by R. K. Lilley
Oh, but wait, she didn't cook. I guess I just wasn't that into preparing.
"When do you find time to manifest your heart's purpose?" I broke in cheekily at one point just to let her catch her breath.
She didn't skip a beat. I was kind of impressed. "Oh, that's easy. I never miss my hour of Kundalini meditation first thing in the morning. It's crucial to the progressive cultivation of my soul. Crucial."
She was a bit of an acquired taste, much like her green shake. One thing I could say about her, though: she loved Amos. A lot. She couldn't keep her hands off him after she finished her shake, rolling around on the ground with him, rubbing his tummy how he loved. Amos, as always, couldn't get enough affection, and I had a soft spot in my heart for anyone that could love our homely, adopted mongrel.
"I think your dog is my spirit animal," she said at one point.
I just about choked on my shake, but recovered quickly. "Mine is that half-empty, Costco-sized bottle of Patrón on the counter."
Moonbliss gave me an odd look, but let me have it. "What about you, Demi?"
"Yeah, what about you, Demi?" I repeated.
"I never thought about it. Maybe a purple unicorn? A baby one."
I smiled at her. Damn, I liked her. We had grown particularly close lately. I chalked it up to her tender heart, especially when it came to wounded creatures.
She had a way with us all.
Moonbliss couldn't stay long. She had a lot of world wound healing still to do for her soul mission before the sun set, but she was thoughtful enough to write down some recipes that would energize my chakras before she left. She handed the piece of paper to me with a flourish, as though it were a prescription. "Always, for you, add spirit dust; you need all the help you can get for the path to inner peace."
Fair enough. No one had ever accused me of being peaceful.
I studied the list.
"And if you're having a craving for sweets, dose yourself with a bit of bee pollen. It's divine."
"Is bee pollen vegan?" I asked, just for the hell of it.
"My soul feels untroubled by it," she said by way of an answer.
Doesn't that make your chakra sticky? I almost asked, but held back, if only barely.
"Buckwheat soba noodle salad. Roasted kabocha soup. Denuded feldspar. All of these should be staple meals for you."
"Should they be . . . activated or . . . regular?"
She cocked her head to the side and studied me like I was the weird one.
Or maybe she actually realized that I was messing with her.
"I pray your afternoon is as carefree as a juniper breeze," were her parting words.
"Buh-bye," I said back
"See you tomorrow," Demi replied.
"You don't like her, do you?" she asked me when we were alone.
I was surprised she'd gotten that impression. "I do, actually. And I like having her around. She puts my improv training to good use."
I'd had a good laugh, but it did get me thinking. I had not been taking care of myself lately. Usually I tried to practice a good balance of exercise and eating healthy, with a dash of alcohol on party nights.
I needed to start taking care of myself again.
Because I needed to start caring about myself again.
"Is she for real?" I asked Demi. "Did you set that up just to mess with me?"
"I found her looking hopeless in the produce section. Her boyfriend dumped her for a younger woman, and she's feeling lost. All of her energy is going into finding something, real or fake, that makes her feel better. She can be . . . opinionated and eccentric but she is a nice person, and I want to help her. You know me. . . I just like to help. It gives me purpose."
Well, hell. Schooled by a twenty-two-year-old with a pure heart. You'd think it'd be demoralizing, but it was actually kind of enlightening. It never felt bad to just be nice to people.
In my case, I knew I needed to start with myself.
"Are you going to try one of those recipes for us tonight?" I asked her.
She flashed a dimple at me with her smile.
"If you do, just please, for me, be sure that the buckwheat has been de-hulled by an Amazon Chieftain during flood season on a blood moon. It's very important." I couldn't help it. Being a smartass was part of my DNA.
We both lost it, laughing until tears were running down our faces.
"Got it," she gasped. "And you don't have to worry about the feldspar, either. I'll make sure myself that it's denuded by a virgin during flood season and pointing west, of course."
I wasn't the only one who'd had improv training.
"That sounds like something that will boost my blood irony levels," I said in parting, feeling something akin to carefree for the first time in I didn't even know how long.
I'd been planning to spend the day marathoning Vanderpump Rules so I could feel better about me and worse about humanity, but I felt a renewed sense of purpose (that I refused to blame on the green shake), so I went for a long, satisfying run instead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"If you would be loved, be lovable."
~Ovid
PAST
SCARLETT
He'd done it again. Made me so mad I couldn't even look at him. He'd promised. Promised that he wouldn't have anything else to do with Tiffany, that neither of us would. But then right before last period, he'd mentioned oh so casually that she was coming over to Gram's house for dinner that night. Her parents were out of town, and he didn't think she should have to eat alone.
It felt like a double betrayal, since Gram was in on it. Did Gram like Tiffany now, too?
How long before they both preferred her to me?
I couldn't stand it. How insecure I felt, how completely Dante disregarded my feelings out of consideration for someone else's.
I didn't even confront him. I just walked away. He followed me to my class, then to my desk.
I sat down, looking straight ahead.
"You're upset," he said, and had the nerve to sound annoyed.
"Go away," I said stiffly just as the bell rang.
Dante's class was across campus, nowhere close, so he had no choice but to drop it. "I'll be back before practice. Don't take off," he said in a tone I found insufferable. He'd have had more luck ordering me to take off. "We're going to talk before you blow this out of proportion."
I glared at his retreating back with absolute murder in my eyes, waited a beat, just long enough for him to leave, and stood.
My history teacher, Ms. Banks, called my name once, then again.
"Not feeling well," I told her. "Going home." She didn't try to stop me, though I'd probably regret it later. My attendance was always a problem on account of me hating school and loving to leave it before it was over.
I made my way home almost blindly, looking down at my feet, following the trail, my mind somewhere else. Several places in fact, but mostly on Dante's reaction when he realized I hadn't stayed put. He'd be pissed. He'd likely even skip practice to confront me right away.
Pathetic as it was, I hoped he would. I needed, over and over, like a broken record, for him to show me that he'd never get sick of me, no matter how flawed I was. How insecure. How unlovable.
I had never made peace with being abandoned. I was certain that I never would. I still looked the reality of it in the face every day, wondered why I was so worthless, wondered when I'd be abandoned again.
My response to that was to unleash my helpless rage on the one person who would take it. Who wouldn't leave me. Who cared enough to chase me when I ran.
I was deep in thought as I approached the creek. There was a longer trail home, with a bridge over the small body of water, but when it was this nice out, it was never worth taking when you could just hop the rocks on the shorter route. It was tricky, but I'd gotten the balancing act down years ago.
It was an unseasonably warm day just a few weeks into the school year, and so I'd worn shorts. The sun was shining, a teasing breeze drifting t
hrough the forest. My mood was starting to improve the more I had some time and space away.
I poised myself to take the first big lunge. Once you started, it was best just to skip straight across, no stopping.
It happened fast, so fast that more of it was processed in retrospect than real time.
The creek was small, but it was loud. Loud enough to drown the sounds of even a large man moving directly behind me.
It happened fast, so fast, all of it. Something hard struck me in the back of the head. I saw stars, and my world took a turn for the darker.
*****
It was hours later and I was still pissed. I'd been shuffled from the police station to the hospital. I was in a patient bed now, and they wouldn't let me leave. All I wanted to do was go home, shower, and curl up into a ball, but I had a bad concussion so that would not happen until tomorrow at the earliest.
And in the meantime, two cops, one male who'd introduced himself as Detective Harris, and one female who'd introduced herself as Detective Flynn, were asking me the same questions, over and over again. They didn't seem to want my answers, because every time I answered the same question the same way, the female cop looked increasingly more disgusted.
I took a strong disliking to both of them almost right away.
Her first and it started the moment she spoke to me. There was just something in her voice I didn't like, some undercurrent of hostility. No, it was more than hostility. It was judgement. Cold and final. This woman had an opinion about me and it was set in stone.
I wasn't sure why I didn't like Harris at first, but I didn't. Perhaps my instincts were trying to tell me from the start that something was wrong with him.
Looking back, it's easy to think so, but if it was so in the moment, I can't honestly say.
And worse than all of that, they wouldn't let Dante in to see me. I'd heard him, several times, making a fuss about it, getting himself into trouble somewhere in the hospital, trying his best, I knew, to make it to me, but so far he was losing.
I needed him to win. I needed to see his face, feel his hands holding mine, absorb his presence comforting me.
One upside: the detectives seemed as over it as I was. Finally, Flynn pulled the male officer to the other side of the room, the side with a second, currently vacant bed, shutting the curtain behind them.
The detectives started talking to each other about me, voices pitched low, but not low enough.
Flynn had made clear early on that she thought the whole thing was a colossal waste of their time.
"She's the daughter of Renee Theroux and Jethro Davis," Flynn was saying. "Can we really believe any story she's spinning? What do you expect? Who knows what kind of trouble she got herself into, and with whom. Should we just take her word for it that some homeless guy that's been living in the woods just walked up and attacked her?"
I felt my face getting red, I was so angry.
"It's obvious she was attacked, and that there was a sexual assault," Harris replied. "Nothing else is relevant. We need to figure out who attacked her. And you know as well as I do that this isn't the first time we've gotten a report like this."
"So we're supposed to just start digging around in the woods and grab every homeless guy with a spot by the river?" Flynn said impatiently. "On her word? That girl gets into fights with everyone, all the damn time, now we have to investigate one of her altercations like she's a victim?"
"Yes, we have to investigate it. That's our job. This was an assault, not a fight. Don't forget, we do have evidence, and there are several sex offenders that have gone off the grid around here. Not to mention all of the unsolved cases we're sitting on. It wouldn't be bad for us, in general, to start checking out some of the transients that have set up shop along the water."
Was this what good cop, bad cop sounded like? I'd never experienced it before. All cops were bad to me.
And it didn't make sense. I couldn't figure out why they'd be using this tactic on a victim. Oh wait, that's what it was. Flynn had decided I wasn't one.
God, I hated cops. I hated that I'd even had to call the police, but I was furious and I wanted the creep caught.
"Fine," Flynn said curtly. "Let's get back to the station and start the paperwork."
"Okay. You go ahead. I'm going to have a quick word with her."
I watched Harris warily as he approached me again, looking apologetic. "I'll be back to follow-up soon." He set a card on the high nightstand beside the bed. "Call me if you need anything at all."
I nodded, chewing my lip and looking down at my hands. "Thanks, Detective Harris."
"Call me John."
I didn't particularly want to, but . . . "Thanks, John. Do you think this guy has done this before?"
"I think it's very likely we are dealing with a serial attacker, yes."
"Do you think you'll catch him?"
"As long as you cooperate, I'll make sure we do, Scarlett." That struck me as odd, but I was too distracted to think about it for long. "You take care. I'll be in touch."
He left, and Dante, finally, came in. He moved to me silently, looming over me, then softly took each one of my hands in his.
I couldn't even look at his face after the initial glance. It was like staring into an open wound. I was pissed, hurt, and embarrassed, and again, pissed, but he'd gone into another realm. I knew this was his worst nightmare.
"Are you okay?" he asked, voice shaking.
"Yes," I said, because it was true. I'd been attacked, yes, but I knew that it could have ended much, much worse.
"Who was it?" he asked, and I'd known he would.
I closed my eyes. I didn't want to tell him. He was too far to losing it, and if he had a clue just how much the police did not give a damn about finding the guy, he would to do it himself, I knew it. "Don't," I said quietly. "The police will handle it." I didn't believe it myself, but that wasn't the point. "I'm just a little bruised and pissed off, okay? Let's not make this a big thing."
One of his warm hands had moved up to cup my cheek. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. "I don't know what to do. I feel so helpless."
I did not want to talk about it. It felt like I'd talked about it too much, but I figured it would be better to let him know what had really happened than to let him speculate and think the worst.
He gripped my hand a little too painfully amid the retelling, but stayed very quiet and still, and I knew without having to ask that he was going through his own personal hell.
Gram came in soon after. Between the two of them, they made a big enough fuss over me that I felt truly cared for, and, though I was embarrassed by it, I was comforted.
Dante stayed the night with me in the hospital room, even after an initial standoff with my nurse. I think she decided it just wasn't worth the trouble.
I was discharged the next day, and things were almost starting to feel normal again, or at least like normal was on its way.
We were talking as though nothing had happened, joking, teasing each other as I prepared to leave for home.
As Dante was helping me to dress, we had another bad moment when he saw my bruised torso.
I glanced down at my breasts. They were black and blue. No wonder they hurt so damn much.
Dante had been holding my bra but it dropped out of his hands, his breath gone ragged. "Jesus. Look what he did to you. I'll fucking kill him."
The nurse walked in as he said that, and she sent him a startled look.
"I can't wear a bra right now," I said practically. "Just grab me a shirt."
"I'll do that," the nurse told Dante, her tone sharp, as he renewed his efforts to dress me.
He was gently sliding my arms into an oversized T-shirt as he tersely replied, "I've got her." The two didn't get along. It'd been awkward since their standoff about him staying the night before.
But the nurse only cared to a point. She clearly decided that we weren't worth the hassle and left us to it with one last glare.
We didn't ev
en discuss it but he took me straight to Gram's house instead of mine, and she was waiting for us, a large corner suite upstairs prepared for me. I pulled Dante into bed with me and went instantly back to sleep.
"I fucking hate that guy, the male detective," Dante said abruptly at dinner.
I was surprised. "He's the only one that seems like he's trying to help me."
"I don't like him. I don't trust him. There's something wrong with him."
I was so used to him being jealous that that was the first conclusion my mind jumped to. Detective Harris was a very good-looking man, even distracted and shaken I had noticed, and then he'd had the nerve to keep Dante from me for hours after the attack. Of course Dante didn't like him. I didn't much like him either.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing."
~Charles Bukowski
The worst thing about the attack was how it made me question everything around me. Made me see it all differently. The forest surrounding our houses had been the home to many of the good memories in my life, a source of nothing so much as joy and enchantment, but all of a sudden, it was the opposite.
It was a dark, mysterious place now, the shadows more oppressive and menacing.
Within a few days, I was still more shaken than I'd admit to anyone, but more or less back into my daily routine, and I thought I was happy to put it all behind me. The police would do their job, and I would go on with my life just as before.
Well, not quite. I didn't leave Gram's, and we didn't walk to or from school anymore. Dante started driving us, and I was more than fine with it.
I knew I'd be in trouble as a few days passed, and I still didn't leave Gram's house.
It just felt so good to stay in a place where I was wanted, so I put off going back home.
Finally, I made Dante take me back to the trailer after school. If he'd had his way, we'd have just avoided the place, entirely and forever.