by Rachel Hanna
She grins.
"In addition, Kellan is dealing with some stuff."
No. Honesty.
"Kellan is being stalked."
Emmy stares at me. "Guys get stalked? Guys who aren't rock stars? Not that he couldn't be."
"He's got the look, but I don't think he plays an instrument." And before Emmy, the Queen of double entendres, can say anything, "And he can't sing. No, this is somebody about the accident."
"That's horrible!" Her big brown eyes are worried.
I nod, and spill out the rest of the story, about the box that was thrown at the front door, and about how Kellan seems determined to either "protect" me by keeping me at a distance (and pissing me off, I might add) or is really pissed because I tried to help.
Then I tell her who I think it might be and when I get done with the whole story we've walked all the way to Emmy's car in the parking lot, which puts me on the other side of the campus from my art history class and pretty much means I'm not going. So I get in the car when Emmy unlocks it for me and once we're off campus, we decide where to go. There's a movie playing with Chris Hemsworth in it, so really that decision is pretty easy to make.
First thing I don't have to wait and see about.
Chapter 12
It's not until I get home that I think again about what Emmy told me about seeing someone who looks like me. It's one thing too many on the weird scale. Why is everything happening at once?
And again I think: Because you came out of the proverbial closet. Not the gay closet. The guilt closet. I came out and people found me. And Kellan. And had never thought about that. I'd never stopped to think that when I opened up to the world and allowed everyone everywhere to start expressing their sorrow at wronging others and gave the others a chance to say "Oh, its all right, I forgive you," that some of them might not.
No, that part I'd thought of. From the very beginning, when I was afraid David Reynolds wouldn't forgive Kellan. When I thought the video I ended up with might turn out to be nothing but fury and venting or worse, grief and anguish that couldn't ever be assuaged.
What I hadn't gone on to think about was what might be awakened in those who were doing the forgiving. Even if they forgave, did everyone around them do so? One girl had talked about a childhood bully, a girl named Jill who had been menaced by Cindy, a borderline personality. All through high school Cindy worked to get close to Jill until she managed to become her best friend. And as soon as she did, she turned on Jill at graduation, competing with her for scholarships and boyfriends and anything else she could and usually winning, because she was damned good at the game. Maybe Jill was ready to forgive and move on, but if Cindy saw it, what then? Would she recognize herself? Consider it slander? Be ready to move on? Or to start up again?
Another entry in the series was a teacher who had falsified some of his credentials when he started teaching. Since then he'd earned enough degrees to have a string of professional letters after his name, and he was well loved in his department, but what about anyone who disliked him now? Couldn't they go to the Dean of that department and, I don't know, make trouble?
We'd discussed some of these things going in to the series. But not all of them. We hadn't thought through the idea that people who didn't even think they needed to be forgiven might reappear in the interview subject's life, angry and maybe dangerous.
I'd put myself out there and I'd given it plenty of thought. But in one small, not-so-brave move, I'd put myself out there as Willow Blake.
And someone had come back looking for Kate Lambert.
And Kellan, braver than I was, put himself out there as himself. Had I brought his stalker down on him? If I was being stalked, was it from the documentary?
I'm still mulling things over, my head in the fridge like some kind of weird suicide attempt as I forage, when Carmelita comes into the room. Before she knows I'm there, she gives a watery sniff.
I pull myself out of the refrigerator and ask, "What's wrong?" nearly giving her heart failure since she hadn't seen me.
"Willow! I did not know you were home. Nothing is wrong, little girl. Can I fix you something to eat?" She's surreptitiously wiping her eyes and starting to bustle. She wasn't bustling when she came in; she was dragging.
"No," I say, closing the refrigerator and taking her hand. I lead her over to the breakfast bar and tell her to sit. She looks like someone's going to walk into the kitchen and fire her if she does but we've had more than one conversation like this. I think it's just that I'm the one initiating it this time. Or maybe that she thinks she can get out of telling me what's wrong. But I've never seen this sunny woman cry.
"I'm making tea," I tell her, putting the kettle on the stove. One of her pies is on the counter, cooling. "Is this ready? Or is it for dinner?"
"It's for whenever," she says. "It's apple."
"That's my favorite." I don't really have a favorite. I just want something to eat while we talk. Built in distraction.
By the time I've made tea and served the apple pie she's got herself under control but her eyes are still watery red.
"Now, tell me what's going on," I say.
Carmelita looks at her lap. She's always been a member of this family, even more so since Kellan got home, so I'm not going to back down over some version of "it's not my place" if she tries that.
She doesn't. She looks me in the eye and says, "I am just being silly. It's not like he won't come to visit. He can't even leave the city." She wipes her eyes and gives a tiny laugh that she clearly doesn't mean. "He can't even cook."
Confused, I lean forward across the breakfast bar. "Who?"
She looks surprised. "Mr. Kellan."
I shake my head, frustrated. "What about Mister – what about Kellan?"
Now she looks wary, like she's talking out of turn. Or like I might fly off the handle. And I almost do.
"He's moved out today."
* * *
The rest of the story comes out in bits and pieces. Kellan's taken an apartment across town near the VA hospital. Bruce is paying the rent for now, until Kellan can get on his feet, but it looks like he might be able to get a job there, probably some kind of orderly position, or whatever it is that doesn't require a degree right away. Apparently he's been checking into physician assistant careers, and he'll need some experience and time to take courses, the kind of directed study that doesn't require college like English and math courses and the rest.
My head hurts and the apple pie, which moments ago was wonderful, tastes like ashes.
He's moved out. He's gone away without discussing it with me at all. I swallow over a lump in my throat and take Carmelita's hand. I know she's known him longer. He's almost like a son to her.
He was almost like a boyfriend to me.
We say things to each other. He'll come visit. He can't cook, that much is true. He'll have to do laundry. All those comforting things I suspect empty nest parents say.
All the while my heart is pounding wildly and when Carmelita gets up and starts tidying away the mess I made, I don’t even really realize she's doing it or that I'm no longer listening to her or trying to help.
What I'm thinking is if he's protecting me, he's given me no say in being protected and no way to reciprocate. What if we were to face this as something we were in together as opposed to something he has to save me from? Two heads are better than one, after all, and two people can be twice as vigilant.
What gives him the right to try and rescue me anyway? I thought we had decided if he was ruined, so was I, that we were right for each other.
I thought he was trusting me a little. I couldn't have destroyed the trust just by looking at the box he left in the kitchen. Who wouldn't have looked inside? And if that's all we had between us –
We had more. I don't know if he's doing this for me or for himself or for both of us. But he didn't give me any choice in it and that's not fair. Mama Lita didn't know that part. But I know who will know.
I need to talk to
Kellan. But first I need to talk to Bruce.
* * *
"It's open," Bruce calls from his office.
It's after hours by the time I get across town in a taxi to his tree-shaded, lovely office. His secretary has gone home and everyone else in the office is gone. There are photos all over the place of beautiful properties and framed certificates of appreciation from Better Business Bureau and Real Estate organizations and chambers of commerce. Bruce is a highly successful businessman as well as a highly rich one. He can afford to do for his son what he's doing, and maybe I should just be grateful that he's now stepping into his son's life, at least to this extent, though this extent kind of gets Kellan back out from under Bruce's roof.
"Bruce? Got a minute?" Stupid question. Not like I was going to come all the way down here and then go away again if he was busy.
"Willow! So nice of you to come visit."
Yeah, right. I live in your house. This doesn't seem at all odd?
I was in the neighborhood…. After taking a taxi across town.
"Bruce, I need to talk to you about Kellan." I sit down in one of the leather armchairs, which are far more elegant than comfortable. "Did something happen?" Maybe there's been another package, or even contact from Stacee, if it is her. Maybe Bruce knows what's going on.
His face doesn't exactly go cold or shut down, but it isn't what I'd call welcoming either.
"Look, Willow," he says, straightening a bunch of hardcopy files on his desk. "I know you two have had a relationship, and I think it helped Kellan start taking some steps back into life." He doesn't say "Life on the outside," but I hear it. "I wasn't thrilled about the relationship though I've tried to accept it." He stands, running a hand through his mane of hair. "But I think maybe it's time you let it go."
I jump to my feet, pacing on the hardwood floor of his office. "Let it go? Just like that? No explanation, no idea what happened? Why would I do that, Bruce? Would you do it if Mom just got up and left one day?"
He gives me a look like I'm a little girl being unreasonable. "I hardly think your relationship with my son is on par with my relationship with my wife," he says. "You and Kellan were only together a very short time. You're both making adjustments and going through a lot of changes in your lives." He spreads his hands, trying to look reasonable. He's wearing a blue oxford shirt rolled to mid forearm, jeans, though they're expensive, and he looks reasonable enough I'd like to heave a paperweight at him.
"Damn it, Bruce, I'm not playing a game. I'm in love with Kellan."
Great. I'd really planned to tell Kellan's father that before I told Kellan.
It strikes me that I don't even know where he is so that I can tell him. I have to get out of here. As I make my way out the door I hear Bruce calling after me to wait, something about everything is going to be alright, which I don't believe, and then I'm out the door, brushing past people in the business complex, making my way out onto the street, trying to figure out how I'll get home from here.
Trying to figure out what I'm going to do now.
Pulling my phone out of my pocket and texting Emmy.
* * *
"It's like an alcoholic milkshake," Emmy says, pouring us our third glasses.
More like an alcoholic nightmare. I've never been a drinker, not after my father had all those problems that led to everything that happened. Today just seemed like a day to cut loose. After Emmy came and picked me up she took me back to her dorm room, where we're sitting on her unmade bed and she's used a blender on top of her desk to mix up strawberry ice cream with what I think is rum.
I'm probably going to be very sorry about this.
Turns out Emmy could have used that CheckMate website I saw when I was looking up information on marriages and trying to find out who might be stalking Kellan. Because the guy she met turns out to be married, very married, with children and a very angry wife. At least there was no subterfuge once it came out – the wife appeared, didn't stalk, didn't act weird, didn't beat around the bush. She walked into the campus library where Emmy'd just found work and let her have it, shouting until security walked her out. I don't know whether to be impressed by Emmy's response or horrified by it, but apparently she ran after the woman, caught her just outside the library, cried and said she hadn't known and no way would she see the guy again and she, Emmy, was sorry for anything that might have hurt the woman.
Probably confused the wife more than anything else but it was a pretty perfect Emmy reaction.
Now maybe she can fix things for me? Only Em seems as thrown by Kellan's move as I am.
"I called my mom," I say, trying to focus on my phone. "What time is it?"
Emmy doesn't bother with phones or clocks. She just looks out the window and says, "Dark."
Good enough. "She doesn't know where Kellan is either."
Emmy frowns. "Who doesn't?"
"My mom."
"What about your mom?"
Pause. "I don't want any more rum."
She nods. "Good idea. I'll make coffee."
I look around. There's no stove or coffee maker in the dorm room. "With what?"
"Microwave."
"Pass."
"No. You're going to need it."
She's probably right. I need to stop talking about Kellan, since he didn't see fit to talk to me before leaving. My mom doesn't know where he went, though she sounded sincere that she didn't know he was going or where he'd gone. Bruce – OK, Bruce is kind of being a jerk about it and I feel like it's because he's still mad at Kellan. Like us breaking up over this would serve Kellan right.
Fine. But what did I do to Bruce?
No answers. No answers at all until morning, when I wake feeling fine, not at all like I did after the bonfire when I accidentally got drunk and Reed rescued me. According to Emmy we must have been on a sugar high, because there wasn't more than 3 shot glasses of rum in the whole of what we drank.
"So I'm a lightweight?"
"No. You're a sweet girl who was upset."
"So are you," I tell her. We sit for a minute, then sigh simultaneously, shaking off the mood. "So if we're through with the mutual appreciation moment – "
"Yeah."
"What are we going to do?"
Emmy actually looks like she has an answer. She shoves the sleeves of her t-shirt up her arms and runs a hand through her thick brown hair which is wild after a night of tossing and turning when we did finally sleep, me on the floor, her on the bed that pushes halfway into the wall to form a "couch."
"Well, I'm going to get in touch with Mr. Married Man just long enough to tell him what I think and that his wife knows and that if he ever tries anything like that again it will fall off, because I put a curse on it."
We dissolve into giggles. "Think he's that stupid?"
"I hope so."
I nod thoughtfully. "And what am I going to do?"
"You're going to root through Bruce's office when he's off with your mom and find out where Kellan's apartment is, then go demand he talk to you."
She says it so matter of factly, my mouth drops open.
"How am I going to get into Bruce's office?"
She rolls her eyes. "Duh. You live there."
I squint at her. I do have a bit of a headache. "What?"
She waves her hands. "Not his office office. His home office. Where he probably has the checkbook from which he pays Kellan's rent."
* * *
So Emmy is a genius.
Who knew.
Chapter 13
The rest of Thursday drifts by. There's dinner, and a walk on the beach, and absolutely no texts or calls or emails or any other communication from Kellan.
There's also nothing from Kellan's stalker. Does she know where he is? The idea's enough to jack up my heart beat.
Reed calls from Boston. He's going to be in Charleston over the coming weekend and would Emmy and I like to come to a beach party?
It's the farthest thing from my mind, but maybe it will distract me from e
verything else that's happening. We talk for a little while, nothing of any consequence, and after that I do some homework.
I can't get Kellan off my mind for more than a few minutes at a time and when I can, I worry about Reed Miller and the "slut" letter from Henry Tate Miller, and when I'm not worrying about that, I worry about the "I know what you did" letter that came to me, complete with photos. Can't help but wonder if Miller didn't have something to do with that. Insane, yes, but how many people are there out there not only sending letters but including photos, scanned or not?
Friday morning I get up, go for a run, check that everybody is still home. They are. Didn't they used to go out from time to time?
There's the station, and school, and some work in the library because it allows me to stay on campus, and then on to the station again.
Tyler and Zach are preparing the proposals for the station, creating clips of the shows we've actually produced, and bullet point lists of what interns learn, OTJ work experience, and backing everything up so we can ask for a budget.
"We do have a budget," I point out to Tabby, who laughs, and says, "One that actually buys things, Willow," in a way that's a tad nastier than she really needs to be.
Whatever. I don't have time to worry about mean girls. Or even just plain jealous girls. Right now I don't know why anyone would be jealous of me. I'm busy, I'm failing math, my boyfriend has apparently broken up with me by moving to an "undisclosed location," and my math tutor makes no sense. At least I haven't heard anymore from whoever sent me the Seattle letter, though knowing the person is in South Carolina and not knowing what they're doing is anything but restful.
I wanted to get back into real life. I'm starting to suspect this is what real life is – one challenge after another.
Let's hear it for fantasy, then.