So I tried it too.
I saw the truck coming, the driver nothing but a shape behind a wheel. I wasn’t trying to kill myself, even though I knew that could be a consequence. I’ve never been able to understand why she stepped in front of my car on purpose. She didn’t trip in the street. She wasn’t a distracted pedestrian. Through the windshield, she met my eyes. She knew what she was doing. She made the decision.
It cost me everything.
My life, my job, my friends. It didn’t matter that I was innocent. That’s the day I learned the life-crushing impact held by headlines. Nobody reads the whole story when the soundbite is so sensational.
All my dirt came to the surface, like sunken ships resurrected by a hurricane. Troubled youth. Underage drinking citation. And then, the big one. Cited for driving under the influence. It didn’t matter that I was stone sober when it happened. My name was dragged through mud, spit at, and desecrated. The worst headline of all got the most clicks. They must have delighted in watching the numbers tick higher and higher.
Baby-Killer.
It didn’t matter that I was innocent, and due process had understood that from the beginning.
The article made it clear I didn’t kill the baby, but nobody reads the article. All it took was one unflattering photo taken at a college party, alongside a picture of the scene of the accident, complete with the stroller crushed like an accordion, and people assumed I had been drunk-driving and killed a mother and her baby.
In the court of public opinion, I was toast. The lowest of the low. Scum of the Earth.
My life disappeared the day that woman pushed her stroller in front of my car.
Now all I want is to disappear too.
I chose Ginger’s house because it’s close to a grocery store and a pharmacy.
I need places I can walk to. I haven’t driven a car since the day it happened, and I hope I never have to again. The problem, of course, is that I can only carry so much. I could push a grocery cart home, and then back to the store, but then I’d be the girl pushing a grocery cart down the street. On top of being new. Talk about giving people a reason to notice me.
The walk to the grocery store isn’t that bad, and it’s nice out. I take a deep breath. The scent of pine and clean air is invigorating. I spent all day in the small house, cleaning the same surfaces, and trying to keep the memories at bay. There’s a modest garden in the backyard that Ginger asked me to maintain. I told her I lacked a green thumb, and she asked only that I not kill it. I hung up on her when she said that, out of shock not anger, and when she called back I blamed it on a bad connection.
The nightmares have decreased. It helps I’m so far away from where it happened. I’m still in Arizona, but nothing looks the same here. The elevation changes the landscape, and it was enough to help me. I wish I’d known a long time ago that all I needed to do was go up.
On my way home I pass the house with the black door. A large window faces the street, just like my house. The curtains ripple, swing aside, and a man’s face peers through. His deep wrinkles are evident from my place on the sidewalk. So is the scowl. For a reason I don’t fully understand, I lift a hand and wave, the grocery bag waving with me. He disappears from the window.
Why did I do that? Maybe I felt a kindred spirit. He looked like how I feel.
I’ve taken three steps forward when the sound of a door opening stops me. The old man steps out, walking to the end of his short porch. His fingers curl around the railing, using it for support as he slowly steps down the stairs. His steps are quicker once his feet hit a flat surface, and in no time he’s close to where I am on the sidewalk.
“Hi,” I say, stepping forward to greet him. I’ve always had a thing for old people.
“You’re on my lawn,” he growls, pointing down.
I follow his hand, the back of it dotted with age-spots, and look down.
Sighing, I step off the grass and back onto the sidewalk. “Happy now?”
“Hardly. Why were you spying on me?”
I snort. “You were the one peeking out your window. What size binoculars do you have? Are they military-grade? Or the kid’s kind that come in bug-catching sets? Because—”
“Argh,” he rumbles, throwing his hands out in my direction. “You’re one of those chatty types, huh? Well, keep your chit-chat away from me. I’m not interested.”
“Then why are you still standing here?” I don’t even try to hide my smile. Grumpy old men are my favorite.
“You were on my lawn.”
“No, I wasn’t. Not when you first came out.”
“Don’t you argue with me, young lady. That’s the problem with youth. You don’t have any respect.” He goes on and on, and I let him. I know his type. My grandpa was one of them before he passed away. This guy is lonely.
When he’s finished, I ask for his name.
“Walt,” he answers, his tone still as gruff as it was when he came out of his house.
“I’m Brynn,” I tell him. If I held my breath waiting for him to ask I would probably pass out first.
He gives me a skeptical look. “Sounds an awful lot like Bryan.”
“It’s not.” I take a step away. “Have a nice day, Walt.” Two more steps.
“Why did you get dropped off last weekend?” he calls out. “Don’t you have a car?”
I turn back, and I can’t help my grin. “Obviously those binoculars you’re using are military-grade. Do they have infrared?”
“Bah,” he grumbles loudly, turning around and heading up to his house. I continue on to mine.
When I get home, I unpack the groceries. Connor’s card is still in the same spot it was when I set it down two days ago, after deciding not to call him. Today’s trip to the grocery store was a good reminder that I need funds. I don’t particularly care for ramen, and that’s exactly where I’m headed.
I pick up my phone and dial the number, glancing at the card to be sure I’ve typed it in correctly. This time, I don’t hesitate. No hovering thumb. One, two, three, push.
“Hello?” He answers on the third ring. He sounds frustrated, and I almost hang up the phone. Rock music blares in the background.
“Um, hi. It’s Brynn Montgomery.” My teeth catch my lower lip and I look at the ceiling. If this job didn’t pay in cash, there’s no way I’d be calling him.
“Oh, so you have a last name?”
I frown. That’s what he says to me? “Most people do.” I exhale loudly after I say it.
He laughs. “You’re a bit like a bear, you know that? Grumpy and ill-tempered.”
“Oh, really? I just met someone who fits that description far better than I do.” Cradling the phone between my ear and my shoulder, I open a cabinet and pull out a saucepan.
“Let me guess,” he says warily. “You met Walt Jenkins.”
I pause. “He didn’t give me his last name, so I can’t say for certain. Apparently that’s common among us grumpy and ill-tempered people.”
“Old guy, lips turned so far down it’s like an upside down horseshoe on his face?”
“That’s the one,” I respond, taking a can opener to the three cans of tomatoes I just bought. I’m going to make marinara and freeze half.
“You should stay away from him, Brynn.”
My eyes meet the ceiling as I roll them. “He’s harmless, and besides, it’s kind of hard to stay away from a neighbor.”
Connor is silent. If it weren’t for the music still playing wherever he is, I’d think he hung up.
“Still there?” I ask, pouring olive oil in the pan and adding diced garlic.
Connor clears his throat. “Do you live next door to Cassidy?”
I picture the tiny blonde mom and her cute little girl. I’ve heard Brooklyn in the backyard every morning, laughing and shrieking. She does it again every evening.
“Yes. Why? Do you know her?” Leaning over the pan, I take a deep breath. The warmth of the oil has released the fragrance of the garlic, and it’s kic
king my salivary glands into overdrive.
Connor doesn’t answer. Not with words. He laughs and laughs.
“What’s funny?” I ask, irritated.
“Nothing,” he answers. “Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”
“Whatever,” I reply frostily, ready to be off the phone. I don’t care if he never tells me. I’ll be long gone as soon as I can manage it. “I called to see if that job was still available.”
“Nope,” he says, the answer coming so quickly it’s almost on top of my question.
Shit. What am I going to do now? The oil pops and a drop lands on the pad of my thumb. I suck my thumb between my teeth, my mind racing.
“Just kidding.” Connor laughs. “It’s available.”
My eyes squeeze shut as I try not to hang up on my new boss. “Pick you up tomorrow morning? Eight?”
“I’ll be ready,” I say, dumping the cans of tomatoes into the pan. “How did you know I need a ride?”
“Estimated guess. Brynn?” Connor’s voice is suddenly serious.
“Yeah?”
“I mean it when I say to stay away from Walt. He’s dangerous.”
What am I supposed to say? There’s already someone who wants my head on a spike, so the crotchety old guy can get in line behind him?
“Thanks for the warning. See you bright and early.”
I hang up and finish the sauce.
For the rest of the evening, I try hard not to think about the man who wishes I were dead instead of his family. It’s always a futile effort, and tonight is no exception. When hate is strong enough, clear enough, it’s easy to feel. He may as well be next to me, with his raw and unfettered hate radiating from his pores.
That night the nightmares return.
4
Connor
This Monday is not like other Mondays.
Well, it is, but only sort of.
I got up at the ass crack of dawn, went to my parents’ house, and got the week’s schedule. I said hi to my dad and sat down to have a cup of coffee with him. His slurred speech wasn’t as prominent this morning as it sometimes is, but I’ve learned not to get my hopes up. Some days are better than others, a result of the medicine doing what it can for him.
I can’t stay for much longer, not if I want to make it to Brynn’s on time. At twenty minutes to eight, I stand up to leave. My mom pulls biscuits from the oven at that same moment, using one hand to hold them and another to wave their buttery scent my way.
“I know you’re not starting the first job until nine.” She turns around, sets the sheet pan on the stove, and takes three plates from a cabinet.
“I have to be somewhere at eight, Mom. I hired someone and need to go over some stuff before we start work.”
“Good.” She smiles and takes out two Tupperware containers. “Where did you find him?”
“Her,” I correct.
Her eyes widen. “Her?”
Dad chuckles, but it’s a stilted sound.
“I met her…” in the street… in front of my bumper… after she caused a minor accident that left my car in need of bodywork… “downtown.”
Mom finishes wrapping up two portions of biscuits and ladles her sausage gravy into a stainless steel container.
“Breakfast,” she says, pushing the food into my arms. “For you and your new employee.” She lifts her eyebrows a few times to make sure I get her drift.
“She is just an employee, Mom.”
I know what she’s getting at. My mom is as transparent as a glass door, and she can’t keep a secret to save her life. Maybe I should tell her Brynn might be as crazy as Walt, just to get her off my back. If I did that, she would insist I fire Brynn, and I don’t want that to happen. I’m curious about her. I want to know why she’s in Brighton.
It must be her vibe that has me interested. She’s kind of mean. She puts out these ‘stay away’ signals, the kind I’m sure most people listen to. Unless she causes an accident that dents their car and actually looks like she feels really bad about it. For three seconds, anyway. Then something happened, and she froze over.
Probably a good thing. A girl like Brynn needs to be left alone. And a guy like me? She’s the last thing I need.
“Bring your new employee by sometime soon, Connor. We’ll need to at least meet her.” Mom places a hand on my arm. “Not that I don’t trust your judgment, but I would like to know who’s representing the Vale name.”
“Will do. Gotta go, Mom.” I nod at my dad and back out of the kitchen, trying not to run to my truck.
I’m late. I send Brynn a quick text at the number she called me from yesterday, letting her know I’m on my way, and drive off.
Nerves eat at me on the way, and that annoys me.
Okay, yeah, Brynn is gorgeous, but she also has an attitude bigger than Alaska. And as hard as I tried not to appreciate those cut-off jean shorts, I liked them a little too much. Her lips were sumptuous, and I don’t think I’ve ever used that word to describe someone’s lips. They are full, pink, and I’m certain kissing them would be like enjoying a lavish feast. Until she opens her mouth and slices me with her sharp tongue, anyway. Honestly, it might not be too high a price to pay.
I don’t know why I’m doing this.
So, so stupid.
I am definitely smarter than this.
My truck rolls to a stop in front of her house.
Apparently I’m not that smart.
With breakfast in tow, I hop out and walk to the front door. Two knocks. Wait thirty seconds. Two more knocks.
Ummm…
Finally I hear the sound of locks clicking and sliding out of the way. The door opens a few inches and an ear-piercing sound fills the air.
“Shit! Sorry, sorry,” she says from the other side of the door.
Something gets pushed aside and the sound stops. The door opens all the way and Brynn’s standing there, sleepy-eyed. Her hair falls to her shoulders and it’s a mess.
“Not a great way to start your first day,” I tell her, stepping inside.
“Come on in, you’re invited.” Her tone is acerbic. Didn’t she just wake up? How can she be ready to spar sixty seconds after she has opened her eyes?
She crosses her arms and stares at me. Sleep is crusted in the corners of her eyes, and it reminds me that she’s human. In my head, I’ve built her up to be some kind of ridiculously attractive, hostile robot.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing.” I hold out the food. “My mom sent me with breakfast.”
Her lip curls. “Do you live with your parents?”
My chest warms instantly. Not in a good way. This girl knows just what to say to get a reaction from me. And I give in. Every. Fucking. Time. “No, I do not live with my parents. Obviously you think I’m a hick loser with no ambition.”
She rises on her toes, ready with her response. “You think I’m a bimbo who wants to blow kisses at the camera and post them online.”
Okay. She has me there.
“Correction, that’s what I used to think.” I sigh, setting the containers on the ground between us and extending a hand. “Truce?”
She eyes my hand first, then lifts her gaze to my face. Her features soften, her eyes swim with something I have no name for. My chest warms again, but in a way that’s opposite from before.
“Truce,” she murmurs, placing her hand in mine.
Palm to palm, her grip in mine, she swallows hard and her lower lip trembles. She recovers quickly, taking her hand back and swiping the food from the floor.
“Come on,” she says, turning and walking away.
I watch her make her retreat and think of what I just saw.
How long has it been since she has been touched?
This is weird.
I’m tasting familiar flavors, in a house I’ve been in before—those handles on the kitchen cabinets and drawers were done by yours truly—but I’m with someone I know nothing about.
And Brynn doesn’t give anything away. I�
�ve asked her about her family.
I’m an only child.
I asked why she’s here.
Just needed a break.
Okay. Sure. I understand that. Her evasiveness doesn’t bother me at all.
Nope.
So we eat in silence. It’s unpleasant. I’m not usually a talkative guy, but eating in total silence is annoying, and it’s killing me. In a last-ditch effort to make conversation, I ask her if she’s upset. Her eyes look worried, like she’s holding more than someone her age should carry.
She sighs and points to her shirt. I noticed it the second she opened the door, but I didn’t say anything.
“Fine, I get it.” I hold up my hands and read her shirt. “You don’t wanna taco ‘bout it. Because it’s nacho business.”
She points one bright blue fingernail at me. “It’s nacho business.”
“Yes, yes, I understand.” Irritation creeps into me. This girl is not like anyone I’ve ever met before.
She stands, pushing aside more than half her food. “I’m ready to start.”
I pause, my fork suspended inches from my mouth. It’s loaded with flaky biscuit and lukewarm gravy and it’s going to be as delicious as my previous ten bites. “I’m not done.”
“You eat like a horse,” Brynn whines, flopping back down into her chair.
I take my bite and point the now-empty tines at her plate. “You eat like a bird.”
“I don’t have much of an appetite this morning.” Her words are soft, an admittance. She looks down, to the hands folded in her lap.
“Everything okay?” It’s an automatic question.
Her gaze flies up to my face, eyes bulging.
“Forgot. Sorry. Taco, nacho, funny shirt, blah blah blah.”
We stand, and I rinse the containers in her sink after she knocks the food into the garbage. She leans an elbow on the counter and watches me. “Please tell your mother I said thank you. It was delicious.”
The Lifetime of A Second Page 3