by Lena Maye
“I didn’t see you.”
He hasn’t shaved in days, but I let out a sigh when I see his eyes are clear. Maybe I was worried over nothing?
“I was at the reference desk.” His fingers play with the fringe of my scarf.
He’s here. It’s my chance.
“I’m sorry.” My voice is so quiet I hardly hear myself.
“I didn’t come over here for that.” He drops my scarf and his long fingers curl around the desk divider.
I blink up at him. “Why were you talking to my father?”
“Jean…” He shakes his head and steps back.
I bite my lip. I miss the way he calls me Lo. There were so many things I didn’t understand about him. But I see them now.
“I know why you didn’t tell me,” I say. “Because it would have hurt me. It would have hurt me, and you didn’t want to do that. Just like I didn’t want to hurt you.”
He takes another step back. He’s going to turn and leave.
“We’re not perfect, Kepler. We never will be. But I want to try again.” I say it louder, finding the strength in me.
His jaw clenches. “Try what?”
“Equilibrium. Static or otherwise.” The ground under my feet might drop away at any moment, and I’ve got to get this thought out before I tumble through the floor. “I want to try being us again.”
He sighs and rolls his shoulders like there’s a weight pressing on him. “Nothing’s ever static.”
“Why not?”
“Something always throws the balance off. If you look close enough. The earth, the universe—a force is always changing.”
I try to read him as he stands there, staring down at me with his fixed gaze and tense jaw. But he’s wrapped up in physics terms I don’t fully understand and as confounding as ever.
He turns, and I grab his sweater, panic fluttering. I can’t let him leave. “Why wouldn’t it work?”
“Your phone is vibrating.” He steps away so I have to let go. “A small movement changing the balance.”
I grab it out of my pocket. I’d felt it go off, but it’s the last thing I care about right now. Mom. My mom never calls. I hit ignore, but by the time I look up, Kepler’s disappearing into the aisles of the stacks.
I start after him, but my feet stumble in snow boots. The phone vibrates again.
Mom. Something’s wrong.
“Jean?” Her voice is so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “It’s gone.”
I swallow back stupid Kepler-tears. “What are you talking about, Mom? What’s gone?”
“All of it.” She’s yelling. Her words overlap between heavy breaths. “My temp money. My unemployment. The money Sloane lent me. It’s all gone.”
I try to focus on what she’s saying. “Greg stole it?”
A pause on the line. Her breath rasps.
“Maybe he’ll come back,” she says.
“He won’t.” She should know this by now. Guys always leave. I stare at the space that used to contain Kepler and take a breath. Leaving’s coded into their DNA. Greg left with every drop of money she has, and he’s not coming back.
“Jesus, what am I going to do?” Her voice hitches. She’s close to tears.
“Why are you calling me? Sloane’s the one who can do something about this.”
“You can’t tell Sloane. She’d arrest him.”
“That’s what he deserves.”
“He’s not always like that. Besides I…” She fumbles a few sentence starts. I get it—she let him take her money before, so she feels like she’s responsible now.
“Mom,” I snap to get her to stop babbling. “Where is he?”
“He’s leaving. He’s got a route in Illinois.”
I shrug on my coat. “I’ll talk to him before he goes.”
“That isn’t why I called. I just wanted to talk to someone about it.”
I don’t believe her. She lives on a thread, shifting around payments so she can slip by for a month. Something like this would topple her over. The house is the last thing we have of my father. What if he came back and it was gone?
No. He’s not coming back either.
“Just let me handle this.” I hang up on her before she can protest.
I’m bundled into my coat and out the door before I have any idea what I’m doing. I don’t know where Greg lives. How can I find him?
Sloane. I pray that even though we haven’t talked in a month, this will be the time she picks up. Instead, I get her voice mail.
“I need you to call me. It’s about Mom.” I hang up and tap my fingers against the steering wheel as I leave campus.
What else do I know about Greg?
Not much. I’d avoided learning anything about him.
Wait—The Cork. My mom’s bar. She met Greg there. It’s eleven in the morning, but the place has a few drunkards in it at any time of day.
It’s not a far drive from campus. I park out front and run up the steps under the old sign that was once painted blue. Beer logos hang in the window. I pull on the door handle and thank God the place is open.
A wooden floor and a bar—not much else besides a musty smell that’s likely enjoyed by some resident mice. I’ve been here once or twice to pick up my mom, but never long enough to enjoy the antlers-on-the-wall ambiance.
A lanky bartender leans over the counter. “You old enough to be in here?”
“Probably not.” I flash him a nervous grin. “I’m looking for someone.”
A guy sitting at the bar swivels towards me. His legs fall open in a way I hope isn’t burned into my memory. I guess “looking for someone” wasn’t a good way to phrase it.
The bartender raises his eyebrows like he might help me. “Do you know where Greg lives? He comes in with my mom. Lilah.”
This gets nods of recognition. And another creepy leg movement that would never attract a female. I wonder if my mom’s slept with him. I cover my mouth to hide my gag.
The bartender shakes his head. “Know Greg. Don’t know where he is.”
I flip my attention to Leg-Movement Guy and offer a smile. “Please.” Ugh. It takes all my effort not to add a fucking tell me on the end. My skin crawls.
I wish Kepler were behind me with hands on my shoulders. That he’d be here to help me get through this.
But he’s not. It’s just me. A fucking titan. I steal myself. “Tell me where he lives.”
“Off Route 64.” He rests thin arms on the bar. “Behind that paper mill. You know the one over by Greenwood? But stay for a moment, I’ll buy you a drink.”
I race to my car. The paper mill is on the way out of town.
I drive with more speed than I should. My fingers clench white around the steering wheel, but the snow-packed streets make it a twenty-minute drive out to the factory. I round the old, gray buildings. Greg’s truck sits along a row of brown houses. I drive past.
Big swaths of white exhaust roll out of the truck.
I park three houses down, pull out my phone, and shoot a call me text to Sloane. I follow it up with right fucking now.
I stare in my side mirror at Greg’s truck. I want to get out of the car and cross the street and walk right up to Greg and demand my mom’s money. But I take those calming breaths and try to think. My goal should be to run away from danger instead of towards it.
I need help. I fumble with my phone. I call Kepler.
He answers on the first ring. “I’ve been sitting here staring at my phone and thinking that I should call you.”
“I need…” I stop, not sure of the words that follow.
“Jean?”
Hearing my name makes my chest crush. Having him so close—his low voice in my ear—but knowing he doesn’t want to try again. I swallow down the tears.
“What’s going on?” he demands. I’ve only said two words, but he must be able to hear the panic in my voice.
“Greg stole cash from my mom.” In my side mirror, Greg hurries out of a house balancing a sta
ck of clothing. He steps into the truck. Fuck, he’s leaving.
“Where are you?” Movement on the other end of the line. Talking. A door slamming. Kepler’s coming. He won’t get here fast enough. The seconds keep ticking.
There’s no time. “He can’t do this to my mom. They’re always doing shit like this to her.” Always doing stuff like this to us. I’m tired of them taking things from us.
“Stay where you are. Or better yet, drive away.”
Greg jumps down from the truck and disappears into the house. My heart hammers louder than Kepler’s reasoning.
“I won’t go inside.” I open my door and step into the snow. “I’ll stop him on the front walk. I’ll stall him. Sloane will come.”
“No, Jean. Don’t fucking move. Where—”
I slide my phone into my coat pocket. The thick fabric muffles Kepler’s voice. I clutch my keys and leave the car unlocked. My boots press deep footprints on the unplowed street as I step over ruts and inch my way across the ice. For the two-house walk, Kepler speaks fast, indecipherable words in my pocket. I stop on the front walk between the truck and the house. I breathe. And I wait.
Twenty-Nine
Greg stops halfway down the walk. Plastic bags stashed with food weigh his hands. His face is red with cold, but his eyes are alert.
“Where’s my mom’s money?” I demand.
A small smile drifts to his lips. He walks past me and throws the bags into an open truck door that leads directly into the sleeping compartment. “Ain’t your mom’s. She gave it to me.”
“Not necessary to lie, Greg.”
Behind him, the grocery bags sit on gray utility carpeting. A red-and-white cooler and microwave take up most of the tight compartment. Other than the little bed. A chill crawls down my shoulders—colder than ice and snow.
I count the seconds. Kepler’s voice isn’t in my pocket anymore. I’m not sure if he’s hung up or if he’s listening.
I give Greg my easiest smile and pretend like I’m not shivering to my core. “Don’t make me call Sloane to deal with this.”
Greg’s empty hands brush against his jeans. “You’re always making fun of me. Smiling at me like I’m some kind of joke.”
I erase my smile. “Just give me the money. You won’t have to see me again.”
He shuffles forward, leaving a track of snow. “What if we came to an agreement?”
My stomach rolls. There’s a fat envelope—like the one my mom gets from the bank—sitting on the microwave. Two steps up into the truck. Three steps across the utility carpeting. My mom’s ability to keep the heat on is five steps away.
“I’ll make an arrangement with you.” I stand up as tall as my five feet will allow. “Hand me that fucking envelope, and I tell Sloane not to arrest your ass.”
Greg shakes his head. “Not what I was thinking. How about you stop being a little bitch, and I’ll think about giving you some of the money. All you gotta do is apologize.”
I stare at him. Greg surprises me—he’s smarter than he lets on, but he’s not an Einstein. Or a Kepler.
“I’m sorry.” I swallow. “I’ll never be a little bitch again.”
Greg’s smile falls. He shifts his weight. “Stop making fun of me.”
“I’m not—I swear.” The fat envelope is five steps away.
No. Delaying is working. Sloane will come. Kepler will come.
Greg licks his lips. “Go on and take it.” He steps to the side.
I stare at the envelope. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere near Greg.
Only two steps into the cab.
Greg slides a foot towards me. I step into the deeper snow off the path. He grins and walks past me—passing an arm’s length away—and heads into the house.
My chance. When he disappears into the house, I cross the distance to the truck and jump onto the top step. My right foot slips from snow caked on the bottom of my boot. My fingers brush the envelope and knock it off the microwave. Twenties scatter.
Fuck. I scoop them together as fast as my freezing fingers will work.
A hand latches onto my ankle and yanks me off balance, pulling me down. My forehead slams onto the edge of the cooler. My knees hit the utility carpeting. One of my boots is pulled off. I kick with my other foot and twist around.
Greg fills up the door. I squirm backward, but my head knocks into something.
He grabs at my other foot. His fingers wrap around my boot. My sock comes off with it. He tosses it over his shoulder into the snow. The whites of his eyes gleam.
I see the movement just before I feel a hit. A warm numbness spreads across my face. My mouth falls open, and I close it, but another hit comes. Colors swim. I try to hang on to what’s happening. Blue carpeting covers the ceiling of the cab.
A thousand alarms going off in my mind.
But something else is there too. Relief this moment is finally here.
I don’t make sense, even to myself. I’m trapped. This will get worse before it gets better. But it’s like something has clicked into place.
This is the guy who’s going to push me far enough. He’s going to hurt me. And I… I deserve it.
The thought hits me with as much force as Greg’s third hit. I lick blood off my lips. Just like in my falling dream.
The things I’ve done. The people I’ve hurt. This is the payback.
He tears at my coat. He has a thousand hands, and I bat at them. My zipper is yanked down. Freezing air crawls under my scarf and up my t-shirt.
I flail at him, but my fingers are tiny against his wrists.
You deserve this.
“No.” I won’t let myself deserve this. Like Sloane didn’t deserve what happened to her. No one deserves to be hurt.
My t-shirt tears. Cold hands yank at my jeans.
His eyes light with something I’ve never seen. He’s—aware. This isn’t some rush of feeling. He’s focused on what he’s doing.
He’s done this before.
I open my mouth, and I scream. At the top of my lungs, using every bit of air I have left. I scream and scream. He doesn’t do what I want and use a hand to cover my mouth. One hand on my mouth would be one less on my body, and I might be able to slip out from underneath him. Instead he slams an elbow into my throat, and his other hand pulls at my jeans.
I fight for breath. His hands tear at my clothes, but it’s the pressure on my throat that becomes my focus. I gasp and fight against his elbow, but I can’t get enough of a grip on his arm.
I don’t deserve this.
I don’t want this.
All those moments in darkened hallways. The need for someone to finally push me. I don’t want that. I don’t know if I never really did or if I’m finally mending.
Whiteness eats away at my vision. Kepler. The name comes to my lips, but it’s silent without breath. I flail against hands I can’t see. Pushing and shoving. Doing anything I can to get him away from me.
His elbow releases enough to let me take one breath. It fills my lungs and lets my vocal cords expand. But this is not a time for steady therapy breaths. This is a time to be the girl I’ve always been.
“Fuck off.” The words are a battle cry.
I grab the cooler. It’s too heavy to pull it over my head, so I shove it down and squirm around it. It’s tight in the cab, but Greg is a giant trying to fit inside of a shoebox. I’ve got more room to move.
He grabs for my jeans, but I jerk my legs up. His fingers try to latch onto my knees and pull them down. All those miles on my running shoes. Mile after mile of pushing myself. It’s made my legs into steel. I slam my feet into his chest.
He groans out a whoosh of air. I pull my feet up and slam them forward again. My right foot hits his neck.
He gasps and clutches his throat. I ram my feet into his stomach. He’s gone. Tumbled out the cab door into the snow.
I scramble up, but he’s already back in the door. His fist slams into my jaw, and the world spins. I fall.
Equilibrium. I need to find my balance again. I pull up my feet. This time, I won’t stop with a few hits.
A flash of brown fur. Why is there fur?
A sound reverberates through my head. Too loud and painful to understand. I flinch away from it.
Greg’s gone.
Escape. Whatever happened, he’s not here. I need to get out. I suck in a huge breath—too much because I cough it out. But my body takes in another too-big breath and holds it down. I’m breathing.
A hand touches my ankle. God, no. I kick at a face.
Not Greg’s.
Dark hair pulled back.
Sloane. Clenched teeth and anger that scares me. She points a gun at something on the ground. “Do what I say or I’ll shoot you again, asshole.”
My beautiful, mighty sister. The gun is steady in her hand. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cower.
A siren wails. Sloane’s still talking, saying something in low tones into her radio.
More voices and people.
I wrap my coat around me. I struggle up, but I fall to my knees. Someone else is over me in the little cab, and I flinch away. I have to get away from him.
“It’s okay,” a male voice says. “I’m here to help you. Can you breathe?”
I push away his hands. Then Sloane is next to me—smelling like Doritos and soap and my sister. I latch on to her. Her cheek presses against my forehead.
“Let them help you,” she says in the coppy tone that usually pisses me off. But now I listen to her command as she lets me go. I stare up at the guy who’d been speaking at me.
“Can you talk?” Puffy blue jacket covering a blue uniform. EMT.
Brown fur. Kima nuzzles into my hand. Warm breath. I pat her head, and she licks my fingers. Her tail beats against the cab door.
I’m still in the cab with the red-and-white cooler next to me. I can’t—I can’t—
“Outside.” I want out of this coffin.
The EMT guy backs out the door. I pull down my shirt and zip my coat closed. There’s a stack of money next to my hand. I shove it into my coat pocket along with the half-full envelope. I look up to find only one person watching me.