by M. R. Joseph
I hand her another shoe, and a small smile shows up on her face.
“True, and I guess we could be, as long as you follow my list of demands. Especially the name calling one.”
I smile back at her, wondering what is going on in that all-too-big brain of hers.
“So last year, why did you tell me your name was Raphael?”
“‘Cause it is.”
“Why does everyone call you Cruz then?”
“’Cause it’s my last name. I’m not really sure why I told you my real name. I never use it. Even my brother calls me Cruz.”
“That’s weird. I think it’s pretentious, and I’m not calling you Cruz.”
“Not as weird as the name Harlow.”
She laughs. “Harlow isn’t weird. It’s not common either, but it’s not weird.”
“Well, I’m not a fan, and I’m not calling you it, and don’t you dare call me Raphael.”
She yanks a pair of shoes out of my hands and groans at me.
“Oh, really? Then what are you going to call me? Not the ‘B’ word that’s for sure.”
I laugh at her. This is all too comical.
“Something not at all cute, or sexy, or funny. I’m going to nickname you the most un-sexy name in God’s creation.”
She places her hands on her hips, cocks her head to the side, and waits for the name I’m going to give her.
“Now once I give you this name, there’s no going backsies. It sticks.”
“Backsies?” She asks.
“Yea, backsies.”
“Ugh, fair enough.”
I hold out my pinkie for her to take. Harlow doesn’t seem to get what I’m trying to do. Did she live a sheltered life or something?
“Pinkie swear. You link your pinkie finger with mine, and we shake on it. Have you been living under a rock or something?”
She shakes her head ‘no’.
“Well, whatever, just do it. It’s cool.”
She links her tiny finger with mine, and I pull at it, startling her.
I start to think of a name, a really good name, one that I know she’ll hate. I rub my temples, shut my eyes and mumble, “A name, an un-sexy name, hmm.”
I peer open one of my eyes to see her becoming more aggravated the longer I take.
“Would you just get on with it, please. I’ve already wasted enough precious vitamin D sunlight because of you.”
Ok, she’s had enough, and I think I’ve got it.
I stand up. My body towers over hers. She’s not short. She’s not tall. She’s right in the middle. I extend my hand out to hers to shake.
“It’s nice to meet you, Turnip.”
A puzzled look shows up on her face, and I grin. She hates it.
I, on the other hand, love it.
“Turnip?”
I grab her hand, place it in mine and forcefully shake it up and down.
“Yep, damn glad to meet you, Turnip. I’m Cruz.”
She pulls out of my hand, clearly aggravated by the name, and it is the most un-sexy name to come out of one’s mouth. That’s why I chose it. Before she gets a chance to protest, I make my way to the door, planning my escape.
“You pinkie swore, Turnip., It sticks, no backsies.”
“Fine.” She growls through gritted teeth. “You are so immature.”
I stand there, very satisfied with my decision. I could pat myself on the back right now if I could. I affected her, again, in a different way. A non-sexual way. I’m not really used to that, but I think it’s something new to try. Maybe I could be friends with Harlow Hannum. I’m not really friends with many chicks, but if I have to live next door to her for the summer, maybe I should try. I don’t have to be a dick all the time.
I give her a glance over my shoulder and give a quick wink.
“I’ll see you later, Turnip.”
“Later, Dickcop.”
Wait, what?
***
CHAPTER 5
The Grown Up & Ms. Loosey Goosey get to know each other
Harlow~
It’s been almost two weeks since Cruz and I made our little deal. It’s okay so far. I just continue to do what I’m doing, what he told me to do. I ignore him, pretend he doesn’t live here, and go about my business. He works a few nights a week, so I only see him at the beach during the day. He mostly sleeps when he’s there. Not a problem for me, although the tattoos are a distraction on occasion. I mean… What I mean is, they are there, so you kind of can’t help notice them when he’s laying on his towel… shirtless. I’m not blind. I know he’s good looking. I’d be a fool not to notice. But in no way, shape or form would I entertain the thought of being in an intimate situation with him again.
I know him now… well, sort of.
He keeps to himself and hangs with Max a lot. When Cruz isn’t on duty, they go out and only one time, so far, have I heard the moans and groans of one of the barflies they have brought home. I can deal with it. I just stick my earplugs in my ears and turn my iPod on, problem solved.
When we do see each other, it’s a polite nod. Some nights when I’m alone and sitting out on the patio, which faces the dock and the bay, I sometimes see him bring a bar floozie home and watch as he tries to impress her by telling the trollop that he owns the house. Then I may hear him tell one of them that they need to be ever so quiet, because there may be spies listening in on their conversations. I listen to him go on and on about how he’s a spy for the C.I.A, or part of some undercover operation for Homeland Security. It’s comical, really, bordering on ridiculous, no wait… let me re-phrase that, it is ridiculous. Girls are so gullible.
I don’t think I’ve been this relaxed in a long time. My meds are helping, which is a good sign. I love sitting out on this dock watching the soft ripple of the water on the bay. Early mornings here are my favorite. I’m not a sleeper, so I’m always out here with my coffee by six. Insomnia has its pros and cons, you see. You don’t sleep much, but at least you don’t waste your day in bed, and you get a few extra hours to be productive.
The applications I’m filling out for positions in the school district I student taught at ask for a lot of information, and the teachers and mentors at the school gave me glowing recommendations. I’d be thrilled with just a substitute position right now.
I’m beginning to type away entering all the info the schools are asking for, when I hear footsteps behind me on the dock. I turn around and find Cruz standing there. He has a fisherman’s hat on with things hanging off of it, a fishing pole and a tackle box.
A smile as large as life is displayed on his tanned face. There goes my peace and quiet, right out the door.
Stretching his arms over his head, he addresses me, “Good morning, Turnip. Ahh, what a day.” He makes himself comfortable on the dock, placing his items on a towel he has spread out. He hooks his line, pulling out a worm for bait, and I cringe.
“That’s really disgusting to look at this early in the morning. Speaking of such, why are you up?”
He casts his line and dangles his feet off the dock into the water.
“I just got home from my shift and I thought I’d do a little fishing before my nap. What brings you out here?”
I take a long sip of my heavenly Starbucks and go back to typing, ignoring his question. It’s really none of his business what I’m doing.
“Well, okay then, be rude why don’t you.”
What happened to us ignoring each other? We did come to some kind of agreement or did he forget.
I speak to him while reading all the fine print of the applications, “I’m not being rude, I’m just… well I’m busy. That’s all.” My tone drips of annoyance.
This mumbo jumbo I’m looking at can be quite confusing, so I really need to take my time and concentrate on the task at hand.
“Fine, I don’t want to know anyway. It’s probably something smart, like an I.Q. test.”
“None of the above.”
“Fine,” he snaps.
; “Fine,” I snap back.
Silence sets in as I go back to the tedious job I was just performing. I sit. He sits. The sound of seagulls and my fingers tapping the keys are the only sounds heard.
“Would you mind? You are scaring the fish.”
I roll my eyes. He can’t see me, but I do it anyway and continue, this time I pound them just a little harder.
“I don’t mind at all.” I smile to myself, pleased with my comeback.
One down, two more to go. I somewhat have the hang of it, all the information I type in is the same, so I copy, paste and repeat.
Then I hear whistling. Annoying whistling. His whistling. It continues, high notes then low ones. The tone is obnoxious and infuriating, and as it continues, I no longer have a grasp on my concentration. I slam the lid to my laptop shut with fierceness.
I turn towards him against my better judgment, and his back is to mine.
“Would you mind? What I am doing requires extreme meticulousness, so I would rather you go whistle your tune somewhere else.”
Cruz rotates his head over one shoulder slowly to me.
“Was that English? What the hell are you talking about?”
This man infuriates me. So I stand, laptop tucked under my arm and clutching my coffee cup in the other.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, big words scare you? Poor guy. It’s okay, Officer, your lack of knowledge of the English language is hard to comprehend. I mean you being a caveman and all.” I pat the top of his head and he shoos my hand away.
“You always have to talk like that? Why don’t you loosen up a little? This isn’t college anymore.”
He mumbles something else about being a tight ass as he goes back to focusing on the water.
“I am loose. I like to have fun like the next person. I just choose to use a large vocabulary while doing it. It suits me. It proves my intelligence, unlike some people.”
He pulls the rod out of the water, stands and throws it on the dock, and now I know I stirred something up inside him. His body stalks over to me. His hat is now flung off his head and lands on the dock. His hair a wild mess of brown waves, and if I’m not mistaken, steam is coming from his ears.
“You wouldn’t know a good time if it sat on your face and did the Macarena.”
Oh, no he did not just say that. I can feel the anger pulse through my veins like a high-speed train, and I’m not going to allow him to affect me with his useless words.
“Really? Well, maybe if you didn’t always have a party sitting on your face, then maybe you wouldn’t have to settle for being a rent-a-cop at the age of twenty four. You uneducated, unintelligent simpleton.”
He curves his lips into an angry hard line, shutting his eyes tightly.
Oh, Lord, I pissed him off.
“Listen here, you snot nose, rich brat. You don’t have to use big words to make people think you’re smarter than the average person. I was an Officer in the Marine Corps as a Staff Sergeant, organizing a platoon of men in Afghanistan and Iraq. I’ve seen and experienced things you have only read about in books or have seen on the news. So do not stand there and insinuate that I am not intelligent because I don’t always use an extensive vocabulary to explain myself.”
I’m rendered speechless. I swallow hard, feeling like a fool. He didn’t deserve that. Maybe these meds aren’t working. I feel bad. I’m really not sure what to say next. I stand there, bewildered. I place my mug and laptop down on the dock, then stand and place my hands on my hips.
He crosses his arms, looking quite satisfied that I have no words. He inches towards me, his nose to my forehead. His breath streaming across my face. He’s biting his lower lip, waiting for me to look up. He takes my chin, raises it up with his finger to meet his gaze. I feel my breathing pick up its pace. I swat his finger away, and I’m not sure why I’m still standing here.
“Cat got your tongue, Turnip?” He licks the lip he was just holding between his teeth. His blue eyes brazen as he asks the question. My jaw agape, I want to say something, anything, to disturb his thoughts. He holds a stare like he’s summoning me to talk without actually telling me to.
“My, my Miss Hannum, for once that pretty little mouth of yours has nothing coming out of it. What a welcomed surprise.”
I hear it in my head, my subconscious is telling me to speak Harlow, say something, do something damn it!
“Since there’s nothing coming out of that smartass, sassy little mouth of yours,” he growls sexily, hungrily, “maybe I should put something in it?”
What?
My natural reaction to what’s about to transpire, does not stun me; it frightens me and with all of my might, all the strength I have in this body, I shove the pig off the dock into the bay.
He crashes into the water, flailing his arms and legs, gasping for air.
“You bastard! How dare you? You are nothing but a self-righteous pig!” He sinks into the water, bobs up and down. What is this game he’s playing?
“Help, Harlow, please, I…” Back down he goes, then up again, coughing, splashing, then back down.
What is he trying to do?
Then he goes under again. And not resurfacing. I wait, and I wait. I peek over the dock to see where he is. Nothing but a few bubbles pop up.
Shit!
Did he drown? I look to the opposite side of the dock, nothing. I feel panic in my chest, so I yell for help.
“Someone, help. Come quick!”
My anxiousness overtakes me, and I pull at my hair, pacing until I see Max fly out onto the upper patio.
I get on my hands and knees and peer over the old wooden boards.
Oh, no! I can’t see him. The water is too dark.
I’m suddenly grabbed by my arm, thrown in the water, and I’m confused, not breathing correctly, gasping as I feel the water enter my lungs. I can’t stand, nor can I yell. I’m going to die. This is how I’m going to die. I can hear muffled sounds of people talking, yelling, splashing all around me, as I begin to sink deeper and deeper into the salty water. I close my eyes, wishing for a quick end and not a long, drawn-out, dramatic death. Flashes of my past come to play. Weaving a movie about my life, the good, the bad, the tragic. I don’t want that to be the last thing I think before I die. I plead with God, not that, oh, please, not that.
I feel my body jerk. There are arms around my waist, hauling me up from the water, and I feel my body hit a hard surface. I blink a few times after my cheek has been slapped and hands turning my head towards the side of my body. I expel water from my lungs. I shut my eyes again because of the sting from the remnants of the salt due to the saltwater.
“She can’t swim. God damn it! How did this happen!”
I can hear Willow yelling and hands making contact with bare flesh, the slapping sounds, the cries, and then two hands grasping my shoulders.
“Harlow, Harlow, can you hear me?”
I take a deep breath in. It hurts my lungs, but I do so, and momentarily I cough and spit more water from my mouth. Willow is looking at me, my face in her hands. She is focusing on my face.
“Oh, thank God, Har. Are you ok? Do you want to go to the hospital? What happened?”
There’s much confusion surrounding me. Lots of faces, in my face. Willow trying to pull me off the wooden boards. Her screaming at Cruz.
“You asshole. How could you do that to her? She can’t swim. Never learned how and you go and do this. If I thought you weren’t much of an asshole a week and a half ago, God, let me tell you what I really think of you now.”
She leaves me, gets in his face, they are shouting, pointing at me, to the dock, to the water, and to my… oh my God! My laptop! It’s soaked, ruined. Simply drenched. And then I feel the tears prick my eyes, sting them, and I regurgitate the salt from the bay. A heavy mixture of emotions is going through me. Sadness, anxiousness, and I’m just tired. So tired, I want to go back to bed, and it’s only seven a.m.
I hug my knees and rock like I always do when I’m anxious. Max comes to m
y side and bends down so he’s level with me. His hand rests on my knee.
“Harlow, are you ok? He didn’t mean it. He had no idea you couldn’t swim.”
I don’t reply. I’m still in shock, still shaking from seeing my life flash before my eyes.
I rise, and Max helps me up. I grab my laptop, water drips from it, and I feel defeated. Willow and Thea look at me. They come to my side and link their arms with mine as we make our descent back to the house.
Cruz stills my arm as he speaks, “Turnip, wait, I’m… I’m, well, you know.”
He can’t find the words. The only words that will make this okay, but he doesn’t have the power to say them.
Willow smacks his chest and follows the rest of us into the house. He remains stoic, and I faintly hear Porter yelling at him as we walk.
I need a shower. I smell like the bay. I need the warmth of the water on me, speedily. As I make my way to the bathroom, Willow asks what I want to put on after my shower. I just want my sweats, because when I get out of the shower, I’ll be packing to go home. I can’t stay here with that asshole.
I turn on the water, and I feel the temperature of the spray. I peel off my wet clothes and step in, automatically feeling the constant steady stream of water from the shower head on my body. I just keep telling myself over and over: ‘You’re okay. You’re okay. You are alive.’
All these emotions stirred up by one person. Now, I’m a sensible person. I know he had no idea I couldn’t swim, but it’s his insatiable need to play, to kid around, to trick, and to use sexual innuendoes every chance he gets.
I stand there, hands against the cool tiles of the shower, thinking of what I need to do when I get home. Buy a new laptop, re-do all the applications I began. Damn it, I should have pressed send sooner.
I’ll get a simple job until I have a teaching position. Maybe Daddy will let me fetch coffee for him at the office. All I know is I have to leave.
I’m finished with my shower. I wrap a towel around myself, make my way to my room, dress quickly and throw my suitcase on my bed, again, for the second time in less than two weeks. I hear a knock at my door.