Locked Out

by Anna Chastain

  “Alright, alright, calm down,” I tell him, pulling away.

  “Missed you, man.”

  “Don’t get all weepy on me, just grab your board and let’s go.” I slap him on the shoulder and swing my board up and onto my head. I’ve known Bear for as long as I can remember, and I missed him too, and I’m grateful for him because he’s the only friend I have who’s still crazy enough to meet me for night surfing.

  Number one thing I’m asked by anyone when I tell them I surf: aren’t you afraid of sharks?

  And this is from guys who wear the uniform, who face danger on a daily basis, and have seen and done some pretty horrific shit. They all want to know about the sharks. And you know what? I’ve lived here my whole life, played in this ocean since before I could walk and never has anyone been attacked by a shark. Statistically speaking, I’m more likely to get creamed pulling out of the parking lot later than I am to get bit by a shark. So my answer to those people is always, no. Fuck sharks, man, I’m more afraid of humans.

  Bear and I take turns slicing through the dark waves long enough for our limbs to feel numb and my old man knees to start aching, before we agree it’s time, and before our truck batteries die from leaving the lights on.

  “Your wife doesn’t care about you coming out here at night?” I ask, once we’ve dropped our boards into our trucks and are brushing off the water and sand from our skin.

  “Naw, she’s the best, man, totally gets me.”

  Seeing Bear goofy over a woman will never cease to amaze me.

  “No kids yet, though?” It kind of seems like that’s what people do. Hook up, get married, buy a house, have some kids. At least here that’s what they do.

  “Mmm, that may not be in the cards for us,” he tells me, looking out towards the sound of the crashing surf.

  Well, shit. Shit.

  “We’ve been trying for a few years, but,” he shrugs, a grin back on his face, in true Bear fashion, “honestly, I’m just grateful for her and I’ll be happy for the rest of my life if it’s just the two of us, you know?”

  I don’t know, actually, but I reach out and punch his shoulder in solidarity, anyway.

  “I mean, I’ll do whatever she wants. If she wants to keep trying or stop, adopt, whatever, I am her humble servant.”

  That pulls a chuckle out of me.

  “Good man, Bear.”

  “But you, man, you can knock ‘em up without even trying, in true Dean Slade style.”

  I knock my head back into the truck’s door and groan. I shoulda known news like that in a small town like that would travel fast.

  “Bear, man, I gotta tell you, I’ve been having sex for twenty years. Twenty years, man, and never slipped up, never had a scare.”

  I shake my head, it’s still all so hard to believe.

  “So, statistically, I’d say it was bound to happen, then.”

  Well, shit. Maybe I’m the shark, I realize.

  Chapter 10

  Holly

  The school library has become my sanctuary these days since Dean’s arrival has brought various members of the Slade family to my doorstep each day. There was Dean’s evening visit, which was actually a nice surprise, then the next day Grace stopped by to see if I wanted to join her and her family at the beach (no, thanks, but that’s so nice of you to think of me); and then on Sunday, it was Lola Slade, stopping by on her way home from the market to invite me to their house for Sunday barbecue. I’m telling you, by Sunday night, I was done answering the door and the phone. I’d holed up in my room with Mr. Bubberchop and we snuggled and ignored everything and everyone.

  Today was Monday and it was back to work where, hopefully, no one with the last name Slade would find me. I had gotten one of the library aides to pull down my big tubs full of holiday decorations and we were currently up to our armpits in white lights, garland, and glittery ornaments. I’d managed to corral six other students, who had come to the library for other reasons, to help decorate the space. I pretty much told them to do what they wanted with the decorations while I got busy with the tree. It was an eight foot artificial tree that I’d convinced the local hardware store to donate and, being the height-challenged person I am, was going to need a stepladder soon.

  “Yo, Miss O’Brian, what do you want me to do with this thing?” I turn around and see Isaac, a junior who’d read every graphic novel in the library, holding up a deconstructed tinsel tree.

  “Hmm. Is there a spot for it over in Biographies, you think?”

  “I’ll check.”

  “Hey, Miss O’Brian, can I have one of these?” I turn my attention to Lucy, lover of paranormal romances, who’s holding up a mug and gesturing to my Keurig station.

  “Of course,” I tell her, smiling. Christmas music filters through the speakers at my counter and I think, this is just what I needed.

  And then…

  “Need some help putting the star on top?” Just when you think you’re safe.

  “No thank you, Dean.”

  I glance behind me, hoping he hasn’t garnered the student’s attention. I’d already had to have several awkward conversations with students about my pregnancy and can only imagine what gossip his presence here will fuel.

  “What are doing here?” Because, honestly, did this family not understand boundaries?!

  “Do you want to have dinner and talk?” he asks, plucking a little reindeer from the ornament box and placing it up high on the tree. When I glance to him, my brow furrowed, he just lifts his eyebrow and reaches down for another one. “I tried calling you, but you didn’t answer.”

  Dinner and talk, huh? That sounded horrible, actually, but I knew we were going to have to have a conversation at some point and we may as well get it over with.

  “Would you like to come over this evening?” Look at me, so congenial; the holiday spirit really is magical.

  “Sure, yeah.” Everything with Dean is so abrupt. He’s obviously making an effort, though it appears to pain him, so I figure I need to, as well. I don’t know what he’s going to say to me tonight, whether he’s going to choose to be a part of the baby’s life or not, but if he does want to, we’re going to have to learn how to work together and get along. Tonight, apparently, would be the first step.

  “Okay, then, I’ll be there at 6:00.”

  “Sounds great,” I say with a practiced smile, even though his habit of making demands is so annoying.

  He bends his knees and leans in towards my face to catch my eyes. “Bye.”

  And then he’s gone.

  “Ooh, Miss O’Brian, is that your baby daddy?” Cami, a senior who feasts on Greek and Roman Mythology and is going to be a brilliant professor one day, I have no doubt, calls out from the other side of my counter. “He is fine.”

  I tip my head to the side and do some quick decision-making in my head.

  “Cami, honey, I don’t think that’s something I feel like discussing, thank you very much,” is what I go with.

  “Well, based on the color of your face, I’m going to deduce that he is.”

  Curse my fair complexion. There are chuckles throughout the group and I can actually feel myself blushing now.

  “You are all horrible children,” I say, teasingly, unable to hide my grin.

  “Aw, you love us,” Cami says.

  “It’s true,” I concede with a sigh. “Now someone come finish the part of this tree I can’t reach.”

  I tuck my white t-shirt into my khaki wide-leg capris (elastic waist for the win), and tie the belt into a big bow, then move to my dresser to pick some jewelry. I’m probably taking this dressing thing too far, but picking accessories gives me something to focus on, other than the fact that I was about to have the most awkward dinner date (?), meeting (?) ever. I settle on a strand of navy blue, oversized beads and matching earrings and pull out my navy, polka-dotted flats to coordinate. I’d rolled back the sides of my hair to meet in a low ponytail in back, with a victory roll in the front. Victory rolls were my f
avorite and I was super good at them, which, considering the amount of hair I had and its penchant for mutiny, was saying something.

  But I digress. Did I mention I don’t cook? That hasn’t changed, so I’d stopped at the market on the way home from work and picked up a rotisserie chicken and bagged salad, both of which I’d transferred to dishes of my own. Dean looked like the type of person who ate healthy (i.e., his body was smokin’), so I hadn’t bothered with dessert, and if he didn’t want any of the luscious French bread I bought, well, more for me.

  I hadn’t been on a date in years, people, years-not that this was a date, of course, but still. It’s not for lack of wanting to meet someone; it’s more that dating is a nightmare, all that small talk and getting to know someone, blech. Between my college boyfriend and my post-college boyfriend, I’d been on a total of five dates with five different men (three of whom Maya had set me up with) and they’d all ended with a wave and a see ya later-or never, in their cases. I sometimes wondered if I was incapable of being in a long-lasting relationship. I’d had a less than stellar example of an adult relationship as a child, but that wasn’t exactly uncommon and I didn’t ever want to use that as an excuse. I had lots of love to give, I knew that, and now this unexpected little fruit I was carrying would be the lucky recipient of all that love. Maybe I didn’t need a man in my life.

  This only became more apparent when, by 7:00, Dean Slade was nowhere to be found. I was sitting at my kitchen table picking at the cold chicken and ripping off chunks of French bread, trying so hard not to be disappointed. I’d allow myself the anger, because not showing up to a dinner that you asked for was just rude, but I was not going to allow myself to feel the disenchantment of being stood up. My hopes were just stupid little fools for even rising this evening.

  I put all the food away, wash the dishes, and head down the hall where I wash my face in the bathroom and replace my victory roll and low ponytail with a long braid. I peel off the jewelry and cute outfit and slipped into my plaid, flannel pajama bottoms and my “I like to party, and by party I mean read books” t-shirt that barely covered my baby bump these days.

  “Well, fruity, just you and me tonight,” I say with a rub to my tummy. I had a lot of editing work that I’d put off for the evening, but didn’t think I was in the right frame of mind for that; I might end up suggesting the death of good characters or the complete annihilation of a romantic storyline. No, it was best to just fire up the ol’ Netflix and zone out.

  “Bubs,” I call out to my kitty. “Where are you, little kitty boy?” He appears from under my bed to rub his head against my legs, and I pick him up and take him with me to my couch.

  I’m deciding between Sherlock and The Crown when there’s a knock on my door, loud enough to send Mr. Bubberchop scattering back to the safety of my bedroom. I, however, linger a moment because, seriously? If this is Dean, I’m going to be really, really mad.

  “Holly, I can see you sitting on the couch, please open the door.”

  I look over to see, yup, Dean’s stupid face peering in the glass door. I should really consider replacing my front door. I sigh, get off the couch and pad barefoot to the door.

  “We’re closed,” I tell him, barely opening the door.

  “A situation came up with one of the guys in my unit and I had to deal with it,” he tells me. Then he throws in, “I’m sorry.”

  Okay, his unwavering stare makes me believe he’s not lying, but still.

  “Fine,” I respond, unable to hold the eye roll that happens back.

  He holds his stare, but that one stupid eyebrow lifts slowly. Ugh.

  “Look, it’s fine, you had something come up, we’ll talk some other time. Thank you for coming by to explain but you really could’ve just called.”

  “Now.”

  “What? Now what?”

  “Let’s talk now,” he clarifies. “Did you eat?”

  “Yes, I ate,” I can’t believe him. “And, no, not now, Dean, I’m in my pajamas already.”

  He glances at my clothing and I see his gaze stutter on the strip of bare baby bump.

  “Let’s just take a little walk, I need-“ For the first time since he arrived, he looks away. But the way he does it, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath pulls at my traitorous heart in an uncomfortable way.

  “Okay, fine. But I’m not changing.”

  He looks back at me, his face less harsh, and nods, so I stand back and pull the door open wide enough for his big frame to fit.

  “Come on, we can go out the back door,” I say.

  “No, I’ll just wait here.”

  I really look at him now and can see that he has indeed been through something tonight.

  “There’s a door right there through the kitchen that leads to the beach trail at the back of my house,” I explain, stepping back so he can see where I’m pointing. He sticks his head through the door to see and I watch his eyes glance around the rest of the space.

  He finally nods again and moves past me and straight to the back door. I lock up the front door, slide my feet into the flip flops waiting there and follow him, my thoughts pinging inside my brain.

  Obviously, Dean’s got some stuff going on in his head after that phone call with his friend, yet he still showed up here tonight to explain himself when he could have easily evaded me until tomorrow and I never would have known the difference.

  There’s a sweater hanging on a hook by the back door that I grab on the way out. Dean stands at the gate to my back fence, his attention on the ocean. It’s already dark, but you can hear the crashing of the waves and the moon is bright. Even so, I reach back into the house to grab my flashlight.

  I meet him at the gate and we start out on the little trail, my flashlight lighting our path.

  “Sorry to pull you out into the dark.” He’s walking with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans and his shoulder hunched.

  “It’s okay, I know this path pretty well.”

  When we get to the sand he asks if I want to sit and before we do, he pulls off his zipper hoodie and lays it down for me to sit on. He’s left in a tight black t-shirt and I will not stare at his arms or admire the way the moonlight highlights his muscles. We sit in silence for a few minutes and I’m good with that.

  “One of the guys from my unit called tonight and he, uh, wasn’t doing so well. I had to talk to him and try and get ahold of his wife, make sure he didn’t do anything stupid,” he tells me and any anger I was feeling melts away. “But I am sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Dean,” I assure him softly. “Is your friend okay now?”

  He breathes out a harsh chuckle. “I don’t know. His family is taking over and I’ll check back in tomorrow.”

  I don’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry’ just seems pathetic, even though I am (sorry, not pathetic). I can’t even begin to imagine the things he’s been through.

  “Did you grow up here?” He asks, removing his flip flops and digging his toes into the sand, and I accept his shift in conversational topics, even though the shift falls on the topic of me.

  “No.” I glance at him and find him watching me, waiting, expecting more.

  “I moved here when I was fourteen,” I concede and respond.

  “With your parents?”

  I bite my lip, working out how much to say, how deep I want to dig tonight.

  “No.”

  A heavy sigh escapes me. He’s going to find out at some point, may as well get the ugly business out of the way up front.

  “My dad is in prison and my mom is dead. I moved here to live with my grandma.”

  “Fuck,” he says, angling his body towards mine, his expression one of shock. “Why is your dad in prison?”

  See, most people, if they hear that about my father, want to ask that, but don’t. Most people don’t want to pry (I mean, I’m sure they want to, but, you know, manners), especially into the ugly stuff, but not Dean. So, since he asked, I’ll give it to him.

  “B
oth of my parents had problems with drugs and alcohol and during one of their binges, my dad broke into someone’s house, not realizing the wife was home…and he shot and killed her.”

  I hated that this was my family’s legacy, hated it.

  “He went to prison when I was twelve and my mom couldn’t handle it and never sobered up again. Then when I was fourteen, she overdosed in the bathroom of our studio apartment, and I came here to live with my grandma.”

  I grab a handful of sand in each hand and let it sift through my fingers into tiny little piles on each side of me.

  “Mm,” Dean grunts out.

  I allow him to stare at me, but I don’t need to see the look of pity or disgust or whatever in his eyes. Let him resolve his thoughts and we’ll forge on, I figure.

  “Is that something that people know?”

  I shrug. “It’s not really a secret, but it’s also not something I share when I first meet someone. I’m sure it’s out there, but I’ve personally discussed with very few people. It’s ugly, and I find that most people don’t know how, nor do they want, to deal with ugly.”

  Then I realize, out of anyone I could have told, Dean is probably someone that knows how to deal with ugly.

  “I get it,” he finally responds, his own eyes out to sea now, and I can only wonder the places his mind has wandered to.

  With my eyes on the sea, I hear him tell me, “We’re gonna be okay, Holly.”

  I turn, surprised at his declaration, and when his lips curve into a grin (half sincere, half wicked), I know. This man is going to ruin me for all other men.

  Chapter 11

  Dean

  We’re gonna be okay, I told her. I didn’t know if that was true, I didn’t have the faintest idea how our situation was going to play out, but I just couldn’t stand how she looked when she talked about her parents-locked up and hard, like she’d had a lot of practice protecting herself. So I said the words that I hoped would make her feel better, make her soft again; and it worked. See, Holly O’Brian is one of the good people, the nice ones-not like me, who’s hard and too abrupt most of the time to most people. And she’s having my kid and, fuck, I do not know what to do with that. That story about her parents, that is some seriously messed up stuff.