"I'll take your suggestion under consideration," I tell him.
The skin around his ears burns with a red tinge, as do the veins in his eyes. "This is no suggestion, Raine. Cascade is clean of sexual predators as well as all crime, and we intend to keep it that way." Sexual predator. That's what I'll forever be known as now. I take it they chase every other released inmate away before they have a chance to settle into this town. Most would want to get as far away from that prison as possible anyway, but I'm not most of them, and I'm not done with this town.
I pull my hands out of my pockets and take the man's hand. "Sir, I truly hope you have a good day." Placing my hands on the sides of his shoulders, I carefully move him out of the way and continue walking down the sidewalk. It isn't hard to hear the chatter behind me—the gossip, the worries, and fears. I know what they think I am, as well as what I'm not, and if there's anything I've learned in the last seven years, it's that I can't control what anyone else thinks or does.
I continue through the center of town, watching as people cross the street to avoid me. No one looks familiar, even though I lived here my entire life before I was put away, but evidently, I look familiar to all of them. That and I've seen at least six flyers hanging around town with my mug in black and white, announcing: "Warning! Sexual Predator."
Seven years ago, when I was thrown into a cell, I manifested every emotion these people want me to feel right now. I felt like the animal they think I am. I sat awake for a week straight, staring at a crack in the wall, trying to figure out how and where I went wrong. I constantly asked myself if there was something I could have done differently. Of course, I came up with a pretty lengthy list of things I should have done to avoid the situation that sent me to prison and left me with a criminal record, but it doesn't matter anymore.
As I come to the end of Main Street in the center of town, I pass by the coffee shop with a "Help Wanted" sign hanging in the dew-covered window. Ideally, after smelling nothing but piss and shit for past seven years, I'd like to go sit on a park bench and smell the fucking flowers and listen to the birds chirp, but I need money, just the same as when I left. I look into the shop, noting how busy it is, already assuming this won't go over well, but I have to at least try.
I walk in and stand at the end of the four-person line as each person turns around and not-so-subtly gives me a look I'm quickly becoming used to. When I approach the counter, the scrawny teenage boy who mustn't be older than fifteen asks me if he can help me, his voice rasping with fear.
"I saw your 'Help Wanted' sign on the door. Is there a manager I could speak with?" I ask him.
"I—I'm the manager," he says softly, nervously. "You're...you're—"
"We all know who I am, thanks to the pretty little glamour shots of me all over town." I place my hands down on the counter, leaning forward a bit more. "Do you have a job opening or not?" He looks down at my hands, most likely at the ink and scars covering every inch of my hands, swallows hard and glances back up at me.
"I can pass your name on to the owner," he says, wiping his hands off on his apron.
"Well, can I have an application or something?" I ask.
"Why don't you just leave," a woman yells from the back of the shop. "No one wants you here."
I turn around, making eye contact with the woman, finding that I recognize her. She used to/maybe still does live next door to Haven. I suppose it would be easiest to just leave this town, but that's what everyone is likely expecting me to do if they push hard enough. Facing back toward the little dude with an apron, I take the application from his hand. "Do you have a pen?"
His hand shakes as he reaches behind the register, grabbing a black pen and handing it to me. "I'm not going to hurt you, man. I'm just looking for a job." I force what feels like a hint of a smile. Trying to smile, anyway. He nods with an equally forced smile that makes him look like he's about to vomit.
I slide the paper down the counter, a few feet out of the way from the line, and fill out my information. It only takes a couple of minutes since I have no previous work experience in the past five years, other than repairing washers and dryers, dishwashers, and any other electronics that broke in the prison.
I get to the part where it asks if I'm been convicted of any crime. I have to check yes and then summarize a detailed reason why I was behind bars for seven years, and the best I can come up with is: A desperate girl lied to me.
16
Haven
If I stare at my reflection long enough, I can convince myself that I deserve everything around me. If I didn't deserve it, I wouldn't have it, right? I have to believe that to justify living this life.
"Darling, how long before you're ready?" Bennett calls into the bedroom. "We're supposed to meet the Sanders’ in twenty minutes, and if we don't leave now, we're going to miss our reservation." Normally, I'd be the one dragging Bennett out of the house since I don't like to be late. Tonight, however, I feel like I'm in a fog as I continue to gaze at the stranger reflected in the mirror. Only my trademark scarlet lipstick identifies that girl as me. The hair, the clothes, and the jewelry look like they belong on someone else. I place one more pin into my hair and break my stare away from the mirror as the door to the bedroom opens, bringing forth Bennett with a look of concern. "Haven, darling, what is taking so long? Are you sick?"
Kind of, but not really. I want to tell him what's going on, but it's already a sore subject. "No, I'm sorry. I'm just a little tired tonight for some reason." I walk past him and into the walk-in closet, retrieving my dress from the hanger while deliberately ignoring his analyzing look—one brow raised, the other eye partially closed, his lips twisted to one side. It's the look Bennett gives me when he knows I'm keeping something from him. I wonder if I have a look when I know he's keeping something from me. Maybe my poker face is better than his.
I don't keep much from him, but there's a part of me that remains concealed within me, hidden from not only Bennett but the rest of the world as well. "Could you help with the zipper?" I turn around, giving him access to my exposed back, immediately feeling the heat of his knuckles draw a line from the bottom of my spine up to the nape of my neck.
"Did you not sleep well last night?" he asks, placing a kiss on my bare shoulder.
I didn't sleep at all last night, I didn't eat a morsel of food today, and I have not breathed a painless breath in more than a week. My mind is consumed, my pulse is unsteady, and my chest is wound into a tight knot. "Maybe it's allergies. I know they can make a person tired," I offer as an excuse.
Slipping my feet into my heels, I take my navy cashmere cardigan from the edge of the bed. When I reach for Bennett's hand, he pulls me in and kisses me tenderly in a way that shows the amount of love he says he has for me. "Cheer up, darling, it's going to be a fun night. I'm not on call or anything," he says, pulling away as an eager smile pulls across his lips. With a hand on my back, he urges me out of our bedroom and down the marbled staircase.
"Where are we going again?" I ask. I know he told me, but with all the other thoughts consuming my mind this week, I've forgotten.
He stops at the bottom of the staircase and looks over to me, his eyebrows furrowing with confusion. "We've talked about this a million times this week, Haven." He moves past me and opens the front door, ushering me out onto the front porch. "We're going to Wrightman's Plantation. Remember? They have live music tonight."
"Oh yes, that's right. I remember now," I reply, simply.
"What is going on in that head of yours tonight?" he asks, opening the passenger side door to his Aston Martin. "Something is clearly bothering you." I want to remind him he's a surgeon and not a therapist, but that won’t make the nagging questions stop, and it wouldn’t be a good way to start this evening.
I slip inside the car, focusing on the cool leather of the seat as it presses against my bare thighs, desperate to redirect the thoughts spinning through my mind. "I told you, I'm fine. I'm just tired." He's still standing at my door, sadnes
s now clouding his tanzanite eyes. I can tell he's not buying it, but I am tired. Tired from not sleeping and tired from overthinking.
He closes my door, confining me within the darkness, allowing me to once again be alone with my reflection against the tinted windows. I can't see past my red lipstick.
It has been two thousand, five hundred, and fifty-five days—seven years to the day. I was the cause of ruining a man's life, and it has haunted me every day since that night I stood in front of the boy I was sure I loved and held onto a silly lie without concern. I have tried to forget about him and the guilt. I have tried to avoid imagining what it must have been like for him in prison. I have tried to pretend like it wasn't my fault. I seem to have no problem lying to everyone else, but lying to myself has not been possible. Living with a lie is worse than living with the truth.
When I went to the grocery store earlier this week, I saw pictures of Raine hanging on street lamp posts, on benches, and trees. The people in this town have labeled him a "sexual predator," and that's what is written across his face on every piece of paper. I tried to rip down as many of them as I could, but people were looking at me...chattering, whispering, and calling me a "poor girl." Neighbors have been asking if I'm okay and if I'm prepared for the wild animal to be released from his cage. The priest has even reached out to me, offering his time if I'd like to speak. This town is too small. I could come clean now, but no one would believe me, and I'd ruin Dad's golden image, so I've continued to do the worst thing I could possibly do. Keep my mouth shut, per Dad's demand.
I have considered what might happen if I were to run into Raine...what I would say, and whether "sorry" would be enough to cover all the apologies he's deserved over the past seven years. I'm guessing not. I constantly wonder what he looks like now, how much he must have changed.
"Darling, we're here." The car jerks forward as Bennett shifts the gear into park. My phone is buzzing on my lap, and there's a tapping on my window. My thoughts all freeze in place, bringing my focus back to the reflective red lipstick in the window. I still can't see past it.
My door opens, and Maryanne pulls me out of the car. "What took you two so long?" she asks, wrapping her arms around my neck. "And what is going on with you? Why haven't you answered any of my texts or calls today? Are you feeling okay?" I nod my head to say yes then no, then yes again. She just squeezes me tighter and leans her mouth in toward my ear, allowing me to smell the pungent scent of her Burberry perfume, mixed with a hint of mint on her breath. "I know what's going on." Her words float into my ear in a whisper, but I cringe from the volume they take on inside my head.
No, she doesn't.
"I'm just tired. I didn't sleep well last night." How many times can I say this same line before I will start to believe it.
"Your dad is going to kill you when he finds out you’re pregnant. I have a strong feeling he would have preferred to see you marry Bennett first," she says, taking me by the arm and pulling me toward the front entrance of the restaurant.
I stop walking and pull my arm from her grip. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"That must be what's going on with you," she says through a stifled, soft laugh.
"No, Maryanne. I'm not pregnant." I can't do this tonight. "Bennett, can we go home?" He stops talking to Roger, Maryanne's husband, and freezes without a response.
"No!" Maryanne shrieks. "I mean, no, don’t go home. You'll feel better once you have some food." Now I really want to go home. I'm questioning whether I'm the one acting strange, or if it's all of them.
Maryanne's hand wraps back around my wrist as she pulls me in through the restaurant doors and over to the host's podium where we wait for the men to catch up. She faces me and runs her hand over the cashmere covering my shoulder. "You look pretty tonight. Is that the dress you bought in Paris last month? I remember it was a heather gray, but—"
"Yes, it is," I cut her off, looking back at Bennett, waiting for him to let the host know we're here. I'd love to get this night over with. I know I'm acting ridiculous and very unlike me, but I may have an anxiety attack tonight. I've never had one before, but my anxiety feels like it’s close to reaching panic level.
It only takes a minute or two before the host is leading us down a dark hallway. My heart-pounding stress continues, except now it's surrounded by hanging dim candle votives and wrought iron decorative wall hangings. We've only been here once, and it was back when Bennett and I first met. It's an old plantation house that’s been turned into the fanciest, most expensive restaurant around. It’s a special occasion kind of place.
It's a special occasion kind of place.
Oh no.
Why didn't I think of this, realize this, or see it coming?
I have seen it coming. I knew it was coming. We're living together. We've been living together under a promise that we'd get engaged within a year. It was the only way Dad would be okay with us living together.
I'm not ready.
I don't want to get married.
I don't want to be someone's fiancé with an accent mark.
I don't want to wear expensive dresses from Paris. I never have, and I probably never will. That’s just not me.
I pass by a glass window looking into the kitchen, but once again, all I see is the reflection of my red lipstick, reminding me of a time so long ago...seven years, the night my life changed, and the real Haven was no longer allowed to exist.
"Bennett, I want to go home." I don't want to go home. It's not my home. It's his home, but I need to get out of here.
Maryanne and Roger eye me warily but continue ahead of us, following the host to our table. Bennett takes my hand and looks me lovingly in the eyes. Heartbreakingly. He says he loves me. But I know better. I've told him a thousand times how much I love him, that I've wanted this more than anything. And I lied. Apparently lying is in my DNA. Maybe I’m not as different from my father as I think I am.
The glow from the hanging candles creates a shimmer on Bennett’s forehead, and his lips struggle to hold the smile he didn't have to force seconds earlier. "Darling, please, I wanted to bring you here for a reason tonight," he says with a hint of uncertainty. No. Please don't. I'm not ready. I never will be. "Haven—" he kneels on one knee, right here in the middle of this damn, dimly lit walkway.
I look in every direction, forgetting where I'm standing, and how I came into this restaurant. All I can think about is how the hell I'm going to get out of here. When I see the front door open and close, I run.
I run out the door, through the parking lot, down the street, and I keep going until my feet begin to throb from the four inch Louboutin heels I'm wearing.
Shit. Shit. Shit. What am I doing? Where the heck am I supposed to go? Grown women don't run away like this, especially from marriage proposals. A normal woman would blush, swoon, and maybe even flail her arms around to make sure everyone in the close vicinity knew a man had asked for her hand in marriage. Most women wouldn't feel like vomiting on their man's shoes or running out of the restaurant in their five-thousand dollar dresses from Paris.
My phone is buzzing compulsively in my clutch. This is why I despise cell phones. I can imagine it's Bennett and Maryanne wondering where I went or what I'm thinking. Since I don't have an answer to either of those questions, I can't answer them, just like I couldn't answer them when they were yelling them from the restaurant parking lot. All I know is, I can't go back. I can't ever go back.
Now that I've gotten far enough away to know they aren't following me or can't find me, I step into the shallow part of the woods alongside the road and take my heels off, seeing a red tinge swell across my feet. Damn shoes. I continue barefoot, unconcerned with the dirt coating the soles of my feet. It’s the most real thing I’ve felt all evening. I'm sick of caring and worrying about my appearance and the way I present myself. I never wanted to be this person, and yet it happened. I fell into the life I fought so hard against for the sake of my morals, but depression and heartbreak made me
weak and moldable. I turned into this person I'm wearing like a second skin.
Passing through the dark, tree-shadowed grounds, I continue along parallel to the road. When I reach the street light on the corner, I stop and rest for a moment. I relax against the cool metal and slide down until my lavish, heather gray dress rests in a pile of loose dirt. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes, allowing the feeling of loss and loneliness to fill my soul like a thick smoke. I haven't felt this way in a very long time, but I haven't felt much at all in a very long time. The pain is like a comforting memory.
A car flies by, kicking up dusty gravel that coats my legs with a layer of dirt, and I pull myself upright, fearful it may have been Bennett or Maryanne. Could I be so lucky as to blend in with the darkness at this moment? I look down the empty road, seeing the small park off to one side. I used to go there all the time when I was younger, but living on the outskirts of this town, I haven't been in this area for so long, I almost forgot the park was there.
I hear more cars in the distance, and I know I'm in a path Bennett could drive down, seeing as this one-lane road connects Cascade and Sutter. If he sees me, I don't know if I'll have the restraint to keep my thoughts to myself as I just did in the restaurant. I need time to collect my thoughts and feelings.
I pull myself back up and loop my finger through the strap of my shoes, letting them dangle by my side. I take a step off the curb just as another car flies past me. I hold my breath until the car is out of sight, before breathing a sigh of relief that it wasn’t Bennett.
When the taillights melt into the darkness, I sprint across the road and through the park's opening, which is dark and lit only by the dull glow of the moon. I walk to where the tall grass meets the water and sit down beside a cluster of small, yellow flowers.
Raine's Haven Page 13