Love in Due Time

by Smartypants Romance

  I’m all too familiar with the danger of that road.

  “He crashed on his way to pick me up.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity-fuck.

  I slowly press myself upward, my arms shaking from the effort. My sandwich feels like a brick in my stomach.

  “When he didn’t show up, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have anyone else to call, so I got a ride home from some guy. I didn’t know what happened until later. Jebediah was declared dead at the scene of the accident. It’s a bit of a mystery how it happened but considering the posted warnings about the danger of the Dragon, well . . . Regardless, my parents blamed me.”

  Can’t. Breathe.

  “They demanded to know where I’d been. It was bad enough I came home on a motorcycle at three in the morning. They had just learned the news of their son. I confessed everything to them, and I mean everything. My father called me a sinner. My mother said Jebediah’s death was on my conscience. I was going to hell for what I’d done.”

  She looks off to the trees and I’m relieved. I can’t look her in the eyes. The pain I’ll see. The swell of tears. The sting of her loss. A loss I know all too much about.

  “I’m sorry,” I offer, my voice cracking on the apology. The words are bile in my throat, weak and hopeless, like I feel in the moment. They aren’t enough. Nothing will be enough.

  “It’s why I’ve been so hesitant with you.” She shrugs and twists her lips as she looks back at me and the heartbreak in her eyes tears me up. “At twenty-one, I internalized the guilt they placed on me. I’d gone against God, my upbringing, and my parents and gave in to the greatest temptation of my life.” She doesn’t have to clarify. I was that temptation. The snake in the grass.

  “I couldn’t forgive myself and their blame hammered in the burden. Jebediah’s death was because of me. I called him for a ride. He shouldn’t have been on that road, at that time of night. His death was a reaction to an action I set forth. Of course, I didn’t think like that at first. I only thought of myself as bad. Very bad. I lasted a week at home before I took off for Beverly’s farm. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t know where else to go. Then she told me about an opening at the library, and I just sort of stuck in Green Valley.” She swipes at a solitary tear and her shoulders fall. She takes a deep breath. “That was probably more information than you wanted.”

  “No. I appreciate you telling me. I mean”—I blow out a breath—“that was a lot, and it sounds rough. I’m so sorry.” What more can I offer her? She’s going to hate me. I have so much to tell her and yet the words cling to my throat, refusing to leave. I don’t know where to start because I know this will be the end of us.

  The Tail of the Dragon. The road runs from the Fugitive to Cedar Gap. The reason I remember Naomi—it wasn’t just because she was the girl who caused me to be late for the Iron Wraiths. It was the same night I caused an accident.

  Two high-speed bikes coming at one another, both on a mission, in the blinding darkness. On that road, you can hear the screech of another biker, but you can’t see him approaching. It’s difficult to judge the distance between opposing drivers. With three-hundred plus swerves and dips, the road intermittently caught headlights and then they’d disappear behind rock formations jutting forward, hiding the next pass. What surprise awaits ahead. It’s part of the thrill and the treachery.

  I was running late.

  He was coming toward me.

  I had somewhere to be.

  He veered into my lane.

  Startling us both.

  The skid of tires ripped through my ears. The sound of metal colliding against rock reminded me of breaking bones. The drone of a dying engine like a fading scream. The thump of a body against the blacktop like a final pulse.

  I hardly kept my own bike upright, wobbling side to side. With a fear of losing control, I narrowed my focus.

  And once righted, I didn’t turn back.

  Cedar Gap was in sight before my throbbing lungs finally refused to draw in any more air. I pulled off the Dragon into a little diner’s parking lot just outside the small town. Shaky hands dug through my jacket to find my cell phone. Then I remembered—I’d left it on the bed, in a motel room, with a girl. My legs carried me without my knowledge to the counter inside the restaurant. I don’t remember the waitress. I don’t remember any other patrons, but I turned my back regardless as I dialed Catfish on a payphone in the corner. It was a miracle I recalled his number.

  “You’re late,” Catfish snapped. I don’t know how much time had passed since he called me. I was a prospect for the Iron Wraiths and that meant I was a slave to the whims of the club. Catfish wanted a drink, and although I’m certain he could have reached for a bottle not more than an arm’s length away, it was up to me to jump when he said jump and pour when he said fill. Hanging out at the Fugitive had already made me more than an hour late. And then there was the girl. And the biker.

  “I think I killed someone,” I shakily whispered into the phone. I sounded like I’d run a marathon and my heart raced like I had as well. The phone shook against my chin and I patted my jacket for a cigarette. I didn’t smoke them, but I carried them just in case. Like I said, prospect meant bitch to the others for ninety days. I’d smoke the whole damn pack if it calmed my nerves.

  “What happened?” Catfish barked. This would look bad on him if I didn’t show in front of the others.

  “I was on the Dragon.” I took a shuddering breath. “Another bike.”

  “It happens all the time. That road is no shit. He’ll need to hang his remains on the Tree of Shame.” He laughed. I didn’t. By remains, he meant the morbid parts of a broken motorcycle, collected and hung on a metallic structure, symbolizing a biker’s shame for crashing along the road.

  It was more than a broken bike, though.

  “I think he’s dead.”

  “How do you know?”

  I didn’t. I didn’t check. I didn’t turn back. I left him.

  Oh God, I left him there on the dark, dangerous road.

  “I have to go back,” I muttered.

  “Wolf, calm down,” Catfish said, his voice lowering as if whispering to me. His tone turned soothing, reminding me he wasn’t just my superior, he was my friend. He wanted to patch me in. Brothers for life. I prospected because of him.

  “I need to call the sheriff,” I added, my voice growing louder, cracking.

  “No,” Catfish snapped. “Absolutely not.”

  “I’ve got to go back,” I repeated more firmly the second time. “I think I killed him.”

  It became a mantra. A bad one.

  I killed him. I killed him.

  “Stay there. We’ll come to you.”

  “I’m going back,” I said one more time.

  “We’ll get a cleaner. Don’t do anything ra—”

  Shaky fingers returned the phone to the cradle, cutting off his words.

  I walked back to my bike, started the engine and turned back in the direction of the Fugitive. I took the curves and swerves at a slower speed, worried that I’d crash myself as my trembling arms struggled to keep the bike upright. My balance was lacking. My body too tense to move with the weight of metal under me.

  I’d like to make excuses for what happened. The most dangerous curve at high speed. The possibility of plummeting to death. A blind spot. But those were dangers that existed every inch of the road and the number one rule is stay in your lane.

  He hadn’t.

  Then I saw him.

  His body angled in a way it shouldn’t be.

  “You stupid, fucking idiot,” I shouted, as if he could hear me.

  What were you thinking?

  Stay in your lane.

  I could only surmise I’d startled him as much as he’d startled me. In order to prevent a dip down the steep mountain drop, he collided with the rocks supporting the mountain instead.

  “Don’t be dead,” I whispered, although only the darkness could hear me. The road was eerily silent with only t
he trees and the rocks and the sharp drop to the valley below.

  I spun and vomited across the black street.

  As the roll of my gut settled, the roar of engines filled my head. I didn’t have time to think before I straightened and was blinded by two singular headlights. A truck pulled up behind them.

  A cleaner. Dear God.

  “Wolf,” Catfish called my name so sharply, as if to awaken me from a deep sleep. I wished I was dreaming. Someone tell me this is a nightmare. I stared into my friend’s face, not really seeing him.

  “I killed him,” I said, my voice shaky and weak like a child who had broken a vase. Only I’d broken a man.

  “We’ve come to take care of things.” Another voice drifted to me, but I couldn’t make out who it was. Repo? Darrell Winston? Dirty Dave?

  Would they kill me? The horrifying thought crossed my mind as another man walked past me for the body.

  “Did you touch him?” the disembodied voice spoke. I must have shaken my head. “Good. We’ll leave him then.” The comment spurred me to action. I stepped into Catfish’s space.

  “I gotta call the sheriff,” I yelled, trying to focus on his face, forcing him to hear me.

  “You don’t gotta do anything, Wolf. We leave him be. Get on your bike.”

  I turned back to the man sprawled on the street. He looked my age. Early twenties, no older.

  What was he doing here so late?

  Why was he racing in the dark?

  What did he hope to prove being on this road alone?

  Another thought slammed into me. What if he had a family? An older brother, like Toad, who would wonder what happened to him. Or a mother who worried too obsessively, but only because she loved him. What if he had a girl, a wife, a kid …

  “Wolf. Bike. Now.”

  “I’m not leaving him.”

  I imagined the faint sound of sirens in the distance.

  “I need to call the sheriff. What if—”

  There were no what-ifs.

  The world went black.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dewey Decimal Classification: 155.93 Influences of Traumatic Experiences and Bereavement

  [Naomi]

  Nathan’s reaction to the story of my brother is not what I expected.

  “Are you finished?” The disembodied tone startles me. His voice is hollow as are his eyes. I don’t know if he means the history of my brother or my lunch, but when I nod, he absentmindedly folds up our wrappings. Crumbling them is more like it. He slowly stands, his movements deliberate, as if it hurts to lift each part of his body. Then he takes a step away from me, cups his hands behind his head, and paces a second before turning back as if he forgot something on the ground.

  “Are you okay?” My voice cracks, weak and concerned. He doesn’t answer me. His eyes don’t meet mine, but his hand reaches out to help me stand up. He immediately releases me, bends for the blanket, and flings it over his shoulder. Hastily, he grabs the sack with our unfinished lunches and stalks forward.

  All I can think is the story confirms my guilt, and Nathan wants nothing to do with me.

  We walk back to his truck in silence. Ride to my house in silence. He drops me off in silence.

  “I’ll call you,” he mutters just before I close the door to his truck, and I hear the falseness in his tone.

  Don’t look back, I tell myself. Although I don’t believe in a woman turning into a pillar of salt, I fear I’ll matriculate into the fine grains and blow away in the wind if I turn around. His ticking jaw and hard-edged cheeks told me he was deep in thought while we rode to my house. The kicker was his lack of physical contact. I’d just bared my soul of sin and guilt, and Nathan did nothing to comfort me. He didn’t hold my hand. He didn’t embrace me. He said … nothing.

  I guess that settles things. I’d found the breaking point. My thoughtless actions resulted in my brother’s death and Nathan’s reaction is he doesn’t want anything to do with me again.

  The universe had spoken.

  I hadn’t even reached my front door before the crunch of tires on gravel signals his exit from my driveway. The screeching squeal of rubber on blacktop shortly follows as he speeds down the road. Once inside, I release a heavy breath and I collapse onto my couch, tears stinging my eyes. I’m heartsick at the possibility of not seeing him again, especially after fighting my feelings and denying my desire. I don’t need a man to complete me, but I admit Nathan fit me like a missing puzzle piece. He is patient and kind, and doesn’t make me feel awkward even when I am. He’s been a comfort in the storm of the library closure, and I welcomed the safe harbor I found in him. He has allowed me to blossom and he rekindled my sexuality.

  The inner goddess is unleashed.

  I still want him as much as I did the first time we met, and once again, he’s ridden off, and I worry I’ll never hear from him again.

  A fragile sensation returns on Sunday afternoon, when I feel sluggish, solemn, and so alone at the Save Our Library community meeting in the library, doomily nicknamed S.O.L. —shit out of luck—which should really read S.O.O.L but you get the point. The campaign efforts swirl around me like a mist and I feel discombobulated and separate from the crowd. My thoughts remain on Nathan’s disappearance.

  He hasn’t called.

  Unfortunately, Julianne isn’t a good public speaker and the audience is lacking. We learn Billy Winston is no longer our hometown congressman. He resigned. The absence of several of the Winstons leaves us with an ominous feeling. Their mother had been the needle to knit our thriving library together. She originated so many of our special events and programs. Her children practically grew up within these walls and their absence doesn’t go unnoticed. At one point, I see Cletus in the back along with his sister, Ashley Winston-Runous, but it isn’t the same without the twins or even little Roscoe, who is now a man.

  The heavy sense of loss isn’t only from the missing Winstons. Diane Donner-Sylvester, who had been a strong champion to the library, especially our Thursday night poetry readings, has been missing from the area for years. I still feel her absence. She would have been a vocal supporter of our cause, and with her social media experience, a proponent of the S.O.L. campaign.

  Then there is the fact Nathan isn’t present. I shouldn’t have expected he’d be there. Hoped rather. He can’t do anything directly to aid our situation, but it would have been nice to see him in the room as the library has done so much for children like Clementine. I understand, though. This is about me. It’s not like he hasn’t disappeared from my life before. I want to blame my brother’s tale, but I accept Nathan’s absence as my fault. My irresponsibility. My thoughtless action. My brother would never have crashed if I hadn’t called him in the first place, he wouldn’t have been on that road. If I hadn’t had sex with a man I didn’t know. If I hadn’t been in a bar celebrating my birthday. If I hadn’t been left behind.

  If, if, if …

  Our library meeting ends without a rally for reform. It’s hard to evocate passion when the three people representing the spirit of the library include a stern old-school librarian, a debilitatingly shy one, and another most people saw as a witch.

  With Nathan missing, I feel even more like an outlier.

  Defeat is in the air, the aura around us negative and oppressive. No amount of black tourmaline can soothe my anxiety although I’ve been holding the crystal between my breasts for over an hour. When those gathered disperse, Julianne and I settle at a table near the lobby.

  We placed a suggestion box on the counter with another sign from Julianne.

  Offer us your ideas and then give us your prayers.

  I’m not the praying type by traditional standards but I’ve been burning candles and calling on all the good juju Nature can offer us. I’m planning a protective ritual around the building for later this evening with crystals and prayers of my own, asking the Goddess for assistance.

  After the lackluster meeting, we read the suggestions.

  Hire a fam
ous author to speak.

  Taco Tuesday.

  Bake sale.

  Feeling hopeless, I make my own suggestion to Julianne. “Maybe we could expand to provide more variety.”

  “How could we expand if we don’t even have the funding to keep the doors open?” Julianne has a point, despite her snippy tone.

  “Maybe we need to add some unique features. Something that makes us stand out from other libraries,” I add.

  Julianne looks at me quizzically before replying. “What do we need variety for? We have thousands of books.”

  I love our lead librarian, but she doesn’t see the bigger picture some days. The world outside Green Valley is changing—rapidly—and while I don’t want books to be a thing of the past any more than she does, we need to make concessions to the modern age. A 3D printer is one of the changes we need. Author nights might be another, but we need something even grander.

  “What about a fundraiser?”

  “Like a bake sale?” Julianne wrinkles her face, holding up the slip of paper with the suggestion, knowing full well brownies and muffins sold for fifty cents apiece will not garner the funds we need.

  “I don’t know.” I sigh in frustration as I comb my fingers through my hair. “Where is the ALA in all this?” The American Library Association should be our biggest advocate for remaining open. Julianne dismisses me with a weak wave.

  “What about private investors?” I suggest next.

  “Privatizing the library!” Mrs. MacIntyre interjects and adamantly objects. She’s kept up to date on companies trying to take over the once-public institution and outsource them to private entities. This destroys union control and allows the individual organization to decide what books are shelved and what programs are offered. We won’t be burning books, she once admonished. Her fear is censorship, although she’s had her day of banning books and refusing programs.

  “Not privatized ownership, but an individual investment. Like a GoFundMe or something.” Julianne stares at me like I’ve suggested we swallow nails and drink castor oil. Dismissing my own suggestion, I shrug and shake my head. “Never mind.”