  Did he just say ‘little brother’? I decide to ask Ike about it later. “Give me ten minutes. Come in.” I open the door wider and stand to the side so he can enter. Slipping by me, he enters, his eyes scanning my room. Of course my bra is hanging over the pleather chair he heads straight for. Picking it up, he hands it to me.

  “I think you might need this.”

  Snatching it out of his hand, I say, “Thanks.”

  After I lock myself in the bathroom, I hear him say, “Lord, give me strength.”

  Twenty minutes later, I’m ready to go and George leads me out to the parking lot. I lock my door and turn to find him straddling a motorcycle, causing my heart to drop to my feet.

  “I brought a helmet for you, don’t worry,” he says, as he holds out a small, black helmet for me.

  My eyes are wide as I stare at him. The sounds of screeching tires and bright lights flicker through my mind, making my throat constrict.

  “What is it?” George asks, his mouth curving slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little bike ride?”

  Shaking my head, I step back, my hand searching blindly for the doorknob to my room. Nausea overtakes my stomach as I fumble to open the door, accomplishing it just in time before I make it to the bathroom to vomit. My breathing is labored as I begin to dry heave, and I know I need to calm down or I’ll hyperventilate.

  “Shit, Charlotte. You’re having a panic attack. What is it?” Ike asks as he stands beside me, but I can’t answer him. My arms are clutching the toilet as my body continues to rack itself painfully, trying to purge the contents of my stomach.

  After a minute, I feel my hair being slid to the side, followed by something cold and wet on my neck. “Calm down, Charlotte,” George says, quietly, as he kneels beside me. “Everything is okay. You have to slow your breathing. Look at me,” he orders, and as I continue to suck in air, I raise my gaze to his. I expect to see fear or pity, but I see neither. George stares pointedly at me, trying to find me where I’m lost inside my head. “Inhale with me, nice and slow.” Together we breathe in and exhale slowly, and after a few minutes, George has calmed me down almost completely.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

  “No. I’d rather not.” I sniffle, feeling like a total lunatic for freaking out that way. He must think I’m insane. “God. I’m so sorry,” I manage as I wipe frantically at my face, positive it’s covered in mascara.

  “So am I. I didn’t mean to make fun of you. I should’ve brought my truck.” He pushes himself up then offers me a hand, helping me to my feet.

  “Thank you for that,” I whisper.

  “I know a thing or two about panic attacks,” he says, softly. “Had a few of them when . . .” He pauses, a pained expression seizing his features. “A while ago,” he finishes. I know he means when Ike died, but as far as he knows, I don’t know much—or maybe, anything at all—about that part of his life. And I’m sure discussing it is painful for him, so I don’t press. “I’ll let you get cleaned up. Would you mind driving your truck to my parents’?”

  A huge part of me doesn’t want to go after the meltdown I just had, but I know Ike wants me there. “Okay, thanks.” I nod and George slips out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. I set about cleaning my face and reapplying a light coat of makeup.

  “Are you okay?” Ike asks from behind me. In the reflection of the mirror, I can see his brows furrowed in concern. I know George is just outside, in my room, so I nod yes in answer even though the truth is—I’m not.

  We make it to the McDermotts’ place by four. Thankfully, we drove my truck and I haven’t suffered any more panic attacks. As we stand in front of the gigantic house, my eyes widen—I’m in awe. The McDermotts own a bed and breakfast. The enormous house has a plantation porch with large, round pillars. It’s beautiful, especially with the mountains as a backdrop.

  “This is where you grew up?” I ask, somewhat raging jealous.

  “Trust me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. We had to share our home with strangers for a large portion of each year.”

  “Still,” I add. “This is just . . . beautiful.”

  “I guess,” he agrees. “My mother is very excited about you joining us for dinner,” George says, as he rests a hand to my back to lead me up the stairs. My body stiffens at the contact. I’m still not used to that feeling; the feeling of a man touching me, leading me, using his body to guide me. I think it’s one of those little things people take for granted. “I think she has some twisted idea in her mind that we might date,” he snorts as if the thought was ridiculous. I scowl where he can’t see. Am I that unattractive to him? I can’t help remarking on his comment.

  “Gasp,” I say. “Has she not heard about your Charlotte is the Antichrist parade? I figured you’d have the entire town in on it by now.”

  He chuckles as he opens the front door and shoves me gently, but forcefully enough to cause me to stumble. After I catch my footing, I glare at him. “Oops,” he feigns. “I don’t know my own strength sometimes. And no, I’ve only managed to get half the town in on it.” He rolls his eyes.

  “Dick,” I say, under my breath, but apparently he heard it because he winks at me.

  “You two are ridiculous,” Ike mumbles as he morphs beside me.

  “Ma!” George yells. “We’re here!”

  The house is just as beautiful inside as it is outside, with worn wood floors and a grand staircase. I follow George to the back of the house as my eyes scan the place. Everything is antique and feels so authentic to the house. The smell of food wafts in the air, causing my stomach to grumble. It’s been so long since I’ve had
a home cooked meal and my stomach is eager for it.

  “George!” A tall, black boy calls as he comes barreling down the stairs. He’s younger than George. If I had to guess, he’s maybe seventeen, and extremely handsome.

  “Cameron.” George grins as they slam into each other, giving one another a hard pat on the back. “Good to see you, little brother.”

  So this is the little brother.

  Cameron pulls away and his gaze finds mine. “And who do we have here?” he asks as he swaggers toward me.

  George rolls his eyes again. “Charlotte, this is my little brother, Cameron. Cam, this is Charlotte.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Cameron says, as he eyes me.

  “You, too,” I add. “I didn’t realize George had a little brother.”

  “Well, he doesn’t tell many people. It’s obvious I’m much better looking so he tries to hide me from the world.”

  “Yeah. I’m jealous of your good looks,” George retorts.

  “How could you not be?” Cameron asks. “I mean, look at all this,” he motions his hands down his body, “this beautiful mocha skin, these mahogany eyes, and this stellar smile.”

  “There’s no denying it,” George agrees mockingly. “You’re much better looking.”

  “And let’s not even get started on the size of my—”

  “Cameron!” Beverly scolds as she approaches.

  Cameron smiles and pulls her in for a hug. “I was going to say heart, Mom. I have the biggest heart in the county.” When she pulls away, she gives him a knowing look. “What’d you think I was going to say?” Cameron asks coyly. “You didn’t think . . . oh no . . . come on, Mom,” he feigns disbelief. “Get your mind out of the gutter, woman.”

  George and I are fighting hard not to laugh as Beverly turns bright red. Ike, on the other hand, is laughing loudly. “Cameron McDermott, I’m going to beat you senseless.”

  “Gutter mind and abusive,” Cameron tsks. “Charlotte, save me,” he whispers. “I have such a young, impressionable mind, and I’m being raised by a really twisted woman, here.”

  Beverly smacks Cameron’s arm. “George,” she says. “I may need you to dig a hole out back. One big enough for a body.”

  We all laugh as Cameron picks her up and twirls her around. “I love you, Mom. You know you’re the best.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she replies as he places her back on her feet and she touches at her hair to make sure it’s still in place. “I’m still going to beat you.” Turning to me, she takes my hands. “It’s so good to see you again, Charlotte.”

  “You, too, Mrs. McDermott. Thank you for having me.” I smile.

  “Dinner won’t be ready for a while, but I know George can keep you entertained. George, your father is down at the river, fishing. Why don’t you take Charlotte down and introduce them.”

  “Sure,” George agrees. “You coming, Cam?” George asks.

  “No, he’s not,” Beverly adds. “Cam is going to set the table.”

  “Did I mention she’s an advocate for child labor?” Cameron says to me.

  “Is that so?” I laugh.

  “Cameron,” Beverly mumbles. “You better get in there and set that table.” At this point, Beverly is fighting hard not to laugh herself.

  Cameron leans toward me. “That’s code for she’s going to beat me,” he whispers.

  “I’m glad I’m not you,” I whisper back. “She looks tough.”

  “You have no idea,” he replies.

  George leads me out the back door and onto the porch. There he slips off his boots and puts on a long pair of rain boots. Picking up some poles and other belongings, we head down toward the water. As we near it, an older man comes into view, flinging his pole back and forth over the water.

  “Hey, Pop,” George shouts, and the older man waves in response.

  “The trout are biting, today, son. You better get in here and get your line wet,” his father yells back.

  Once we’ve reached the water, George drops everything and points to some overalls-looking thing with rubber boots attached to it. “Put that on.”

  I look down at my outfit. I’m wearing my best jeans and a fitted, black, long sleeve T-shirt. Not the nicest outfit, but I don’t look like a schlub and I don’t want to ruin my jeans.

  “It’ll protect your clothes,” George adds as he picks up his pole and starts playing with the string attached to it. It doesn’t look like your classic fishing pole.

  “Protect them from what?”

  “The water.” He points.

  “Oh. I’m not doing . . . that,” I state adamantly. “I’ve never fished before.”

  George’s mouth curves into a smile, but he doesn’t look at me. “Then you’re about to learn.” I look to Ike but he just smiles as he stares at his father.

  “You’ll like this, Charlotte. Fly-fishing is a religion in these parts.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.

  George and I bicker back and forth for a few minutes until he threatens to tackle me and put the, what he calls, hip-waders on me. I concede and put them on. Of course, they’re about seven times too big for me and waddling to the water is a feat; I can only imagine how hard it’ll be to wade through the water.

  “Hold my hand,” George offers as he steps into the river. Taking his hand, I can’t deny the warmth I feel as his fingers intertwine with mine. It takes a few minutes before we reach his father because I keep losing my footing over the slick rocks.

  “So you’re the beautiful girl my wife came home raving about?” Mr. McDermott asks and my brows rise in surprise. Was Beverly really raving about me?

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. McDermott,” I say.

  “Please, call me Henry. How’s my son treating you at the restaurant?” he asks as he gently whips his rod.

  “Horrible,” I reply certainly. “He’s pretty much the worst boss I’ve ever had.” Cutting my gaze to George, I stick my tongue out at him as his father laughs.

  “Yeah, well, she did destroy a four-hundred dollar box of liquor, so I wager I deserve to be a little tough on her,” George argues as he plays with his rod.

  “And I paid for that mistake,” I point out, “in blood.” As embarrassing as it was to have my ass in George’s face while he tended to my cut, I’m trying to laugh about it now. Of course, George can’t just laugh with me. Noooo. He has to embarrass me even more.

  Henry’s brows furrow and George snorts. “It’s a long story, Dad,” George says, noting his father’s perplexed expression. “Maybe one I’ll save for dinner tonight.” My eyes widen as I whip my gaze to George. He wouldn’t dare tell them all the details . . . would he? George stares back at me with a face-splitting grin. “Or would you rather tell it, Charlotte?”

  Glaring at him, I push some of my hair behind my ear, and say, “Of course not. While we’re at it, I’m sure I have a few stories I could tell them about you as well.”

  George doesn’t respond as he pulls at the line of his pole. That shut him up, I laugh to myself.

  Glancing back at Mr. McDermott, I find him smirking at me. “George needs a good girl to keep him on his toes,” he chuckles. “Looks like you found her.” He turns and winks at George.

  “Yeah. I need a girlfriend like I need a hole in the head,” George replies gruffly, earning a deep scowl from me. Mr. McDermott, sensing our . . . what is it? Animosity? Whatever it is, he senses it and changes the subject.

  “Have you ever fly-fished before?” he asks.

  “No, sir. I’ve never done any kind of fishing.”

  “Well that’s a travesty,” he states. “Show her how it’s done, son,” he instructs George.

  For the next hour, George describes the parts of a fly rod and how it works. He shows me how to cast the line. At one point, he and his father cast almost in sync and it’s oddly beautiful. The casting seems almost like a dance, the wrist and the elbow guiding the line that bends and wafts through the air. And almost
as soon as the line hits the water, they pull it back. It’s elegant and serene and for the first time since I’ve met George McDermott, he seems peaceful.

  “I’m heading back up. Don’t be too long, you two.” Henry winks at me.

  “Now it’s your turn,” George states as his father wades back to the shore.

  “I don’t mind just watching,” I say. As simple as it looks, it still seems to involve coordination, which I lack.

  “Come on. You have to at least try it,” George insists.

  My first few attempts, I fail miserably, and at one point I drop the f-bomb, then frantically look around to make sure his father is actually gone and didn’t hear me. George laughs loudly, taking the rod from me. “Let me show you,” he says, as he moves behind me. With his front pressed to my back, my body heat rises and my heart pounds. Taking my hand, he places the rod in it and helps me arrange the line.

  “Now,” he breathes in my ear. “Imagine the rod is an extension of you; like you’re one. It has to be smooth and quick. The bait, or the fly, has to land lightly on the water. When it lands, it has to float. If it drags, the trout will know by the way the water moves around it, and they won’t bite at it.” After he arranges my hands where they need to be, his left arm weaves around my midsection, his hand resting on my belly. His other hand holds mine softly, guiding it back. My body begs to press back against him, to feel all of him, but I fight it. Together we cast the line and pull it back, and I forget for a moment how awkward this should be because honestly, it feels amazing. His mouth remains close to my ear as he speaks, sending delicious vibrations down my body. George smells incredible and while he keeps babbling on about the art of fly-fishing, my mind is honed in solely on every point where our bodies are contacted.

  Eventually, after I’ve casted successfully a few times, we head back to the shore and George holds my hand as he tries to help me through the water. Once we’re on dry land, he laughs as I step out of the hip-waders and my heart beats a little faster. His laugh is deep and rich, achingly beautiful. “So, what did you think?”

  “It was nice,” I admit, sheepishly. I can’t look into his eyes; I’m afraid he’ll see all my thoughts. I think I’m starting to like George. Am I crazy? But out there, in the water, with his body pressed to mine, I reacted to his touch. I wanted him against me. What the hell is wrong with me? After a beat, I manage, “Thank you.” I look around for Ike, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I frown, wondering where he went.