by Foxx, Gloria
I remember dancing with Jake and Chaz. I wrack my brain, but I can’t remember anything else, including how I got home.
Like a flash I see Boston looking down at me, brows coming together creating furrows over his nose. He looks angry or frustrated, his face pinched with tension. It dissolves like a dream floating away.
Why can’t I remember anything?
I struggle to my feet and head to the bathroom, leaning and off balance, my mind whirling.
* * *
Huddled at a corner table, I wait for Annie, hoping she can fill in the blanks from last night. My coffee is hot, scalding my tongue as I sip absently, my mind struggling to remember. I’m facing the door. People are moving in and out in front of my eyes, but they don’t register.
“Sterling.” Annie slides into the chair next to mine. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I think so. How much did I drink?”
Annie has a pastry with her coffee and takes a minute to answer while she chews. You had two beers and a really big vodka that I saw. After that you disappeared so I couldn’t tell you what else you had. Where did you go?”
“I don’t remember anything after dancing with those two guys.”
“Nothing?” Annie probes. “You don’t remember taking off with anyone?”
“I don’t remember drinking anything, just dancing, and then nothing.”
“Oh shit,” she rests her elbows on the table leaning close. “You think maybe you got roofied?”
“Drugged?” I wrack my brain for the thousandth time this morning. “You think someone messed with my drink?”
“Could be,” she says, her tone questioning and kind of excited like she’d solved a mystery.
“But I don’t think I’ve been raped.”
“Good. That means Boston got to you in time.”
Suspicious, I pursue. “What do you mean? Boston got to me in time—at the party?”
“When I couldn’t find you, I went looking and ran into him. He tore that house apart until he found you, thank God.”
I had one memory. “I saw Boston’s face looming above me, but I don’t know where or when,” I confess. “It felt like a dream.”
“He opened every door until he found you in the attic. He carried you out to the car and held you in the back seat, all the way to your apartment. Boston’s a good guy you know.”
“I know. It’s me who’s all screwed up.”
“You don’t love him?”
“I’d love to love him, but I can’t. There’s too much risk.” My heart thumps, a lump forming in my throat.
“What kind of risk Sterling?”
“He drinks and drives. I’ve had too much of that in my life, too many disappointments.” I focus on the excuse, unable to share the real reason. The excuse is good enough, I tell myself.
“He told me about that. He worried because of your mom, but you know people can change, right?”
“I’ve heard that before, but I’ve never seen it so I’m not taking any chances.”
“I’ve seen it Sterling. I’ve seen people change.”
“Maybe, but your life hasn’t been affected by drunk driving like mine has. Your mother hasn’t spent half your life in jail. You didn’t have to grow up alone, so pardon me if I’m not confident that your advice fits my situation.”
“Okay Sterling. Just remember, everyone makes mistakes. It’s the good ones who learn from their mistakes and move on to do better things.”
I stared past her, unable to meet her eyes as she fiddled with her straw, it’s movement against the plastic lid created a squawking sound grating on my nerves as the straw slid back and forth.
“How’d you find out?”
“About Boston?”
“Yeah, about Boston.” I could hear the irritation broiling in Annie’s tone, drawing my eyes back to her.
“He told me.”
“Seriously? People don’t usually come out and say, ‘hey, I was arrested for drunk driving oh, seven years ago….’”
“Actually Julie knew and she told me.”
“I knew it. That heifer just wants Boston for herself and she’ll do anything to get rid of you.”
“Well it’s true and better that I find out now instead of later.”
“If you say so. I’m just glad he found you Sterling. Now that I think you were drugged, I’m even happier he showed up.”
“Did you invite him hoping I’d get drunk and lower my guard?”
“No Sterling, but I told him we were going. Maybe I hoped to throw you two together.”
Annie played with the straw in her iced coffee again, screwing up her courage. “This whole drunk driving thing is a convenient excuse, isn’t it?”
Here it comes, I think, but I don’t respond, my lips going flat and grim as I press them together.
“You guys were a great couple and you were happy. What really happened?”
“I don’t want to have this conversation Annie.”
“You know he’s devastated. I haven’t seen him for breakfast since you broke up,” she pushed, not leaving well enough alone.
“It’s easier now than it will be later.”
She looked at me for a moment, brows drawn together in contemplation as if she sorted through the pieces of me, looking for the parts that fit.
“So now we get to the truth of the matter.” Annie smiles a tight triumphant smile, smug about getting the answer she wanted, but it doesn’t make her happy. “How do you know it’ll be harder later? Maybe it’ll be easier. No one knows.”
My wrist gave off an audible pop under pressure from my other hand. She has a point, but I’m not ready to hear it. I change the subject. “So, Boston found me in the attic? How did he even know to look there?”
Annie sighed, rolling her eyes in frustration and maybe a little disgust. “Someone must have led or carried you up. Boston said he didn’t find anyone but you, a bare light bulb and ten or so bare mattresses on the floor.”
The image of an ornate brass door knob floats through my brain, a pale hand with dark wiry hair on the knuckles wrapped around it. “I remember a hand on a door knob. It must have been the attic door. That had to be him,” I said, chasing a mystery just out of my grasp. “Did you see anyone mess with my drink?”
“No, but Luke gave you … two … beers….” Annie trailed off, as if realizing the possible implications.
“Luke?”
“A guy you met at that first party, but it couldn’t have been him. We were together from the time you got your drink until Boston found you. He even helped me look for you.”
“Does he have dark hair on his knuckles?”
“No.” Annie’s eyes got cloudy as if she were picturing him. “I don’t remember dark hair on his hands, but his hair is really dark.”
“What about the vodka I drank. Did you see where I got it?”
“From the bar. No one else touched it, except the guy tending bar.”
“So probably not him.”
“Or maybe him?”
We both lapse into silence as I sift through my mind for any remaining memories.
“You know, we’re sitting here talking about this when we should be reporting it,” said Annie.
“What’s to report? I don’t think anything happened.” I contemplate reporting it, my confidence flagging as I think about trying to tell a story I can’t remember, don’t want to remember.
“Of course something happened. You were drugged!” Annie’s eyes glow fierce and protective, indignant that anyone would dare to drug me.
“I suppose, but this is embarrassing and what if we’re wrong.”
“Then we’re wrong.” Her eyes go large, pupils dilating as she leans into my face. “But what if we’re right and we don’t tell anyone. This guy will go free so he can drug and do God-knows-what to other girls who don’t have Boston to watch over them.”
“So where do we go?”
“I have a friend. Let me give him a call.”
I
try to reassure Annie that I can handle this on my own, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer, determined to stand by my side. She probably knows better than me that if left to my own devices I’d try to ignore it, shoving it away and pretending nothing happened.
As much as I came here hoping to avoid any personal entanglements, I’m glad to have Annie.
Chapter 16
It’s still dark. I turn toward the digital clock, my eyelids slamming shut when the shine hits my eyes. Turning away I can open my eyes again. The window reveals a yellow glow peering through slats in the blind. Not daylight, although the stunted light helps to adjust my eyes.
Looking back toward the digital clock I find smoldering red numbers that glow one-thirty-six.
I roll, the duvet winding around me, jailing me like a captive as I wonder what woke me. The scent of outside teases like a phantom and I feel the sharp edge of chill discouraging and unfriendly. My eyes strain toward the door as I try to place what’s bothering me. It’s closed and the smell has dissolved into the vapor like dreams disintegrate.
“Maybe it’s just a dream.” I whisper into the darkness.
The vodka bottle and a squat glass from last night sit on the table. There’s more vodka left than I expected.
Annie’s friend referred us to the nearest police precinct. I told my story over and over again in what little detail I had, answering every questioned as best I could. I didn’t remember anything new. I’m confident Annie was grilled in similar fashion. I don’t think anything will come of it, but they took my report and promised to look into it.
Kicking my feet to loosen the duvet, I resent its clinging confines. My belt carves into my belly as my jeans twist around me. I give in, my arms sprawled across the bed where just weeks ago I might have found Boston.
Family can be a chore, but I’m finding loneliness to be far less satisfying.
Giving one last kick, I free my legs, pulling myself to my feet.
Sitting on the edge of the futon, my elbows braced against my knees, I scour my face with my palms thinking another drink might help me sleep.
My eyes land on the vodka bottle and I resist for now. The vodka doesn’t help still my thoughts. It only slows them down, pushing them away until stabbing pain becomes melancholy.
Obscured by my thoughts, I move to the bathroom. “Maybe a hot shower will warm me up.” I murmur to myself and almost immediately discard the idea realizing the cold settled within me has nothing to do with temperature.
Something’s not right. I pause at the bathroom door and turn with deliberate reluctance. My bedroom door is open. I’m neither crazy nor drunk. Last time I could blame it on the booze, but this time I’m frozen with dread. I may have had a few drinks, but I didn’t drink much, not enough to go into the room without memory. I stand rigid, trying to hold the panic at bay as if instead of staring into my bedroom I’m staring into a den of wolves.
It’s no longer hidden and although I didn’t open the door, I should close it, hide it again.
Taking a jerky step, I’m at the door. The light next to the glider rocker shines dim. It looks like a small silver ball that’s been squashed. The pink shade makes the room rosy, but tonight it’s not a friendly glow. While I don’t think I turned on the light, I know I should turn it off.
“I can do this. There’s nothing new here,” I tell myself as I step into the room. Blood rushes in my ears as panic continues to grow. Inside, I’m transported back in time. The smell of baby powder is sweet and comforting and makes me smile.
My lips begin to move, the sound of Golden Slumbers ringing in my ears.
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles await you when you rise.
Sleep, pretty baby, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby.
And there she is snuggled in the crib, butt jutting high under the soft pink baby blanket covered with fleecy white lambs. “Emma?” I know it can’t be her. At three she’s bigger, but I want to believe. It feels surreal like a dream. The one-more-minute I’m always searching for dissolves into nothingness as I pull the pink blanket away.
A stuffed turtle in an obscene shade of green jerks me back to reality. I can feel the hot color flooding my cheeks at the nasty practical joke. I grit my teeth and fold the blanket with quick jerky snaps. Hanging the blanket over the rail on the crib, I feel a hot tear land on my hand. I shove the offending turtle into the corner of the crib near some other plush animals, but I don’t let go.
Pulling it back, I hug it to my chest before sinking into the rocker.
Setting the rocker in motion as I had so many nights before, I let the tears come. I haven’t cried since the day of her funeral. I cry for Emma, but mostly I cry for myself. I cry because I can’t do anything right. I can’t keep anyone in my life.
Everyone leaves me and every time a part of me goes with them. Sometimes it’s miniscule and other times it’s monstrous, but every time someone goes, it leaves a gaping abyss.
I wake hours later and the room is bright with sunshine. I’m not surprised to find myself sleeping in the rocker in my bedroom. I’m not drunk. It’s not a dream. Testing my arms and legs, I’m amazed to find they aren’t at all stiff and sore from sleeping in the chair. I feel light and more refreshed than I can ever remember. Something happened last night.
Drawing my eyebrows together, I go over the events in my mind, but nothing quite clicks until I remember my final train of thought before falling asleep. Everyone leaves me. “But that’s not true,” I sigh, feeling heavier. “I left Boston.” There’s no one in the room to hear my admission.
Thinking back to others in my life, I reassess. My mom’s husbands never left me, they left my mom. Okay, Logan betrayed me, but I’m long past that. I enjoyed dating the football star, but our relationship had been shallow, merely a high school crush.
That leaves Emma, taken from me long before her time. She would have never left and I wouldn’t leave her either. Hell, I can’t leave her now that she’s gone. She’s always with me. I’ve tried to shut her out, but nothing works. The time we had together was precious and I wouldn’t trade it for anything, not even to avoid the pain of loss.
I stood, placing the turtle I’d hugged during the night in the corner of the crib with care before dashing off to shower. I have something very important to do today.
Shampooing my hair, I think about what I need to say to Boston. I have to apologize. I hurt him and it breaks my heart.
I have to tell him everything. He deserves honesty and if this is going to work I have to trust him. He needs to know all of me and hopefully understand that I don’t know how to do this. I’m afraid, but willing because this is important.
Emma’s death has taught me that love is worth the risk of loss.
Before I head out, I stand in the bedroom doorway, poised on the threshold. My breathing is quick and shallow; I massage my wrist, indecision tugging at me. I reach forward to close the door, pausing before I reach the knob. I pull back. I’m okay. I can handle this, I tell myself. Then I grab the doorknob without hesitation and pull it closed. I’d like to leave it open, but this is too new and I’m too raw. Maybe tomorrow.
* * *
He’s running right toward me as if chased by demons. If I wait, he’ll be right here in only moments.
For a while I thought I might be chasing a ghost until I actually saw him in class. I went to his room, waited for him after classes, and looked for him at the gym, all to no avail. After he followed me around for weeks, my inability to find him made my mind buzz with confusion. It’s as if he disappeared.
Now he’s here, although not yet aware I’m in his path. The sun is bright, the air crisp, the last remaining colored leaves have fallen, but there’s no snow. I’m bundled in my winter jacket with mittens and a scarf.
Boston is wearing long loose shorts and a gray tee with ARMY emblazoned across the front. The cut-off sleeves show off his tattoo much like when I first saw him. Sweat streaks create
a vee from his neck to his belly and from his underarms down his sides. He’s not at all bothered by the cold. It’s not warm enough, but that’s what he’s wearing.
He’s going to run past me, without noticing if I don’t do something. “Boston!” I yell, stepping directly in front of him. He begins to slow as his eyes meet mine. Then he lowers his head and charts a path around me. He’s avoiding me and I’ve had enough. I made a mistake and all I want is a chance to fix it.
Stepping into his path again, I’m ready to be run down, except I’m not. Boston stops short, his breathing ragged and fast. He bends down, hands resting on his thighs as he tries to catch his breath. He doesn’t look at me.
“I need to talk to you.” I lean in looking up at him, finally making eye contact. “I’ve made a terrible mistake. Please let me explain.”
“No mistake. You don’t want me, I’m gone.” His nostrils flare and he takes a step backward, putting distance between us, his arms stretched wide to his sides. “I told you I don’t give second chances. I warned you.”
I could hear the tension in his voice and anger too. It sparks my anger. “If you don’t want me, then why were you following me? Tell me that?”
He doesn’t answer, taking another step back as I try to step closer.
“I liked it,” I confess. “I liked the reassurance that came from seeing you close, the comfort in knowing you still cared. I miss it.” He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t walk away either. “Thank you for helping me at the party.”
“So that’s what this is about.” He turns away as if to leave, but he stops right away, lacing his fingers together on the top of his head, elbows pointing outward, frustration pouring off of him. “I’m a fool.”
He turns back and I can see the irritation lining his face.
“You’re not a fool Boston.”
“I am. I don’t quite fit into your life plan, so you lead me around by the nose, taking what you want, giving nothing in return and pushing me away when I interfere. Well I’ve been there before and I’m not doing it again.”
“That’s not true Boston. I care for you and I’m afraid of what that might do to me. Caring for others hasn’t gone so well for me in the past, but I don’t live there anymore. I’m willing to try again. I think you might be worth the risk.”