by Paula Cox
For four days I exist in a sort of half-life in the motel room. I eat at a diner down the street. Otherwise, I rarely go out. I keep my cellphone on me at all times, telling myself it’s so I don’t miss a call from the Bean House. But deep down, I know the real reason. I keep expecting Brody to call me, apologize, welcome me back. When my phone does finally ring, it’s Ryan Stevenson. I’ve got the job; I can start tomorrow.
A further three days pass and I start my new job. I look for an apartment and find a one-bedroom place not far from work. I pay the first three months’ rent and move in. And I think: This is it now. This is my life from now on. Working here, living here, and never seeing Brody again. Sometimes, at night, I almost cry again. I clench my hands, digging my fingernails into my palms, angry at myself for being so weak.
Then, around two weeks after I was picked up by the police, I begin to get desperate for company. I can’t bear the thought of another night spent staring at the pages of a novel and taking none of it in, seeing, instead, Brody’s face imprinted upon the page, watching me. Another night of standing in the shower and thinking of Brody’s naked body. Hating him and wanting him at the same time. Resenting him and desiring him.
I call up Tracey. We’ve texted a few times, but she’s been busy with her new job, a cashier in a clothes place.
“Hey, hon,” she chirps. “What’s going on?”
“Bored,” I admit. “Can I come over?”
There’s a pause. I wonder what she’s doing. Probably something kooky and alternative. I think: Don’t be mean about her. She’s your only lifeline tonight.
“Sure!” she squeals, after a moment. “I’ll make us some pasta.”
I ride the bus to her apartment, press the buzzer, and ride the elevator up through the building. Half hour after the phone call, I’m sitting on her couch with a glass of wine. Her apartment is just as pixie-like as she is. Abstract art hangs on the walls and instead of doors, she has curtains of purple beads separating the rooms, even the bathroom.
Tracey sits opposite me. Something’s off about her. She won’t look me in the eye. But then, Tracey is so strange that this doesn’t seem as odd as it would with anybody else.
“So, how’s life treating you?” she asks. She takes a large gulp of her wine, draining half the glass, and then grins madly. “The clothes game is a barrel of laughs,” she goes on. “I get to tell women to dress like me. It’s great! Oh, the plight of the woman who doesn’t know what to wear!” She giggles, but it sounds forced. “Oh, look at me jabbering away! I’m sure I asked you a question, didn’t I?”
I nod. “Life’s fine,” I mutter. Did she hear about the police? I think. They haven’t picked me up again, yet. But I did get a call from somebody at the station informing me they were still looking into my case and reminding me that I should stay in town. “I got a new job at a place called the Bean House. I’m a manager now.”
“Oh, fantastic!” She claps her hands in the middle of the word. Then she waves at the coffee table, at the remains of our meal. “Did you enjoy the food, my sweet angel?”
She’s drunk, I think.
“Yes,” I say. “It was lovely. Would you like some help with the dishes?”
She drains the last of her wine and shakes her head. “Dishes!” she cries, slurring her words slightly. “Don’t talk to me about dishes! The blight of the modern woman!” She grins, giggles, and then jumps to her feet. “I’ll do them now, quickly, and I’ll make us some coffee. Do you want some coffee?”
“Sure, I’ll take some coffee.”
Darla scoops up the plates and runs through the purple-beaded curtain into the kitchen. She turns on the radio and for a few minutes I’m left on my own.
I glance around the room, my eye drawn to the bookshelf which sits next to the TV. It’s leaden with books about spirituality, ghosts, the occult, vampires, and . . . I lean forward to get a better look. Wedged into the end of the bookshelf is a notebook filled with newspaper clippings. Tracey has never told me about collecting clippings. I walk across the room and take the notebook from the shelf. I know it’s rude to snoop, but I’m curious and bored and, anyway, I’m sure Tracey won’t mind if I take a look.
I return to the couch with the notebook in my hand.
I open it and flick through it. Lazily at first, just browsing. But then I register what I’m seeing. My throat seizes up and my heart beats a crescendo, getting louder and louder until it is deafening in my ears.
The first two pages of the notebook are dedicated to news articles about the fire at the Coffee Joint and the bomb exploding at my apartment.
Each one has a special emphasis on Brody. Tracey has underlined various sections. Brody Ellison charged into the fire . . . Brody Ellison, known in the precinct as one of the bravest firefighters . . . Brody Ellison, Brody Ellison . . . I flick through the pages, mouth falling open. The newspaper articles go way, way back to Brody’s first ever mention in a news article. Some of the articles have photographs of him in them. Around these, Tracey has drawn love hearts like a girl at school with her crush.
She’s wanted Brody as long as I have, maybe longer, I think. And the articles . . . the articles . . . I don’t want to think it, but I have to. This is like an arsonist’s scrapbook.
Suddenly, I realize I shouldn’t be here. I need to leave, contact the police, contact Brody. But then Tracey calls from the other room: “Screw the coffee. Another glass of wine?”
“Sure,” I call back, stunned by how calm my voice sounds, completely at odds with my too-fast heartbeat.
I hear her shuffling around in the kitchen, the wine glugging into the glasses. I jump to my feet, leap across the room, and stuff the notebook back into its original place.
A moment after I’ve sat down, the purple-beaded curtains makes a click-click noise and Tracey walks into the room.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Brody
For the next couple of weeks, I feel like I’m on autopilot.
I do my job, I work out, I fight fires, I sleep, but all the time Darla is in the back of my mind. Sometimes at night I wake up and reach across the bed for her, desperate to feel the touch of her body. The wind whistles outside my bedroom window and in my dreams I imagine that the whistle is Darla, moaning. Often, I wake up rock-hard at the thought of her. And even more often than that, I wake up hugging my quilt, thinking it’s Darla.
It’s only in these past couple of weeks of separation that I realize something I should’ve realized the first time we kissed outside the steps of that restaurant. I care for Darla more than I ever cared for Julia. Julia was a high school sweetheart, Julia was the relationship into which I slid because I was young and didn’t know better. Darla is something else entirely. Darla is a woman I want, badly, desperately. I have a burning desire for her and it haunts my every step. I want nothing more than to hold her close to me, feel the heat of her body, reach down and . . .
But you pushed her away. You haven’t called her. You haven’t texted her.
This is the problem. Part of me is still scared—and that’s what it is, fear, deep dark fear that you’ll find out Darla’s been playing you like a game of chess—that she maneuvered me into falling for her. But despite this fear, I can’t deny that I have fallen for her, I do want her, and I miss her more than I’ve ever missed anybody.
One day, Marco, Jonny, and I are sitting in the gym room. I sit on the bench. I’ve pushed myself damn hard over these past couple of weeks, punishing my body for the pain I’ve caused Darla. I go to bed each night with my arms aching so badly sometimes they cramp up and I have to stretch them out, enduring the pain until the cramps pass. But that is only a fraction of the pain I saw on Darla’s face that day outside my apartment building.
Jonny stands in front of the mirror, curling. And Marco sits on the leg machine.
“They call me Casanova,” Marco laughs, in response to something Jonny said which I didn’t hear.
“Course they do, pal,” Jonny says, grunting
as he curls the dumbbells. “Don’t you ever get tired of the bullshit which comes out of your mouth, Marco? Surely you must stop and think about it sometimes. Don’t you ever consider not talking shit? You know, just to mix things up a little.”
“The new kid’s getting brave.” Marco flashes his teeth at me. I try to smile back, but Darla’s pained, betrayed face is in the forefront of my mind and all I manage is a weak grimace. Marco tilts his head at me. “Something’s been different in you lately, man,” he says. “It’s like you’ve lost your mojo or something.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter. I lean back on the bench and do ten reps of weights heavier than anything I’ve lifted before. When I’m done, my muscles are bulging out of my shirt, veins pressing against my skin, body aching.
“That’s what I mean, man,” Marco goes on, gesturing at the bench. “You’ve been lifting more than is smart. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Jonny watches, silently, from his place near the mirror. With both of them staring at me, I feel like I’m under inspection.
“I don’t care if I hurt myself,” I say honestly. It’s nothing compared to the pain I caused Darla, after all.
Marco watches me for a few moments, as though performing a calculation, and then says: “This is about the girl. I can tell.”
I don’t reply. Instead, I lean back and perform ten more reps. One the final one, the weights seem far too heavy. They press down on me; the bar inches toward my chest, threatening to crush me. I grunt and strain. Jonny steps forward. “Don’t,” I hiss. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Jonny looks from me to Marco and back again. Marco shrugs. I let out a roar, pull deep, and push the bar back onto the bracket. Then I stand up and stretch my arms.
“See what I mean, man,” Marco says. “Something’s playing with your head.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I pace the room, anger and resentment and self-loathing coursing through me.
“We’re firefighters, man,” Marco says. “You don’t think we can see when there’s a fire inside a person, eh?” He jumps to his feet and walks over to me. Then he grabs my shoulder and looks into my eyes. This must be serious, I think. Marco never tries to talk about feelings; I must be really bad to make him start a conversation like this. “How many times have we stood shoulder to shoulder when the shit was kicking off all around us, eh? I remember when you first came here, a bright-eyed new kid just like Ginger Balls over there.”
Despite myself, I laugh. Jonny grins from across the room. Marco grins. “Look, man, I hate all this emotional shit. You know that. But I can’t stand to see you walking around here like a goddamn zombie for the rest of my career. The truth is we were all happy for you when you started seeing Darla. We were happy for you because you seemed happier. You were, I don’t know, man . . . you were more . . .” He stops, searching for words.
Jonny says: “You seemed content. It was like you’d found something you’d been searching for for a long time. We all saw the way you smiled like a jackass every time your shift was over. Do you really believe we thought that was ’cause you were going to get shitfaced or something? Hell, no. We all knew the truth. You were smiling ’cause you were going to spend time with her.”
“Exactly.” Marco takes his hand from my shoulder and looks me plainly in the face. “Maybe you’ve been too rash with her. Maybe she’s the arsonist; maybe she’s not. The police haven’t arrested her.”
“They’ve let the freak go, though,” I murmur.
“That’s true,” Marco says. “But they haven’t arrested Darla. That means either she didn’t do it or they don’t have enough evidence. Which is strange because you should be able to track down a bomb maker.” Marco shrugs. “I don’t know, man. I just think you should give it another shot with her. At the very least, you could do us the favor of not walking around like a zombie and bumming us all out.”
I hold his gaze for a long time, and then look to Jonny. They return my look with calm.
I nod shortly. “You’ve given me a lot to think about,” I say. “Thanks, guys.”
They laugh. I smile. And I go into the cafeteria and sit down at a table alone.
They’re right, I think. If I don’t see her again, I’ll go crazy.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Darla
Tracey stands over me, looking down into my face, studying me.
My breathing is mostly under control, but my heartbeat sounds so loud I’m sure she’ll know something’s wrong. I realize that my face must still be fixed in a mask of shock and surprise and terror. I force myself to smile. Don’t jump to conclusions, I tell myself. Maybe she’s just keeping the notebook because she admires Brody. It doesn’t mean she’s the arsonist. But it is weird, keeping a book like that, drawing love hearts and underlining sections about Brody. For the first time since I met her, I wonder if Tracey is more than just kooky. I wonder if she’s full-blown mad.
“Are you okay?” she asks in a soft voice.
I make my fake smile even wider. “I’m fine,” I say. “Why do you ask?”
“Your cheeks are red.”
“The wine,” I bark, far too quickly.
She glances around the room. Her eyes come to rest on the bookshelf; she squints at the notebook. I look at the notebook and try to remember if I put it back in exactly the same place. I study the books beside it and wonder if they’re in the same position. Then I look at Tracey, who stares at the notebook for a long time. Time stretches out. I look at the glasses in her hands. It would be easy for her to smash them over my head. If she really is the psychopath I suspect she is, she’d think nothing of it.
But when she turns to me, she’s smiling. “Maybe you should slow down,” she says, but she hands me a glass of wine anyway.
I drink down half the glass, wanting to steel myself with courage. I know I should leave and yet I want to explore this place more, find some more evidence. The notebook isn’t enough on its own.
Tracey drops onto the couch next to me. I notice that she’s only carrying two glasses of wine and not the bottle, which means that the bottle is still in the kitchen. If I can get her to go back into the kitchen, I think. This time for longer . . . Then I can look around and find something else. I don’t know what I expect to find, but I feel like a bloodhound which has had the scent of its prey waved in front of its nose. I won’t give up now. Tracey smiles at me and I smile in return. I wonder if there’s any malice behind her pixie grin, but it’s difficult to tell; Tracey looks strange at the best of times.
“So how’s life treating you apart from work?” she says. She sips her wine slowly, watching me over the rim of her glass.
“Fine,” I say, voice sounding dead.
“That’s not what I heard.” Tracey leans across the couch and places her hand on my knee. Chills move up my leg. Is this the hand which set fire to the Coffee Joint? I think. Is this the hand which put a bomb in my apartment? God, she loves Brody! She’s wanted him for as long as I have!
“Oh?” I mutter.
If my heart was beating any louder, it would deafen me.
Tracey rubs my knee, her fingers like wriggling worms. “I heard that Brody dumped you after he found out about the police picking you up. Nasty business that, wasn’t it? But you know that I never believed it for a second, don’t you, hon? I know you don’t have it in you to do something like that.”
There is an undertone to her words I can’t quite pinpoint. It’s as though she’s reining in anger which is trying to charge into her words. She’s doing a good job, too. If it were not for my discovery of the notebook, I wouldn’t think anything was amiss. I give her my best fake smile and then nod, hoping the fear which lances through me doesn’t show on my face. “That’s life, I suppose.” I swallow. My mouth is dry. I take a sip of wine, but my mouth remains dry. The air seems suddenly thin. “I’m sure they’ll catch the real arsonist soon enough.”
“Of course they will,” Tracey whispers.
I knock back the rest of my wine and then hold my glass out. The wine swims around my chest, making me feel warm and fuzzy, but not in the slightest comfortable. “Could I have another?” I croak.
Tracey watches me for a long time. Does she know? I think. Did she notice that the notebook was out of place? Does she know what’s going on here? I wish she’d stop staring at me like that!
I know I have to get rid of her for longer than the time it will take to pour a glass of wine. I force myself to smile as casually as I can, and then ask: “Would it be possible to have a bite to eat? Maybe some cheese and crackers?”