Found in Silence

by Lisa Sorbe

The rush of Emilia’s voice is suddenly more than I can take. I interrupt her mid-sentence, my voice cutting over hers like a knife. “I have to go now, okay? Tell Grandma goodbye for me.”

  I push my thumb against the screen and, with one swipe, my daughter is gone.

  Better to be a cold bitch than a naïve fool.

  It all started when I was pregnant.

  Or maybe it started before then, but I was just too naïve to see it.

  When I showed the pregnancy test to Julian – the little plus sign bright and bold in my trembling hand – I thought things would change. That what we had before we got married would be re-ignited, the bond between us growing stronger as the little human who shared our very DNA grew stronger in me. I watched him warily as he took the test and considered it, noted the way his ebony beard was subtly becoming more and more streaked with white as the days passed, and foolishly thought he was mature enough to handle the news. But he just shifted his attention from the stick to me, his dark eyes cold and unfeeling, before flinging the test against the brick wall of our loft.

  “What the fuck, Jen?”

  He was angry. So angry. All the passion he poured into his art – the sculptures he chiseled with such ferocious intensity that just watching him work made me wet – was now directed at me. But unlike his statues, I was made of flesh and bone. Not marble and steel.

  I would bleed.

  I cringed as he reached for me, the storm raging in his eyes fierce enough to douse the hope in mine. He was shirtless, having just come up from his studio in the basement of the Chicago warehouse we’d bought and turned into our home four years ago, and his broad chest was still glazed with sweat. He never liked to wear a shirt when he worked, something that also used to make me hot. But that night, it just made him seem… Monstrous. Feral. A wild beast going in for the kill.

  His fingers squeezed, biting into my shoulders as he backed me up, my stockinged feet tripping over each other as he pushed me across the floor and slammed me once, twice against the wall. My head made contact with the second shove, and lights bloomed like fireworks behind my closed lids.

  “I said, What. The. Fuck?”

  Julian was tall. About six-foot two to be exact, and the fact that I was on the shorter side made him seem even larger. His body was hard from years of lifting heavy marble and stone, not to mention the weights in the makeshift gym he set up in the spare bedroom years ago. Just one of his biceps was almost as big as my head. And sometimes that made me feel safe, like when we walked down the city streets after a long night out with friends, buzzed and skirting the riffraff that forever lined the corners and were always looking for trouble. And then there was the erotic way he dwarfed me in bed, his body devouring mine as he pushed into me over and over, making me his. Fuck. I loved that feeling, too.

  Other times, though, the sheer size of him scared me.

  He was an artist. He was fury and anger and love and tenderness in the flesh. And while I’d always chalked up his mood swings and temperament to that fact, it wasn’t until just then – when he had me up against the wall, spittle flying from his mouth – that I finally realized something inside of him might be broken.

  That was the night when the wool that had been over my eyes since I was seventeen and one of his vulnerable students began to lift.

  Nine years into our relationship and three years into our marriage, and that was his response when I told him I was pregnant.

  I’m driving faster than I should through the shitty part of Cedar Hills when I hear a gun shot.

  My first thought isn’t to duck and cover. Save my neck, worry about a bullet to the head or chest. The fact that, if a bullet does hit me, Emilia may have to grow up not only without a father, but also without a mother.

  No. As usual, it relates to time.

  I’m running late, and now I have to deal with this.

  It’s only when my SUV starts to wobble, the steering wheel practically pulling from my grasp as it spins wildly to the left, that my heart rate kicks up a notch. But only a notch. Because as I struggle with the wheel and my Range Rover careens into oncoming traffic, I’m calm. The whole experience happens slowly, like time is thick and syrupy instead of fluid, and what should be lasting only seconds suddenly takes minutes to unfold.

  I miss a beat-up truck by inches, the driver blaring his horn as I skid past his front bumper and onto the shoulder of the road. The tail end of the Rover swerves as it jumps the curb and teeters across the sidewalk, bouncing me around in my seat like a rag doll. The fact that I’ve maintained my composure is probably the only reason I’m not smashing the brake pedal into the floor and causing further chaos. Remembering my father’s advice about not slamming on the brakes when skidding on ice, I try the same tactic and lift my foot from the accelerator while re-gaining control of the steering. When I finally give pressure to the brake pedal, the SUV is already rolling to a bumpy stop.

  The radio is still thumping through the speakers, a poppy backdrop to the roller coaster ride I just survived. I abhor silence, but now the music seems almost too loud, needling into my ears as my senses finally start catching up with the circumstances. I shift into park, jab my finger into the radio dial, and take in my surroundings. I’m in the half empty lot of a small Asian Supermarket, my Rover taking up two spaces and parked perpendicular to the other two vehicles in the lot.

  The sudden silence is louder than the music, and it pushes the needles in deeper. A swift feeling of irritation sweeps through me, like I have a million tiny bugs dancing just beneath my skin, and I roll my head and shoulders to dislodge the jittering sensation.

  When I open my door, I’m immediately blasted with hot, sticky air and the acrid scent of burnt rubber. Any thoughts of gunshots subside when I step out and take a look at my driver’s side tire. The front wheel is in sad shape – ragged and deflated, the rubber flat-as-a-pancake where the chrome rim meets the concrete.

  “Great,” I mutter. If I wasn’t wearing new suede sandals, I’d kick it. Hell, maybe I will kick it, anyway. I pull my phone from the pocket of my shorts and note it’s already three-twenty – well after the time I was supposed to deliver the damn pies. I prop my hands on my hips and glare at the tire, as if through sheer focus alone the thing will knit itself back together, fill with air, prop itself on the rim, and I can be on my way again.

  The sun is unrelenting, as unrelenting as my mother will be if I don’t get these deserts where they’re supposed to be in ten minutes. Which will still make them thirty full minutes late. A trickle of sweat oozes down my temple – partly because of the heat, mostly due to the pressure. It feels like a spider skittering across my skin, and I swipe it away with more force than necessary. I absently pinch the front of my peasant blouse, fluttering the thin material in an effort to cool down.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit…

  A flicker of light to my left catches my eye, a burst of sun bouncing off a passing car and reflecting in the plate glass window of a nearby shop. I squint through my sunglasses, taking in the establishment’s sign and praise whoever the hell is watching out for me because I think I just might be saved. Tucking my phone back in my pocket, I reach into the Rover, pull out my purse, grab my keys, and high tail it through the parking lot and across the street to what I’m hoping to God will be my salvation.

  Wright Auto Repair isn’t a church, but as I push through the door and step into the lobby of the two-story brick warehouse I’m ready to bow to whoever can fix my tire and get me on the road again. Preferably now.

  The first thing I notice is the smell; the entire place reeks of gasoline, rubber and, somehow, burnt Cheetos. I wrinkle my nose in disgust as I make my way across the small space, the stacked heels of my sandals practically sticking to the grimy floor and giving a soft tug of resistance with each step I take.

  The second is the mullet rock blaring from the open door behind the counter leading back to the garage.

  I snort, listening as the singer compares the crotch of his ladylo
ve to cherry pie.

  Classy.

  But really… What more could I expect in a place like this?

  There’s no one at the counter, which runs the length of the room and is littered with car magazines, a few pop cans, and a hulking computer monitor that’s big and boxy and yellowed with age. And aside from some cheap plastic patio chairs and a side table piled with more grungy magazines, the lobby is bare, too.

  The empty counter, the empty lobby, with no one here to help me.

  For fuck sake.

  I pinch the corner of a magazine between my fingertips and lift it slightly to see if maybe there’s a bell, something, anything on the counter that I can use to get the attention of whoever works here but… Nothing.

  The music stops and, with a sigh of relief, I train my attention to the door. Finally. Finally some service. Standing up straight, I hoist my purse higher onto my shoulder, lift my chin, and… Wait some more.

  Who the hell runs this place?

  A new song clicks on, an old one by Guns N’Roses, the electric guitar riff building to a crescendo before Axl’s whiny voice starts in and welcomes everyone to the jungle.

  Only this time, he’s not singing alone.

  Whoever is crooning along with the song has a godawful, horrible voice. The warbling, high falsetto grates against my nerves. “… sha na na na na knees, knees… Oooh!”

  You have got to be kidding me.

  Obviously, standing around here is getting me nowhere. Time is ticking, along with my patience, both spiraling faster and faster toward a detonation of catastrophic proportions. Taking matters into my own hands, I push through the little swinging gate that splits the counter from the rest of the room, ignore the Employees Only sign, and stomp through the door, ready to give whatever dumbass is working back here a piece of my mind.

  The garage is fairly large, with one rusty-looking blue lift holding up one of those vehicles that looks like an SUV that’s been squashed down to the size of a car. The smell of gasoline is more pungent out here, along with something that reeks, weirdly enough, like melted gummy bears.

  Wright Auto Repair apparently has no employees, because the back of the business appears to be just as empty as the front, the only sign of life coming from the old boom box on the work table to my right. The music is still screaming; I can feel the pulse of the bass sliding through my veins, throbbing in my temples. The tempo clashes against the metrical beat of my heart, and I’m suddenly more aware of its hammering presence as it thumps, thumps, thumps against my sternum. All of that combined tweaks my irritation even more, fanning the fumes of impatience that always seem to flutter just under my skin, waiting to erupt.

  I’m about to holler out a snarky hello when my ankle wobbles and my foot slides out from under me. The weightless feeling of being airborne throws my heart up into my throat, stifling my greeting and turning it into a pathetic, girly squeak. My arms flail, flinging my purse from my shoulder and sending it sailing. Gravity wins, as it usually does, and instinct takes over – my eyes squeeze shut, my body goes limp – as I prepare for impact. But before I can land sprawled eagle on the slick concrete floor – which would, obviously, be humiliating enough – I smack into something more embarrassing. A person.

  Long limbs wrap around me, snug under my arms and squeezing tight around my upper torso. The whole situation is awkward, and the pigeon-toed dance my feet are doing in a desperate attempt to keep me upright almost takes the stranger down with me.

  “Whoa, sweetheart. I got you.”

  It’s a man, and I can feel the laughing timbre of his voice rumble against my back as I struggle against his chest. When my feet finally find their footing – stupid heels! – I arch away from his embrace as fast as I crashed into it. When I glance down, I see a puddle of black goo laced with a rainbow-like sheen. The murky liquid is muddled with the skid mark from my sandal.

  “You need to watch your step out here. Especially if you’re gonna walk around in shoes like those.”

  Again, that laughing voice. The annoying, nerdy kind that reeks of quick-witted humor.

  “Well,” I say, straightening my top and turning around, “maybe you should think about actually cleaning every once in a while. This place is filthier than a junkyard.”

  The man startles a bit when I turn to face him, which doesn’t surprise me as I’ve been known to stun a few men into silence upon first glance. Then again, maybe it’s just me, because the ground seems to tilt a bit when we lock eyes. I can still feel the heat of his chest against my back, a scorching presence that burns between my shoulder blades. And suddenly my knees grow weak as as the floor wobbles beneath me.

  But before I can land on my ass, I’m in his arms. Again.

  “That’s twice now in, what, a minute? I’m thinking that smart mouth of yours owes me a thank you.”

  His face is hovering just over mine, so close I can see a sprinkle of freckles dotting his tanned nose, note the subtle streaks of auburn in his chestnut hair. There’s a smudge of grease over one brow and his wavy locks have been slicked back off his forehead in an unruly, rumpled mess. Bright eyes flicker with a spirited sort of mischief that reflects in the curve of his lips, the lift of his brows. His smile is more mocking than sweet and, as he stares down at me, I can’t help but feel like I’m being chastised.

  Which thoroughly pisses me off.

  “Why would I thank you?” I purr, gazing up at him sweetly. “It’s because of your shitty cleaning skills that I’m in this mess.”

  The man just blinks and continues to grin. He studies me for a bit, his eyes roaming my face, my lips, trailing over the curve of my jaw. His gaze is hot, bringing a blush to my cheeks that I fight back with a scowl. He cocks his head, furrows his brow. “Well, aren’t you a peach?”

  And then, in one fell swoop, he flings me up and nudges me away from him.

  As I stagger to me feet, I realize the reason for my second fall – a broken heel. I teeter on one leg as I bend my other, twisting my knee and kicking my foot up and out. Looking back over my shoulder, I study my ruined footwear and fume.

  Damn it. Could this day possibly get any worse? It’s like I’m on some cheesy eighties sitcom. Que the laugh-track…

  He points at my dangling heel. “Now that is not my fault.”

  I rip the heel off, drop my foot, and cross my arms over my chest. Arching a brow, I shoot him my best bitch glare.

  Which only seems to amuse him more.

  His blue coveralls are grimy and spotted with grease. I can only imagine how those oily smears transferred to my white shirt, what with his arms – shudder – wrapped around me like they were. First my new sandals, now possibly my shirt? I’m going to have to burn this whole flippin’ outfit when I get home. The thought annoys me further, and I squint, reading the white lettering sewn above his right pocket. “Miles, is it?”

  He nods. Crosses his arms, mimicking my posture and staring at me right back.

  “As much as I loathe giving this pathetic little establishment my business, I have no choice.” I lift my chin – it always makes me feel taller, considering my petite stature – and let my gaze drift around the garage, pursing my lips for emphasis. “But I have no choice. I need you to fix my tire. And since time is of the essence, I need it done now.”

  Miles just stands there. Still staring. Arms still crossed. But now his shoulders are shaking. His lips twitch as a laugh rips through him, turning into a howl as he rocks back on his heels. “Ah,” he croons, dropping his arms and clutching his stomach, “You… Are you serious?”

  I frown. “What the hell? Of, course I’m serious. You,” I wave my hand up and down in his direction, “obviously fix cars. And mine needs to be fixed. I fail to see how this is amusing.”

  His laugh trails off, but his grin remains lopsided, the crinkles around his eyes deep. “Well, since you asked so nicely.” He shakes his head, knits his brows together as he studies the ceiling. Rubs his chin. Takes his sweet ass time… “No.”

/>   For a second, I think he’s joking. But when he doesn’t laugh, my stomach sinks. “What?”

  Miles shrugs, his stupid smile still plastered on his stupid face. “You heard me, Princess.” Then he points to a spot on the floor, indicating my purse. “Don’t forget that. And don’t” – he waves his hand, shooing me away – “let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.” He starts humming along to another song, one about a highway to Hell, and turns back to the vehicle on the lift.

  I stand, stunned, watching his back for a breath before huffing my over to my purse. It’s my Marc Jacobs bag – a few seasons old, but still – and I grit my teeth as I brush the dirt away and inspect the buttery leather. This is absolutely, fucking unbelievable.

  And unacceptable.

  I hoist it over my shoulder and teeter-limp as best as I can on my ruined sandal to where he’s positioned under the SUV, arms up and working some tool into the vehicle’s underside. After a few metallic clinks, he drops his arms and black liquid drips down into a plastic pan. Now that I’m firmly planted on my feet and standing this close to him, I realize how tall he is. At my five-foot-two and standing flat-footed, I come up just under his shoulders. Which – while not exactly muscular – are broad.

  I clear my throat and reach up, tapping one. “Excuse me.”

  His shoulders sag, and he sighs heavily before turning around. He doesn’t answer me, just lifts his brows, the rest of his face stone.

  “I’d like to speak to your boss.” I try to sound as haughty as I can. Which, I have to admit, is a bit hard under his blank stare. I’m not used to meeting resistance from people and, as much as I hate to admit it, I’m actually a bit flustered.

  Maybe it’s my desperation. The fact that I can sense the lazy days of living at my parents’ place are dwindling to a close and, in a frantic attempt to hold on to that security, delivering those damn pies are the only way I can ensure my lifestyle for another day.

  Most would find living in your parents’ guest house at thirty-two demeaning. Or, at the very least, unappealing. But I have my reasons.