What's Left Unsaid

by Emily Bleeker

Hannah had run out of words. It was like the air had been sucked out of her lungs. In the silence, Monty gathered the original documents into his arms and she could see it all slipping away.

  “Please don’t do this.” Hannah’s hand dropped to her side, her shoulders slumping, chest feeling like it was about to cave in. She wanted to fight, but that would mean sacrificing Guy—again. She couldn’t, but how could she let Monty and Shelby Dawson get away with whatever scam they were playing? This was far bigger than a sweet little feature article about an unsolved crime. This was the modern hook she’d been looking for.

  With one arm full of Evelyn’s life story, Monty took out his phone and started to dial what Hannah assumed was 911. She put up her hands like he was taking hostages.

  “Fine, I’m leaving.” Hannah backed away, eyeing Monty, unsure what he was capable of after all his threats and with some kind of big secret riding on the guarantee of Hannah’s silence. The rest of the room was the same as when Hannah was escorted in an hour ago. The vases and fancy rugs, lovely wooden floors, and marble fireplace mantel were only a few of the elegant accents that made the farmhouse unique. The position of the sun through the windows was a bit lower, darkening the corners of the space in a way that increased the dramatic focus on Monty’s tense figure.

  When she reached the threshold of the room, Monty was still holding the phone midair like a weapon but had not finished his call, which she took as a good sign.

  “Goodbye, Miss Williamson,” Monty said, his officious tone echoing through the room with ominous undertones of finality.

  She couldn’t bring herself to respond. Instead, Hannah tipped her chin in the air, turned on one foot, and walked away. She had to get out. After holding in a torrent of feelings, her efforts to plug up all the holes in the dam that kept them at bay were failing in rapid succession, and she could feel the collapse coming. As soon as she was out the front door, she ran down the porch steps and across the partially frozen clay driveway, choking on the tears that had become so commonplace. Nothing was better. Everything was worse. Monty was wrong about a lot of things, but right about one very important fact: intentional or not, Hannah destroyed people.

  Leaving a trail of dust behind her as she sped down the Martins’ driveway back toward town, she had to wonder what the hell she was any good for. Speeding into the sunset after turning west on Highway 4, Hannah had one last idea, but this time she wouldn’t be asking Monty to lift a finger to help. It was time to see Guy—whether he liked it or not.

  CHAPTER 32

  The Senatobia Middle School building was an impressive structure. Hannah had admired it during her bike rides to and from work for the past few months. The former high school was built as part of the New Deal, and limestone carvings of muscled men donned the front of the auditorium, welcoming all who passed by. A tarnished copper sundial with art deco details sat between the two figures with an engraving that read Time Flies at the top. Rather than a whimsical saying that applied to the temporary nature of childhood, it read to Hannah as a warning, rushing her out of her car and toward the office doors to the right of the theater.

  Even though it was past his normal school hours, Hannah knew Guy was here; his car was parked out front in its normal spot. She shivered while running across the pavement, eager to be out of the December wind, but when she reached out for the brass handle on the doors at the top of the stairs, she heard her name shouted from the parking lot.

  “Hannah?”

  It was Guy. She turned on her heel, making her coat spin out ever so slightly, letting the little bit of stored heat that had been building up underneath escape. When she finally laid eyes on him, there was a painful swelling in her chest, and her vision clouded with tears she was glad he couldn’t see from a distance.

  She’d known she missed him; she knew it in her mind and because of the ulcer-like hole in her heart when he turned down all requests to meet up. But seeing him right there in front of her caused a physical reaction she could never have predicted, her mouth suddenly dry and a tightness in her throat that she couldn’t swallow down.

  He was standing next to his car with a filing box in his hands and a stack of papers on the lid. His top button was left unfastened and he looked tired, no . . . he looked exhausted. His cheekbones stood out more prominently than she remembered, and worst of all, as soon as Hannah met his confused gaze, he immediately averted his eyes and turned away, opening his rear car door.

  “Guy, hey!” Hannah finally managed to shout across the parking lot before running toward him, worried that if she gave him too much of a lead that he’d climb in the car and drive away before she had a chance to say a word. He emerged from the back seat and closed the door before turning to face Hannah, his now-empty hands shoved in the pockets of his fitted jacket. There was no smile, no spark of welcome in his eye. She hadn’t realized it till it was gone, but Guy used to be alive when he was with her, his energy, interest, and fascination turned up to a ten. So now, the deadness in his glassy eyes and how he leaned away, ever so slightly, made his emotional shift even more obvious.

  “Hey! I’m so glad I caught you,” Hannah said, huffing out great clouds of fog into the space between them, the cold air sticking in her lungs and touching each breath with pain.

  “Yeah, I’m kinda running late so . . .” He took a step back, but Hannah interrupted his excuse to leave.

  “I know you don’t want to see me,” she said, strands of hair blowing into the corner of her mouth as she spoke. “But I need to talk to you. Here.” She pulled an envelope out of her pocket and held it out to Guy. He didn’t make an effort to reach for it. “Please, take it.”

  Guy met Hannah’s gaze briefly, and a momentary and sudden softening melted the hardness there. He looked away with some effort and took the offered envelope, opening it to peek inside. Immediately, he folded down the flap and shook his head.

  “I don’t need your money.” He held out the envelope like it was filled with fire ants.

  “Don’t be stubborn. It’s to pay your dad back for the bond money. Please take it. Please.” It should cover the bond money, yes, but also help with some of the attorney fees. She’d pay those back too, one day. It was the absolute least she could do. She stared at his downcast eyes, hoping that he’d look up again, that she could see him remember their connection, their friendship, even for one additional second.

  “Fine,” he said, folding up the check and putting it in his pocket along with his hand, resuming his caved-in, defensive stance. “I’ll give it to my dad.”

  “Thank you,” she said, a tiny dose of relief letting her breathe deeper, not even noticing the cold this time. “Also,” she added quickly, knowing his patience was running thin, “I talked to the DA today.”

  Guy flinched and took another step away, pushing his fists deeper into his coat pockets. “Hannah, I know you’re trying to help, but you gotta stay out of this now. My attorney says it makes me look bad.”

  “Why does everybody keep saying that?” Hannah groaned, stomping her foot. “I just want them to know the truth. I want them to listen to me. I want to fix this. I need to. I talked to Monty, and you gotta know—this whole thing is a big cover-up that is so freaking old, and he’s taking it all out on you to keep me quiet. But if we publish this story about Evelyn now, it would take away his power and her story would finally be told. She needs us to tell it . . .”

  “Evelyn?” Guy’s measured calm broke as explosively as an icicle falling off the top of the Hancock Building in January. All the words and plans in Hannah’s brain dissolved, and she stood, stunned, staring as Guy finally looked her in the eyes. But she was the one to look away this time, not able to face the disappointment and judgment there.

  “Seriously, Hannah, Evelyn? Could you just listen to yourself for a minute? Evelyn is dead. She doesn’t need you. I needed you, Hannah. Two weeks ago when the police called you and you ignored them, that’s when I needed you. When you were off flirting with Pete Dawson at a bar
in Memphis, that’s when I needed you.” He pointed north like he could see the city from there. Then, he took the first step toward her that he’d made in weeks, but it brought her no comfort. He lowered his voice to a trembling, angry whisper. “You’re worried about Evelyn, and when it comes down to it, you’re worried about you. You are so deeply involved with you-you-you-you that you can’t seem to see anything outside of it. Not me, not Rosie, and not even your own goddamned grandma.”

  His words stung like a slap in the face, and Hannah cringed. It was one thing to hear them from Monty or to think them about herself, but to hear them from Guy? She sniffed, determined to hold back the tears. He continued, but his tone was more measured this time.

  “Don’t you get it? I’m going to lose my job. I have a child, Hannah. What’s going to happen to her if I go to . . .”

  His voice cracked, and he didn’t finish his sentence, but she was sure they both knew what he was going to say. Prison. She snatched his hand into hers, and shockingly he didn’t pull away. They stood close, inches between each other, their breath clouds mingling, taking in each other’s exhales.

  She’d painted Guy as ever enduring, ever giving, ever steadfast, ever patient, but what he really was . . . was human—a deeply frightened human. She stared up into his eyes, the well of shame she’d been digging for herself growing deeper by yards. His breath hitched; he licked his lips and then moved away from the pulsing heat of connection that they both knew was far too easy to ignite.

  Hannah let his hand slip from hers. Usually full of retorts and arguments, she had none. She’d always had a hard time admitting fault, giving up on an argument, dropping a story, letting go of a lead even when she knew she should—an inherent obstinance she’d been born with. When she and Brody would fight as kids, her father would always sit them down across from each other for forced apologies and say, “There is no shame in admitting you’re wrong.”

  But this time there was shame. This wasn’t a tussle with a little brother—this was Guy’s life she’d taken for granted. She’d thought by “fixing” things with Monty or the DA that she could erase the damage done as cleanly as his record could be erased. But seeing the hurt carved into Guy’s body made Hannah think of the men carved on the side of the building. There was a mark on his soul that would always be there to remind him of a time when, because of the color of his skin, he was abandoned by a world that he’d done nothing but try to improve and she’d been complicit in that injury.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, okay?” she said, her voice wavering, meaning this apology down to her core, unlike the forced, fake ones she’d mustered through as a child under her father’s instruction. Her wrongs poured out, carried toward Guy by the wind. “I’m sorry I was a bad friend, and I’m sorry I put you in that situation. I’m sorry I used your friendship for my personal gain. I’m sorry I was so deeply selfish that I couldn’t see anything else but my wants and my pain, and I will be ashamed of that for the rest of my life.”

  Guy stood facing his car door, holding the handle, and nodded, staring at the glass in front of him. She didn’t wait more than half a second for him to respond, that stubborn streak flashing hotly for one brief moment.

  “But I’m not sorry for trying to help now. It’s all that I can do, Guy. I can’t change the past. And you don’t have to forgive me, or like me even, but I will find a way to balance this scale. I promise. I swear it to you on . . .” Hannah ran through her mind for something of import. The Bible or God held little weight, and her own moral compass had been proved less than reliable, but when her gaze landed on the sundial and the ninety-year-old school building where her father had walked, learned, and lived, it felt as though he were near once again, that he was waiting for her to grow into the woman he’d hoped to raise—strong but also compassionate, resolved but also kind. “I swear it to you on my dad’s good name.”

  Her promise lingered between them.

  “Hannah, you’re right. What’s done is done. Can’t change the past,” Guy said, while opening his car door and then letting his rich brown eyes meet hers, sending curtains of heat down her shoulders and back. She hung on his silence, his next words having the ability to calm or crush. “But if I were you, I’d stop making promises you have no power to keep. Some mistakes have consequences, and unfortunately I’m suffering your consequences right now,” he said, simply but with a sharp edge that slashed a deep wound into Hannah’s conscience. Guy didn’t wait for Hannah to respond. He ducked into the driver’s seat, politely adding, “Give your mamaw my best,” before closing his door with a muffled slam.

  As he drove away, the exhaust from his car trailed behind him, and Hannah stood frozen in place, with no other option but to watch him leave. It seemed that she’d become far too accustomed to watching the men she cared about leave her.

  She blinked, the comforting ghost of her father gone, likely a figment of her highly agitated nervous system. Left alone, frozen and heartbroken, she heard an old voice inside her mind whisper a thought she’d kept away for months, a voice that had once been a common companion shouting the same phrase over and over again: They’d be better off without you.

  And at that moment, Hannah agreed.

  CHAPTER 33

  Hannah got all the way to Mamaw’s empty room without anyone in the house seeming to notice. In the past weeks she’d spent a lot of time in that room with the TV on a low murmur in the background. The hospital bed was comfortable and made for a good place to hide.

  She shed her outerwear, shoes, and bag, leaving a trail behind her as she stumbled toward the bed, as though it were a lifeboat in her stormy sea made treacherous by her fight with Monty and the hard truths from Guy and weighty guilt that she couldn’t seem to escape. Lined up next to Mamaw’s bed were her prescription bottles. Hannah hadn’t had the heart to move them yet, plus there was one particular bottle that gave her comfort, that she took in her hand most nights and cradled as she slept. Ambien.

  Ever since leaving the psych ward at Northwestern Hospital seven months ago, she’d taken her prescribed antidepressants, avoided sleep aids, and tried to start her life over after her emotional crash. But she knew that bottle full of pills could suck her into a calm, sleepy place that held no anxiety or guilt, and that was a beautiful temptation to hold in her hands.

  She snatched the bottle and held it, enjoying the sound of the tumbling pills inside. Hannah needed a dose of peace right now, and there were two things that could provide that kind of artificial calm: Ambien and Alex. With her other hand, she did the one thing she’d been avoiding for the two weeks since he’d asked for another chance. She opened up Facebook on her phone and typed in Alex’s name on the search bar, and his profile came up immediately.

  As the page loaded, the air sucked out of the room. Tagged in a photo from a random friend’s page, there he was—Alex, smiling broadly with his arm around his supposed ex-fiancée with the caption “The Love Birds.”

  Hannah gulped for air. She shouldn’t care, hadn’t cared, but seeing them together made so many old feelings pour into her overflowing whirlpool. She clicked on the picture in search of the date on the image, hoping that it was an old memory that somehow ended up on his wall. But investigating further only made it harder to breathe. Yesterday. It was from yesterday. She scrolled to the line of comments below the picture and read the words that felt like a bullet to her gut.

  Janie! You’ll be a beautiful bride.

  You two look so in love!

  Party! Party! #WeddingBells

  With an old swell of jealousy taking her emotions even lower than when she’d stumbled in, she touched various spots on her screen. Hannah found the button with three little dots on the top of his profile and without hesitation hit “Block.”

  Then he finally disappeared.

  Filled with grief and relief, Hannah pressed her phone into her midsection, where the pain originated, and then doubled over, resting her head on her knees. She wrapped her arms around her legs, t
rying to squeeze the pain out like juice from an orange, the bottle of Ambien still in her hand, rattling with each sob.

  It was all too much—and she’d run out of actionable ways to fix anything she’d broken. Like the image she’d seen as a child of a man crawling through a desert crying out for water, she’d been living life one inch at a time, trying to survive off the hope of a nearby oasis. But her salvation had turned out to be a mirage, and after exerting so much effort, she was too tired to move one more centimeter.

  The bottle rattled again, and she held it up to the light, a strange peace falling over her as she assessed the cluster of pills. There had to be fifteen or so tablets left inside. That would be enough to—

  She didn’t complete the thought but did unscrew the child safety cap and dump the contents of the bottle into the palm of her hand. Nineteen. They wouldn’t be difficult to swallow, and she’d just fall asleep—fall asleep forever, no more pain, no more sorrys, no more rejection and failure. It would all go away. She would go away, just like last time. It had all gone to black, and she’d almost found her way out of this world of struggle.

  Hannah closed her fingers around the pile of pills, and her fantasy of disappearing evaporated as quickly as her breath had while talking to Guy by his car. I’d stop making promises you have no power to keep . . . His warning stuck with her, burrowed into her as the pills dug into her palm.

  The first time she took a handful of pills, she wanted to go back. Back to when she was with Alex and her father was her cushion, when life seemed simple. But today “back” didn’t seem as compelling to Hannah.

  She’d built a life here. A weird, messed-up, confusing life, but it had a purpose. Right now the purpose of this life was to fix all the things she’d messed up, but under that was far more. If she went quietly into the dark night, it would be her final attempt at running away. And even if Guy never talked to her again, she’d never forget his story about the tree. Staying and fixing—that’s the hard part, he’d said. And he was right.