by Rosa Sophia
“I don’t have any money with me.” Amalie spread her arms, glancing down at her trim running outfit, which left no room for a wallet. Her house key was linked to her watch, the only items she ever carried with her.
“Don’t worry, it’s on me,” Artie said, patting the pocket of his running shorts. He untied a shirt from around his waist and grinned. “I can even put this on, and I’ll be almost respectable.”
“I don’t think they’d let you in otherwise.”
As they crossed the street, Amalie slipped off her sunglasses and felt a shock pass across her face just from the slight touch on the surface of her skin. She realized she was keeping her left eye mostly closed, and watching where she was going with her right eye, just as she’d done at the dentist’s office before she’d gone to the hospital in August.
Luckily, the air conditioning in the restaurant wasn’t oppressive. It was dimly lit, which afforded her a bit of relief, and they were quickly given a booth toward the back. Amalie could smell eggs cooking, and could hear dishes clanking together in the kitchen. Around her, she caught snippets of conversations as she relaxed in the cushioned seat and allowed the muscles in her face to rest.
The long-sleeved shirt Artie had slipped into was made of light material, and the front read Fog City Run 5k, 2009, San Francisco, California. He rolled up the sleeves and leaned against the table, clasping his large hands in front of him.
The waitress brought them water and coffee, and they ordered without much preamble, both of them famished after their run. It was nine o’clock, and Amalie hadn’t eaten yet. She wondered if this contributed in any way to her pain.
“I thought you were getting a handle on your TN?”
“I thought I was.” Since their first meeting, Amalie and Artie had met up on the beach and run together a number of times. Amalie enjoyed his company, and tried to block out his attraction to her. She wasn’t even sure how she felt about him. Yet she kept their friendship from Ian, and spent time with him only when she knew Ian was occupied with work. She liked the attention, but she didn’t need the complication, especially since she worked hard every day trying to repair whatever was broken between her and Ian.
She sipped her coffee and sighed heavily. “I just never know what each day is going to bring. The medication seems to be working, but some days it hurts just to brush my hair. And this wind is really getting to me. I might take a few days off running.”
“But then I won’t get to see you.” Artie pouted for a moment, then winked. “I guess I’m used to you by now. I never picked up a running buddy during a run before. Maybe I’m just a little selfish. It’s nice talking to someone so pretty in the morning.”
“Artie.” Amalie sensed her cheeks heating under his scrutinizing gaze. “I thought you were running with me so we could both do our speed work?”
“That was my excuse. What’s yours?”
“I don’t get out much, except to run. I work a lot.”
“What about that guy you live with? Doesn’t he ever take you out?”
Something in Amalie’s chest tightened. She knew Artie was questing for answers, digging to see if he had a shot. She felt so confused, she wasn’t sure what was going on anymore. Ian was the love of her life, yet something had changed. She could hardly put words to it, and her mind felt so jumbled that nothing made sense. The only thing that made sense was her breathing when she ran, her feet hitting the pavement, the sights and smells embracing her as she rushed by, sweat beading on her skin.
“Well? Does he?” Artie repeated.
“What? Does he what?”
“What’s-his-name, does he take you out?”
“Oh, Ian and I go out from time to time,” Amalie mumbled. “But he works a lot too. I’m not sure. Things have been…I don’t know.”
She thought back to a few nights previously.
If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, Amalie had told herself, and she’d cracked open her second Bud, even though she hated cheap beers. Ian was in a jovial mood for the first time in weeks. He’d landed a great contract at Eyebright, and his company was making more money than ever before. Amalie was in a good mood, too, having just finished the editing for Jackson Salvatore’s latest book. With his name on her resume, she felt like she could accomplish anything.
She and Ian joked back and forth playfully, but Ian’s tone quickly changed from cheerful to mocking. His jokes became prodding, almost malicious. He picked on her, and she continually shrugged it off, telling herself it was the alcohol talking. Now she kicked herself for allowing it to go on.
His cell phone rang, and it was a friend from work whom Amalie had met. She couldn’t remember what they were talking about, or what she did to set him off as he chatted.
She only remembered what he’d said about her while he was on the phone.
It was horrible, and she would never repeat it. Not to anyone.
The raucous joke regarding Amalie’s sexual prowess made her slump back in her seat, the beer hanging limp from her hand. Ian looked in her direction and laughed, his eyes bloodshot, his bottle nearly empty.
I can’t believe he said that.
She sat frozen for a long time, then finally stood up and went to her room, closing and locking the door behind her. She’d curled up on her bed, hugging herself, rocking back and forth.
Why would he say that about me?
The worst part was, she knew he didn’t remember. And she knew he never would.
“Amalie?”
She startled and glanced up at Artie. He was looking at her curiously.
“Amalie, your breakfast is getting cold,” he said, nodding toward the plate that sat in front of her.
“Oh. I got lost in thought.”
“About what?”
Amalie looked up and watched Artie take a big bite out of a ham omelet. He ate with gusto, as if he hadn’t seen food in weeks. When he glanced up at her, waiting for a reply, she shrugged.
“Just…things at home.” She wasn’t sure she wanted to reveal that much to Artie. At the same time, she felt pressed to pour her heart out, as if some small part of her worried he wouldn’t like her anymore if she didn’t expose herself. “Things with Ian aren’t so good right now.” She regretted it as soon as the words left her lips, because she could see the feigned disappointment on his face, haphazardly masking obvious delight. He wanted her, she was sure of that now.
There was a war going on inside of her. She loved Ian, but she was lonely, and this man was paying attention to her, being kind to her. When Ian was sober, he was the adoring man she’d fallen in love with—goofy, sensitive, sweet, and caring. When he drank, a demonic glint appeared in his sharp blue eyes, and her beloved all but disappeared, replaced by someone who terrified her, someone who made her feel like less than a person.
She barely knew Artie, but as she sat across from him eating breakfast, discussing mundane things like the weather, boating, running, and life near the beach, she reveled in the simplicity of the conversation, in the total lack of intellectual debate. She realized she was laughing, giggling like a teenager, indulging in a kind of carelessness she hadn’t experienced in years—or perhaps never felt before.
Living the way she always had, Amalie had no chance to be a child. Artie was awakening that childishness inside of her, so much that when she left the restaurant and headed back home alone, she felt almost dumbstruck, as if she were waking from a dream—a very strange dream where she ran along the beach and met a sailor from California, and allowed herself to be.
***
He would’ve left by now. He never stayed in one place for very long, yet he realized as he was running back to his boat that he was becoming more accustomed to the area. He knew where things were. People asked him for directions on the street, and he could usually provide them. He hadn’t spent a lot of time here, but he’d been here longer than he’d intended. And he realized it was because of Amalie.
Artie was mesmerized by her. Her nearness did somethin
g incomprehensible to him. But he still couldn’t reconcile his insatiable need for her with the grief that he felt. Each day, the sorrow grew deeper, forging a void inside him that seemed endless. He couldn’t find a reason for it.
He reached the marina and walked toward where he’d docked his dinghy, clutching his side when another ache overtook him. He hadn’t waited long enough after he’d eaten to run, but he had to get back to the boat. And in record time, too. Something was floating out on the water, far away. He squinted in the bright sunlight.
“Hey, buddy!”
Artie turned and saw a shirtless, bronzed older man running toward him. The man’s face was weathered and wrinkled from years in the sun, and his hair was bleached.
“That your boat out there, man?”
Artie turned and looked again. Sure enough, his dinghy had gotten loose somehow and floated off. “Fuck.”
Before the stranger could say another word, Artie jogged to the end of the dock and jumped into the water, swimming fervently toward the little motorboat as it rode the wake into open water.
His entire life, he’d always had to run, swim, or rush to catch whatever it was he wanted—and he seldom received his prize. When he managed to reach the dinghy and throw himself inside, he was heaving, and his gut hurt worse from the exertion. He lay back and stared up at the blue sky, feeling as though he were falling into the void, being sucked into the azure emptiness.
He hoped he didn’t have to try that hard to get Amalie where he wanted her.
But something told him he’d have to try—and keep trying. She wouldn’t submit to him easily. He wanted her. No, he needed her.
And he would have her.
Chapter 32
One month later
A gentle touch brushed the hair away from her face as she lay curled up on the couch. She opened her eyes, glancing up, and saw Roseanne.
“How was yer nap, dear?”
“Fine.” Amalie yawned and sat up.
“I would’ve let ya sleep, but ya said ya didn’t want to for long.”
“Yeah. I have a lot of work to do.” She smirked, catching Roseanne’s gaze as the older woman sat across from her and sipped her tea. “I have to get back to some clients. And guess what? I just finished editing Jackson Salvatore’s new book.” She said it so casually Roseanne didn’t seem to catch on at first.
“Jackson—” Her eyes widened. “Jackson Salvatore, the bestselling author?”
“The same.”
“You’re working for him?”
“Well, no, Island Time is publishing his next book, and I was the copyeditor assigned to the job.”
“Wow! Amalie, you must be so proud.” Roseanne set her mug down on the coffee table, then crossed the room to give her a hug. Sitting beside her, she clasped her hands in her lap and asked eagerly, “So, what’s he like?”
Amalie giggled. “I had a meeting with him last week. Honestly, I thought he’d be taller. But isn’t that the norm? I mean, whenever you meet someone famous or something that always seems to happen. Why is that?”
“I’m sure it’s because we build them up in our minds, and we expect them to be larger than life. When they’re just humans like everyone else, we feel somehow disappointed.”
Amalie frowned. “I did that with Ian at first.”
“What do you mean?” Roseanne’s black cat jumped into her lap and curled up on the colorful kaftan she wore.
“When I first met him, I think I idealized him, thought he was somehow…I don’t know.”
“No need to explain. I believe we do that with every romantic relationship. We want to believe the other person is everything we need, that they have no flaws, even though we know it’s impossible. Ian and I are very good friends, and I think of him as another son, but I know he has his own problems just like everyone does.”
“He drinks.” Amalie looked toward her feet, clad in soft black socks, and felt ashamed she’d admitted the truth. “Please don’t tell him I said that. I shouldn’t have said it.”
Roseanne took her hand. Her palms were soft and warm. “Never feel guilty about admitting the truth. It doesn’t make me think any less of you or Ian.”
“Thank you.”
“Certainly.” She squeezed her hand. “Now tell me what else is on your mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re worried about something. There’s another man, isn’t there?”
Amalie blanched, drawing her hand away. “N-no, I mean—”
“I see things others don’t see, Amalie. As do you. But your judgment is clouded right now by this friendship with this other man, and by your relationship with Ian. Ya can’t think clearly. Tell me what’s going on.”
“He’s just a running partner.”
Roseanne frowned and leaned forward, pouring them both cups of tea from the pot that sat on the table.
“Deception is bad enough, but to lie to yourself is worse.” When she held out a mug of tea to Amalie, the younger woman shook her head in disdain.
“I’m not lying to anyone. I’m not a liar.” The words emerged in more of a sneer than she’d intended.
“I’m not calling you a liar, dear. I’m just saying there are times in our lives when we deceive ourselves. And deceiving your heart is the worst kind of lying there is.”
Amalie dug her nails into her thighs, heat rising in her chest, suddenly feeling as if she wanted to scream. “Damn it, Roseanne.”
“Amalie—”
“Listen, thanks for the nice afternoon, and the nap, but I’ve got to go.” Haughtily rising to her feet, Amalie grabbed her house keys. Running her hands through her hair, trying to hide her agitation, she headed for the door.
Roseanne had stood up as well, and was holding the tea in her hands, looking sad and dejected. “Do ya have to go, sweetheart?”
“Yeah.” She felt the tears welling in her eyes. “Yeah, I’ve got to go.” She couldn’t let Roseanne see her cry.
She rushed up the steps back home, knowing Ian wasn’t there and she’d have the place to herself. Having shut and locked the door, she let her body slump against the wall, and the tears came hot and heavy, coursing down her cheeks, her chest heaving as she sobbed.
She knew she’d lied.
To herself.
To Roseanne.
And worst of all, to Ian.
***
The sun was rising over the ocean as Artie slipped his arms around Amalie.
“Artie, what are you doing? I thought we were going to go running?”
“Just a minute. Look.” He pressed his body against her, and his breath caressed her neck. He pointed forward. The sky was a splendid mix of pastels, pink, orange, yellow, purple, and soft blues. Streaks of light stabbed through the few clouds, all of which were illuminated by brightening colors. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Artie placed a gentle kiss on her shoulder. “Beautiful, like you.”
“Artie, what about Ian?”
“What about him? When I kissed you yesterday, you didn’t seem to be thinking about him very much. The way you kissed me back, I’d say you’d practically forgotten about him.”
She flashed back to the kiss, which had been passionate and hard to escape; she’d had her arms around him at first, but then he’d groped her, carnal lust taking over, and she’d said no, stop, but he refused, and his insistence, his ignorance of her feelings pissed her off. She didn’t know why she’d allowed that to happen.
“I can’t forget Ian.” Amalie pulled away, disgusted with herself.
She’d lain on the sand with Artie the previous week, and he’d run his hands over her breasts, suckled her neck, slipped his fingers into her jeans. She didn’t know why, but she hadn’t stopped him. The entire time, she wanted to scream no, but the word wouldn’t come out. It was almost as if she wasn’t really there.
During the day, she worked hard, followed the rules, and did what she was told. She wrote impeccable articles that received awards and accolades, and edited manuscr
ipts that sold thousands of copies. But when she was with Artie, she felt careless, and she let go to an extreme. Laughing like teenagers, they’d stood in the surf and kissed, rubbing each other’s bodies like virgins just discovering the pleasures of the flesh.
Now she wanted to go for her morning run, but he was holding her back, grabbing her hips and pulling her against him.
“Artie, I just don’t know if…” She thought of hurting him, and knew she couldn’t. How could she turn him away? After they’d shared several weeks of romance, a tryst that resulted in Amalie’s confusion, and caused her to lie to Roseanne—and to herself.
“I thought you told me you were falling in love with me.”
She turned to face him. And that was when it all came back. She realized in an instant what she’d gotten herself into, and she balked.
“Artie, I just c-c-can’t.” She stepped away. “I think I’m going to run on my own today. I’m sorry.” She turned and walked away, away from the ocean, her sneakers carrying her lightly across the grass and through Carlin Park.
“Amalie, I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong?” He followed after her.
She said nothing. But in her head, she was thinking, no…I did.
Chapter 33
One week later
Red-faced, Ian thrust the note toward her; it was written on worn paper in scrawled, uneven handwriting. For a brief moment, she compared his bloodshot eyes, furious expression, and mussed-up, wrinkled clothing with the image of the man she’d met at The Breakers. It seemed like so long ago, but it’d been a little over a year. She’d fallen in love with him, everything about him—even his faults. And those were many, especially when he was drunk.
He held the note out, glaring at her. “What is this?” The fury in his voice reminded her of her father when he was intoxicated. It terrified her.