Taking Mine

by Schneider, Rachel

  “No. No, Lilly. You just walked in at the wrong time. That's it. We should have told you what we were planning.”

  “Why didn't you?” I say. “It's not like I would have disagreed.”

  “Justin thought that if he went through with it, and everything turned out all right in the end—”

  “That I would be able to forgive him for lying to me,” I finish.

  “He looks like shit, Lilly.”

  I know. I’ve seen him. It's an entirely different heartache now. This one is self-fulfilling.

  THE SKY IS OVERCAST when I step out of the prison doors, but the glimpses of sunlight through the clouds hurt my sensitive eyes. Visitation ended over an hour ago, but I allotted extra time to refill Kip's account and to cry in the bathroom. I tried to reduce the swelling by splashing cold water on my face, but I double-checked, and I still look neurotic. At this point, I should just get used to it. The wind cuts into my freshly dried cheeks and I duck my face from the sting. The inside of my car is my shield as I start to get in. Justin's engine follows mine, and he exits the parking lot right behind me.

  I only drive a few miles before I pull off the interstate and park behind a dingy bar that's closed for the day. I don't bother looking up as I open the passenger door to Justin's SUV when I get in.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I ask, finally gaining the courage to meet his eyes. Shame fills me as I find weariness pasted across every inch of him. I've done that to him. I pull a folded note from my pocket and hand it to him. “Can you make sure Dan's wife, Melanie, gets this and the money that I left with you?”

  “If that's what you want, of course.”

  I nod. “It is.”

  He retrieves his wallet and slides the paper in it, placing it in the middle console for safe keeping. I need to say something, but every quiet second expands in the confined space, and I fight the urge to chicken out. His thumb runs over his bottom lip and it makes me smile.

  “What?” he says, a confused smirk kicking up the side of his mouth. “What are you smiling at?”

  “Did they not teach you how to hide nervous ticks?”

  He pulls his thumb back and looks at it. “I never realize when I do it.”

  Reaching over the middle, he cautiously runs that same thumb along my cheek. His touch is feather light, almost like he’s worried it’ll break me. “I'm so sorry,” I say.

  His lips part as he breathes in my words. His touch stills, and I lean into his hand, all but begging for him not to stop. “I shouldn't have said what I did at the courthouse.”

  I shake my head to stop his apology. “You were right. I should have heard you out, listened to what you had to stay. Instead, I wanted someone to blame and you let me use you as a target, and for that, I am so, so incredibly sorry.”

  His eyes soften. “I'll forgive you if you can forgive me.”

  I'm incapable of stopping my tears. “I already do.”

  He smiles, and it's more positive than what I feel, but I'm grateful nevertheless. His lips move toward mine, his eyes set on my mouth, and I want it more than I want to live at this very moment. I tell myself to stop it, but another part of me knows that if I walk away from this one point of contact, I'll walk away with one less part of him.

  I inhale his breath, needing to take as much as I can, even though I've taken more than I deserve. He presses into me, and I push back, too needy to stop. The ache in me morphs from hurt to desire, and I cling to it. The reprieve is intoxicating, and I chase it over the console and into his lap. I position my legs around him as he pulls me down so I can feel him through the material of his jeans. We rock against each other, seeking more.

  I fumble with the button of his jeans, and he slides the seat back, lifting his hips to give me better access. I cuss when I struggle to shake my shorts off, and he helps, leaving them wrapped around one ankle. Almost in the same motion that he slides his jeans down past his hips, he's in me, and we both freeze, absorbing the sensation of each other. Goose bumps break out across my body as I slowly rock back, and his fingers dig into my hips. His eyes are dilated, locked on our point of connection. I physically shake from how good it feels. I lock my hands around his neck, and he pulls my lips down to his, taking his time to enjoy our kiss.

  “I love you.”

  He says it in a momentary break from his mouth on mine and immediately resumes kissing after. There is no opportunity to say it back, but I think it. It repeats when we speed up. It repeats when I cling to him as we finish. And it repeats now, as I drive my car back home, replaying his words in my head and wondering how those three words make everything worse.

  THE WRENCH FALLS FROM MY HAND, and I narrowly avoid it landing on my face. Lying on hot asphalt while trying to change the air condenser in Kip’s truck is really making me regret selling my car. But I wanted Kip to have his truck when he gets out, however long it is from now. I should have just paid someone to do it, but I know the outrageous fees a shop would charge for labor, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Deciding it’s time for a break, I slide out from under the truck and am greeted by the blinding smile of the next-door neighbor’s grandson. The little twit hangs around like a puppy.

  “Need any help, Mrs. Lilly?” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  “No thank you, Cal. I was just about to get something to drink. Want to come inside for a few minutes and cool off?”

  “Do you have any of that peach cobbler?” he says, his eyes lighting up.

  I smear grease onto the tip of his nose, smiling at his phony attempt to be annoyed. “As long as you don’t tell your grandpa. He’ll kick my ass if you don’t eat your dinner again.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Mrs. Lilly. I learned my lesson on that one.” I smile at the memory of Mr. Wilson bringing over Cal’s unfinished plate of dinner and insisting that I eat it since I thought a seven-year-old should have dessert instead.

  Cal skips inside the kitchen and hops up onto the counter, pulling down two glasses from the cupboard. I pour him a glass of milk and myself a lemonade before scooping us each a plate of sugary goodness. I watch Cal shovel too-large bites into his mouth, and it reminds me of the way Justin always eats—like he’s starving.

  It took a while, but eventually John Monroe went to trial. My testimony was nothing in comparison to the hours of footage and audio Lance was able to score while working under him, but I did my part nonetheless. He pled no contest, but it didn't stand, and he was found guilty of drug trafficking, arms trading, kidnapping, first-degree murder, and much, much more. The list goes on and on. Sentencing hasn't quite commenced, but there’s no doubt he’ll go away for an extremely long time.

  I’m not quite sure how Kaley’s faring since I haven’t seen her since the day of the verdict. We stood outside the courtroom doors, trying to prepare ourselves for the onslaught of photographers that were waiting outside. The case blew up in the media, the community shocked by John Monroe’s hidden life, and Kaley took the brunt of it. I asked her if she was going to be alright as she chewed a wad of gum between her teeth. She blew a bubble before replying, “Life’s a bitch.” And then she walked out of the courthouse, head held high and middle finger in the air.

  I sold the house. Apparently it’s not that hard to forge a name, bribe a notary, and send a few documents to the courthouse to get the deed in my name. The house needed work, and a buyer who was interested in the up-sale of the neighborhood offered cash, which saved a lot of hassle. We closed the day after the trial, making leaving much more efficient. Especially because it was the first day I was bodyguard free, Lance and Justin officially relieved of their duties.

  I managed to pack the basics. My bed, books, and the brand new coffee maker I bought after raid-gate. By the time Justin caught me dropping the last box into the back of Kip’s truck, everything was packed. He didn’t say anything as he walked up the drive and leaned his hip against the tailgate, arms crossed over his chest. Things had been stressed between us since we had awkward
ly gotten dressed in the front seat of the SUV. We spent the next few weeks tip-toeing around the issue at hand, and I honestly couldn’t even pinpoint what the issue was, but I knew Justin was trying to give me space.

  “You’re leaving,” he said, stating the obvious.

  I nodded but avoided his eyes as I braced my arms against the truck. “Yeah.”

  “You weren’t going to at least tell me bye?”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t know what to say.”

  This made him angry, and he pushed off the truck, turning away from me. “Kip told me you would run,” he said, his voice deep.

  “It’s just like my brother to still be influencing my life from inside prison. I’m not running,” I said in defense. “I’m trying to figure myself out.”

  “And why can’t you do that here?” he said, facing me again. “I get that you feel like you’re losing yourself. I get it.” He splayed his hand across his chest, emphasizing his point. “But why do you feel the need to do it alone?”

  “In order for me to feel like I’m losing myself, I would have had to find it in the first place. Being here,” I said, motioning to the house, the neighborhood, the city, him. “Just makes me feel like I’m trapped. I need, for once in my life, to feel like I’m not stuck.”

  “Lilly, you’re stronger than this.”

  His words hurt, because I knew he honestly believed them, but I knew better. I made my way past him and opened the door to the truck, getting in before he could argue me back out. Because, help me, I wanted him to. I wanted him to tell me he loved me again, and that I’m not the lost person that I saw myself as.

  He braced his hands against the door, eyes pleading. “You can’t just leave and take my heart with you.”

  “I’m not,” I said, starting the engine and kicking it into gear. “I’m taking mine.”

  It still seeps in when I’m by myself, wondering how I’m managing to survive without him. For weeks, even though we weren’t necessarily together, he was always there, watching over me. I had thought that being away from him would give me the opportunity to move on, to think without his presence clouding my judgment, but in reality it did the exact opposite.

  Cal finishes his plate before I do, just like usual, and uses the rest of the time to swing his feet back and forth. “Grandpa said you need a man to fix your truck.”

  I cough on my bite of cobbler and wash it down with a large drink of lemonade. “Well,” I say. “Tell your grandpa if he keeps putting his nose where it doesn’t belong, the nosey monster is going to come and rip it off when he’s sleeping.”

  Cal’s feet still for a moment. “Nuh uh.”

  “Don’t believe me? Ask him about it,” I say, depositing our dishes in the sink.

  He thinks about it for a few seconds and shrugs. “It doesn’t matter because I told grandpa that you’re the prettiest girl there is so it won’t be hard for you to find one.”

  I smile. “You’re the sweetest, but it’s a little more complicated than that.”

  “No it’s not. Grandpa said all you need to do is be nice and quit cussing.”

  I roll my eyes and shove him down from the counter. “Your grandpa’s nose is in some real danger,” I say. “You should run home and tell him to mind his own damn business.”

  His eyes grow big. “Are you trying to get me in trouble?”

  I laugh as I march him outside. “Trust me, he’ll be mad at me, not you. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  He groans but doesn’t argue as he runs to the townhouse next door. It’s a one-way street with townhomes lining one side and wooded trees along the other. It’s a quiet neighborhood. I’m the last house, and if I had known Mr. Wilson would be such a hardass, I’d probably have looked for something else. Okay, that’s not true. As much as Cal is annoying, he’s cute, and he keeps me occupied on my bad days. And I can make him weed the flowerbeds out front, so that’s a nice bonus.

  It takes me the rest of the day and a lot of cussing to finish putting the air compressor in. If I were stronger, it might have gone a little more smoothly, but either way I did it. I still have to go into town tomorrow to rent a vacuum to recharge it, but I’ve had enough for one day.

  I pour bubble bath into the water dribbling from the antique faucet into the porcelain tub. The townhouses were all built in the fifties, and most of them still have the original fixtures, or at least mine does. The downside is they’re tiny, and every room is subdivided. But it’s mine, and mine alone, and that makes me happy. I slide into the water and sigh as the heat seeps into my muscles.

  Today was a good day. I accomplished a lot. It’s when I’m alone and have nothing to occupy my time when the loneliness creeps in. Living with Kip was never overly chummy, but he was always around. Either cooking or working on something, he stayed busy, making noise. Then living with Justin…

  I don’t allow my thoughts to go there. Every day I have the same goal—don’t think about Justin—and every day I fail.

  Sitting in silence is deafening. I’ve wondered how people born deaf don’t go mad. I suppose it’s because they’re used to it. I hate it because it makes me think, and as much as I thought I needed space to think, it’s actually something closer to torture. Guantanamo Bay should just put terrorists in a room by themselves for a few weeks, and then they’ll be ready to talk to anybody willing to listen. That’s why my only friend is a seven-year-old who likes me because I bake him sweets.

  I’m in the bath for so long that the water starts to turn cold and my stomach grumbles, reminding me that I’ve only eaten dessert today. I get out, brush my hair, get dressed, and head downstairs to fix something to eat. The first couple of months I lived on eating the bare minimum. It was after my thousandth cup of noodles that I committed myself to learning how to cook. I still don’t care for it, or the clean-up part, but I love the eating aspect.

  Turning on the radio, I rifle through my fridge, pulling the ingredients for a quick skillet recipe. I have to admit, as much as cooking is monotonous, it’s therapeutic. It’s the quickest way I can garner a proud moment for myself when a new dish comes out just right. Like, hell yes, I made this creamy pesto chicken caprese casserole. It’s just a fancy way of saying baked chicken pasta slathered in tomato sauce, but that’s beside the point. I can make it, and I’m awesome.

  A heavy pounding on my door makes my stomach drop. No doubt Cal opened his big mouth to Mr. Wilson and I’m about to get a verbal spanking. Grudgingly, I trudge to the door, an apology already poised on my lips when I open it. But all speech leaves me at the sight of the woman standing there.

  She’s just as intimidating as I remember her, and I instinctively take a step back. “Tess.”

  “Lilly,” she says with a mild tone.

  Why is she here? “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. Can I come in?”

  “Can I say no?” I ask, only half joking.

  “No,” she says, but this time with a real smile.

  She steps in, and I close the door behind her. “The kitchen is to the left,” I say, trying to avoid the mountain of laundry piled on the living room couch.

  She sits at the tiny kitchen table I found at a resale shop and looks around. Her eyes stop on the only item I have magnetized to the refrigerator, and I want to dive across the room to block her sight of it. Instead, I try my best to act like a sane human being, and continue my work on dinner. I turn down the heat to prevent the butter from burning.

  “What are you cooking?” she says, peering over the counter.

  “Chicken.”

  She points to the breasts I have marinating in a bowl. “You should butterfly those so they cook evenly.”

  My knife freezes mid cut. “Did you come here to give me cooking pointers, or is there something you have to say?”

  Her eyes narrow, lashes so thick I can’t see her pupils, but I know they’re drilling daggers into me. I brace myself, but surprisingly, she relaxes. “I always knew that whenever Justin de
cided to finally bring a girl home, she’d be the one.”

  My heart pumps furiously in my chest. Just being within proximity of someone who’s a part of his life kicks it into gear. Hearing her say his name is almost too much to bear. Realizing that I’m not able to concentrate, I cut the stove off.

  “Look, Tess,” I say.

  She cuts me off. “I didn’t want it to be you,” she says. “When he first told me about you, I immediately didn’t like you.”

  “This is going so well,” I say, garnering a laugh. “You knew everything before you even met me?”

  “Not much. Justin only told me the bare minimum, that you’ve had a difficult life and that I shouldn’t judge you for that.”

  I huff through a humorless laugh. “I was so nervous about meeting you, about making a good impression, and you’d already made your mind up about me.”

  “I was wrong, I admit it, but I wouldn’t have given you that recipe,” she says, pointing to the paper hanging from the refrigerator, “if I didn’t absolutely know that my son loved you.”

  The paper is folded into sixths from when she slipped it to me when Justin and I left after visiting.

  Let’s get to the point. “What do you want?”

  She drops her hands. “I honestly don’t even know. All I know is that my son isn’t happy, and I want someone to fix it. Do I think you’re worthy of his love?” She shakes her head. “But it doesn’t matter. Only you matter to him.”

  “You’re right,” I say, meeting her eyes. “I’m not good enough for him. How can I live with that every day?”

  She sighs, trying to think of a way to explain something. “You know, when Bruce decided to get sober, our relationship struggled more than it did when he wasn’t. We fought constantly because he wanted me to leave him.” I give her a look and she nods, waving her hand in the air. “I know, I know. Sounds ridiculous. But it was his own personal vendetta against himself, and he thought I deserved better.”

  “Well,” I say. “You did.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe, but I didn’t think so. And I couldn’t figure out why he just wouldn’t let me love him. That’s all I wanted to do.”