by H. Maloney
I nod unnecessarily at his statement.
He considers me silently for a minute longer. “So, were you always called Meg or Margaret?”
“I went by Maggie. I thought Meg would be close enough; plus, it’s a common-enough nickname for Margaret. I got to keep a little of myself, you know? My sister calls me Maggs. She never did like to call me what everyone else did. She’d say she wanted to be able to call out to me in a crowd and have me know exactly who it was.” I shrug, “She’s weird.”
He brushes loose strands that escaped my ponytail from my face. “You obviously miss her. Do you ever get to see her or talk to her?”
“I only see her maybe once a year, and even that’s difficult,” I say sadly. “He isn’t interested in messing with Lily, thank God.” I don’t know why, but I’m grateful. When I first left, I was worried he might do something to her in retribution, but she refused to come with me. She wanted to take advantage of her scholarships and finish school, somehow convinced Ben wasn’t concerned with her. As weeks progressed and her check-ins came regularly with nothing to report, I stopped worrying so much. I was gone maybe three months when it became apparent as to why Ben had left her alone. “He does have someone keeping an eye on her though. Going through her e-mails and tracking her phone records.”
“Why didn’t you just go to the police? How did you even know?” he asks with curiosity.
I look at him incredulously. “You do know New Orleans is consistently one of the top ten most corrupt cities in America, right?” Declan shakes his head. “Politicians, the sheriff’s office, the whole gamut are hard to trust, especially when Ben’s family is so engrained in the local politics because of their money.” Nope, the local law was not an option.
Considering that matter closed, I move on to his other question. “We didn’t know at first, but like I said, Lily’s smart. Every once in a while, there would be an e-mail marked ‘read’ that she hadn’t opened. The person must have forgotten to put it back in the right folder after looking.
“She calls me from a prepaid phone and only sparingly. We don’t know how close he’s watching her, so she’s very conscientious when it comes to me.”
Lying on my back to gaze unfocused at the ceiling, I add, “You know, I want to kill that guy, for no reason other than he’s made me dread talking to my sister.” I turn my head back to him. “She always keeps me apprised if anything new has happened or if he’s been quiet. And I dread it. I can’t just look forward to talking to my baby sister like I used to. Now it’s always weighted by an update about him, for better or worse. I want to kill him just for that.”
I look Declan in the eye, wanting him to know I’m serious. What I get melts my heart. He cups my jaw with one hand and says, “I’ll show you how.”
CHAPTER 16
MEG
True to his word, we spend the next week and a half working on my fighting technique. The night of my tell-all marked a changing point for us that I’m not sure was for the better. He moved up our meeting times to around noon, and I don’t know if it was purposely so we wouldn’t be alone or I’m just overthinking it and it was more convenient; but when combined with the fact that he doesn’t joke around with me anymore, it doesn’t bode well for me.
On Thursday afternoon, I’m exhausted. I had an hour of cardio, an hour of class, and an extra hour of training with Declan. I’m drained physically from the workouts and emotionally from him. He’s constantly irritated, solemn, or both, and it’s getting annoying.
“Come on, Meg, focus,” he reprimands my latest attempt.
I grumble under my breath, “I’ll focus my knee on your balls.” Okay, I might be sexually frustrated too, but the bastard’s got his shirt off.
I mop my sweaty brow with the hem of my tank. Yes, again. Don’t judge me; it worked the first time.
He may as well be made from stone though, because he just stands there with his legs shoulder-width apart and arms crossed. Is that a pissed-off look on his face? Oh, hell no! He’s the one with the attitude, not me! That’s it. Time to quit while I’m ahead… or at least far enough ahead to control my instinct to beat him upside the head.
I look at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got to get going. I need to be at work in an hour or so.” It’s as good an excuse as any.
He nods once and drops his arms to his side. “All right. Same time tomorrow.”
I return his nod, scoop up my shit, and get out of there.
***
The next day, I’m stretching on one of the mats waiting for Declan when he suddenly appears behind me.
“When you’re done, meet me outside with your bag.” He isn’t quite as abrupt as yesterday. He’s back to being just solemn, and I’m not sure if that’s an improvement or not.
I finish loosening up from my earlier run and grab my stuff to follow him outside. He leads me over to my car—my twelve-year-old grey Corolla with the rusting roof that I have affectionately named Bob. I stop beside him, cross my arms, and turn my head to look up at him impatiently, aggravated by his mere presence at this point.
Completely unaffected, he returns the look from his height. “You’re going to learn to change a tire.”
My arms drop limply at my sides.
That. Asshole. I was just working into a good snit and he has to go and be thoughtful again. Now I have to be nice. Dammit. This is bullshit!
“Pop your trunk. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
I dig through my bag for my keys to do as he says. When I’ve got it open, he surveys the contents of my trunk and looks satisfied. “Good. You’ve got everything you need, so you just need the practical.” He proceeds to pull out the tire iron and jack and inspects my spare. “Your spare needs some air, but we’ll just practice taking your own tire on and off.”
Closing the trunk, he hands me the tire iron. “You’re going to want to loosen the nuts before you get if off the ground. The weight of the car will give you better resistance and make it easier. If you wait until after you lift it, you’ll cause the whole tire to turn with the stud. Counterproductive.” He continues to explain basic principles—something about stripping the nuts. I’m not sure. I only half hear, too lost in my own thoughts. He’s helping me to take care of myself. He has faith in my ability to take care of myself. Even Lily questions my ability. Declan’s complete faith in me lets me feel normal for the first time in quite a while.
When he starts talking about placement of the jack, I snap out of it and start paying attention again. This part is always the trickiest, isn’t it? I’m afraid I’ll do something like in the episode of I Love Lucy when Lucy and Ethel hitch a ride to Florida. When they’re delayed by a flat tire and have to change it, they put the jack in the wrong place and end ups sending the fuel pump through the hood of the car. Yeah, no thanks.
Forty minutes later, I’ve successfully taken off my tire and put it back on. There was no small amount of struggling either. I never realized tires were so heavy! I return the tools to their storage in my trunk and step back to survey my work.
Stupidly, knowing what I just accomplished, my eyes start to tear up and I strive to blink them back before he notices them.
I fail and decide to go out in a blaze of glory. I wrap my arms tight around his waist and bury my head in his chest, letting my tears soak his shirt. He stands stiff and frozen in my embrace for a few minutes before he relaxes enough to rub his hand up and down my back. He’s trying to soothe me, and it only makes me cry harder. When my sobs subside, I feel his chest begin to shake. I look up at him to see why he’s having a seizure, but he’s not—he’s laughing. When he looks down to meet my gaze and I hiccup, he can’t hold it in anymore; his laughter floods out loud and steady, his arms wrapping tightly around me. My heart thumps painfully, partly because he’s holding me so tightly and partly because of his laugh. That sound is better than any music to me, causing all my nerve endings to tingle in pleasure. Soon, it’s contagious and I start laughing too. I have no idea wha
t’s so funny, but I can’t not laugh….
When the giggles finally evaporate, I look up into his face to see the happiness shining through his eyes. I’m not disappointed. He leaves one arm anchored around my waist and sweeps the other up to tangle in my hair. I don’t know who or if both of us moved at the same time, but the next instant his lips are crushed against mine, my body tight enough against his to form a seal. I anchor my hands at his back as his mouth feasts hungrily on mine. I can feel the beat of his heart, growingly increasingly rabid. I feel my back press into something hard—my car, maybe? I don’t even remember moving backwards.
He breaks away from me and continues to move down my jaw until he’s placing an open-mouthed kiss against the pulse straining at my neck. It doesn’t really help me to catch my breath, but I appreciate the effort.
When he finally pulls back enough to look into my eyes, I can feel the rumble in my heart, like a volcano as it prepares to and finally explodes. His eyes read of contented happiness. For. Me. I made him feel that way. He makes me feel like I’m the grand prize.
Unable to stop myself, I blurt, “I love you.”
His eyes flare wide with shock, and in that minute lapse of time I still don’t regret it.
No, as far as I’m concerned surprise is not an indicator of rejection. Then he pulls away from me. That’s still not rejection.
He doesn’t just stop at a foot of space between us though. He doesn’t stop until there’s easily three feet, maybe more, between us. Shoving his hands into his hair, he stares at the ground, the muscle in his jaw ticking. He looks stressed out, like he just got the news the stock market crashed. No, it’s not best-case scenario, but maybe he needs space to absorb and accept?
It’s too hard of a sell and my heart absorbs the impact. I hear the tiny telltale crack coming from somewhere in my chest as I calmly try to breathe through it. He could just be letting it sink in, right? That’s still not rejection.
“You can’t love me,” he states after a few minutes. I stay silent, so he continues. “You’re just confused by orgasms.” I merely tilt my head in response. Is he trying to convince me or himself? “I probably didn’t help. You latched onto me because I did something nice for you.”
I can’t let that pass without comment, so I finally speak through the lump welling in my throat. I need to disillusion him of my imagined pathetic-ness before he runs with it. “You’re not the first person to be nice to me, Declan. I would have fallen for Wiley long before you if that was all it took to buy my love. You want to make excuses, fine, but try harder.”
He shakes his head roughly, pacing now. “What do you want me to say?”
I don’t know, but that wasn’t it. I shake my head, at a complete loss.
“I didn’t make you any promises for anything other than a good fuck and maybe a laugh. I thought we were just having fun, Meg. Just spending some time together?”
“We were, and I did have fun. Then I started to feel more,” I whisper softly. It’s all I can manage.
He drops his hands from his hair and points his index finger at me angrily. “This is not my fault. I did not fucking lead you on.”
Now that… that was rejection.
I stupidly thought he was legitimately interested in me. All those times he’d come to the bar alone, seemingly just to talk to me. Or all the time he volunteered to spend with me, teaching me. Not to mention how he listened and responded to my drama-laden life. Like he actually cared? I thought they were signs. The beginnings of something great. I don’t even know where I went wrong. Could it really have been only about getting his dick wet? Or having a laugh?
My heart shatters at my feet. No, at his feet. I gave it to him for safekeeping, after all. But he sees my gift like it’s a paper bag filled with dog crap and set on fire, so of course he felt the need to stomp it out.
I take one more long look at his face. I study his expression, still a cross between horror and anger, and I commit it to memory. You’re worth more than this, Meg. Remember this. And never let it happen again.
I feel the subsequent ice water flood through my veins, followed magnificently by numbness. I can’t live with the pain, but the cold makes it bearable, taking some of the sting away. I step forward calmly so he can hear; the effort it would take to speak at normal volume would detract too much from the energy I’m funneling into not falling apart. I ignore his suspicious expression and say softly, “Thank you for all you’ve taught me.”
With that, I get in my car and drive away, with no intention of returning.
CHAPTER 17
MEG
I call into work the next day, since I don’t have the energy to put on a happy face. I haven’t cried yet; there’s no use. I knew this could be an outcome, and I took a risk on Declan anyway. He had only ever experienced lust, when I had experienced something so much more. I won’t be doing that again. Yes, I’ve survived, but I feel brittle enough to crack. Something to look forward to.
I’m sitting on the couch with Gerard Butler in Olympus Has Fallen, because a little death and destruction seemed appropriate. It’s not really holding my attention though. My mind still keeps wandering back to the debacle that is my love life. Could I have done it differently? Should I not have said anything at all? But then again, could I live with myself if I had kept quiet about how I felt? I thought we were going somewhere, headed towards something that would change my life for the better, in a big way. Frustrated with my thoughts, I grip my temples, trying to quiet the doubts plaguing me. There’s no use. You know better than anyone that you can’t change the past; all you can do is accept, endure, and move on. Shaking away my self-interrogation, I get up to refill my wine glass. Nothing like a crisp, cold chardonnay to drown out my inner monologue.
As I’m sitting back down, my phone lights up with a call. “Hey, Lillian.”
“Hiya, toots!” At least one of us is in a good mood. “What are you up to this fine evening?”
I don’t really know where to start. “Drinking wine. Watching Gerard Butler.”
“Sounds perfect! Although, might I suggest some Jason Statham next? Up for some company?” This is followed by a knock on the door. Naturally, my suspicion immediately takes hold. “Lily….”
“Go ahead, answer the door. I’ll wait.”
I walk to the door and look through the peephole. Sure enough, I throw the door open to my blonde-haired carbon copy and she throws herself into me for a hug. I squeeze her tight, probably cutting off oxygen, but whatever. “Lily! I’m so glad you’re here. I missed you so much!” I haven’t seen her in at least a year, and yeah, we talk on the phone, but it’s not nearly as good as having her close to me again.
“Babe. Need. Air.”
A smile—not of the brittle variety—breaks out across my face. “Oh, you’ll be fine. You’re already a little brain damaged, so this can’t hurt you that much more.” We’re both laughing as we break apart.
“How are you here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” She moves her stuff from outside the front door so I can close and lock it. We sit down on the couch and get comfortable.
“The usual method, you know, just in case.” She’s talking about how she ‘snuck’ out here. She’s only done this a couple times before, but she got the idea when her car had to go into the shop for maintenance a year or so after I had left. She had to get a rental car to use in the meantime, and she realized while filling out the paperwork that she could say on record that it was for local use only, but she could still use it out of state. Since that point, she uses the opportunity to see me. Ben, if he were watching, would see her car in the shop and her rental car would be out of state and then back again before he knew what car he was looking for. Quite brilliant, in my opinion. “I wanted to surprise you. The last time we talked, it seemed like you could use some cheering up.”
I drop my head back against the back of the couch and close my eyes. “You have no idea.”
I feel her hand rest on my shoulder.
“Come on. Catch me up.”
I bring my hands up to scrub my face, trying to relieve some of the tension. I spend the next thirty minutes telling what’s happened since we last spoke, not skimping on any of my uncertainties. She’s always given it to me straight. She’ll tell me what she can glean from this scenario, what his running and placing blame means.
Blame. Every time I think of what he said, I can feel my blood start to boil. Like falling in love is failing to have fulfilled a responsibility and you have to assign fault. A responsibility to what? To remain unloved? To not love? Who thinks like that?
When I finish my story, I gulp down my wine, because I really freaking need it. I get up to refill my glass and get one for her. I also need a few seconds to take some deep breaths. I’m angry now, and I need to calm down. The anger won’t do my piece of mind any good. Deep breath in, hold, deep breath out. I do this a couple of times until I can feel some of my muscles start to relax—not completely, but it’s a start.
I walk back to the living room, place the wine on the coffee table in front of us, and wait for Lillian’s take on this turn of events. I sip on my wine as I wait. She’s staring, seemingly unseeing, at the wall across the room. Not at a picture or anything, just the drywall. I focus my eyes on it for a minute just in case it’s giving her some insight that I’ve missed by not staring at it in the past. I rotate my head this way and that, trying to garner wisdom, only succeeding in cramping my neck. Nope, Lillian must be a drywall whisperer. I go back to waiting patiently and silently for her to finish interpreting.
“He’s scared,” she finally says, refocusing on me. “He’s scared of a relationship, of feeling something beyond the surface.”
I’m lost. “I don’t get it. Why would he be scared?”
She shrugs. “I can’t answer that. I can only tell you what impression I get from his reaction. He’s assigning blame, like there will be consequences.” Blame. There’s that word again. Deep breath in, hold, breathe out. “All I can say is this is not your hang up. You need to go on with your life knowing you did what you could and were true to yourself and what you felt. You can’t feel guilty for that.”