Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  22

  Maryn

  I feel like a kid that’s been scolded, following my dad down the sidewalk with my tail tucked between my legs.

  “Dad, please, just talk to me!” I finally call out after several other attempts to get his attention. We reach a park bench farther on the outskirts of the city, and he stops and takes in a deep breath. I see him close his eyes, then he sits down. He doesn’t look at me or invite me to sit. He just stares blankly ahead at the river, blinking every so often.

  “Wyatt Mills, Maryn? Wyatt Mills?” he asks, his voice coarse and low. I take a breath and sit next to him.

  “Dad, look, it just sort of—”

  “Don’t say it just sort of happened, Maryn,” he says, his tone harsh--way more harsh than I’m used to when it comes to him. “These things don’t just happen. The police, the media taking a beating on me like they did just to buy some time…that doesn’t just happen. It’s calculated. When systems fail, it’s easier to pin these things on one small person than it is to actually fix the goddamn system.”

  I swallow, a lump in my throat threatening to rise to the surface.

  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  “But you’re seeing him anyway,” my dad says, sort of like a question but more matter-of-factly. “Did you know he worked there before you took the job?”

  I look down at my hands in my lap but don’t answer. I don’t have to.

  “Jesus, Maryn. This is going to kill your mom,” he says.

  “We just made it official yesterday, Dad. I wasn’t trying to hide it from you; I just needed some time to figure it out.”

  My dad turns to me slowly, and I see the pain behind his eyes. My heart rips in half.

  “Maryn, do you remember what we lost? Do you remember the letters kids put in your locker, calling you the murderer’s kid? Do you remember them cleaning out my classroom because I wasn’t even allowed back in to get my things? Do you remember them hauling me off to the police station, month after month, just to answer the same questions over and over, just to throw me to the side once they couldn’t use me anymore?”

  Yes. Yes, I do remember it. All of it.

  And yet somehow, inexplicably, Wyatt made me forget.

  I look up to my dad, the tears prickling behind my eyes.

  “You’re right, Dad. It was selfish of me. I’m sorry,” I say. My dad doesn’t say anything else. He just nods. Then, he takes a breath and stands up from the bench and walks away.

  I sit on the bench for a few minutes and cry like an idiot, letting the fall air blow through my hair.

  This next part is going to suck.

  Because Wyatt and I have to end before we even got started.

  I get back to my apartment and collapse onto the couch. Ellie is still at work, so I reach for my phone and call Keely.

  “Hey,” she says, out of breath.

  “Hey—what are you doing?” I ask.

  “Sweating for the wedding, bitch,” she says. “What’s wrong with you?”

  I smile. It’s funny how friends, or—as her and Ellie are—soul sisters, just need a few syllables and they can guess your entire mood. A few syllables.

  “My dad saw us,” I mutter just as my voice cracks.

  “Shit,” she says, and I can hear her pressing a button in the background. The sound of the treadmill slows until I can tell she’s off of it completely. “So, what happened?”

  “I think I need to break it off,” I say. I wait for her to interfere, to stop me, to push me to do what’s best for me. But she takes a deep breath.

  “Ya know, Mare,” she says, “I’ve never met a family like yours, that would downright kill for one another the way the Porters would. You know I want you to be happy, and if that means being with Wyatt, then by all means, go ahead. I just… I can’t truly see you being happy if your family isn’t. It’s not who you are. I mean, if your parents won’t speak to him—or even you— could you live with that?”

  I swallow and shake my head in silence.

  “No,” I finally croak out. “No, I couldn’t.”

  She sighs.

  “Damn, I’m really sorry, Mare. I know this was fun for you, but maybe it’s a good thing he saw you two together now versus in a few months or something. At least you’re not in too deep.”

  I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling. That’s just the thing.

  I am in too deep. I think I was the second I saw him in that bar at Melladon. I thank her and tell her I love her then hang up.

  I know I should call him, arrange a meet-up, end it now, and rip the bandage off. But I can’t bring myself to do it. So I avoid it altogether by turning on Ridiculousness and stuffing my face with leftover pasta from last night. This oughta help.

  My phone buzzes about an hour later, and it’s him. I swallow as I set down my dish.

  Hey, how did it go with your dad?

  Ha.

  Horrible. He hates your guts, and we can’t see each other.

  I sigh and text back. Then stop. Then text back again. Then stop.

  Then I put my phone down and lie back on the couch. I can’t do this.

  A few hours later, I wake to a knock on my door. It’s gentle, but it’s enough to startle me awake. Ellie’s still not home yet, and she has a key. So I know who it is before I even go to the door. I drag myself from the couch and sulk over, looking through the peephole. Ugh. Even distorted and the size of a dime, he’s freakin’ beautiful. His eyes are gleaming emeralds in the harsh hallway light, and his skin is brown and delicious. I sigh and drop my forehead to the door. Then, I take a breath and open it up.

  I stare up at him, and his expression goes from excited and hopeful to downright disastrous in a matter of seconds. He’s holding some sort of carryout bag and two sodas. I stand back and let him come in.

  “I thought the lack of a response wasn’t a good sign,” he says as he sets his things down on the coffee table, “and your expression doesn’t exactly make me feel better.” He gives a sad smile and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

  God, he’s beautiful.

  I smile back at him and motion for him to sit down.

  “So,” he says, keeping a noticeable distance between us on the couch, “what did he say?”

  I sigh again before looking up at him nervously.

  “He didn’t have to say much to know that I broke his heart,” I say. Wyatt’s eyes sink to the floor. “It’s just that he went through so much—we all did—and I think there are parts of him that never recovered. And seeing us together made him realize those parts that are still missing.”

  Wyatt nods, and I feel that lump in my throat.

  “So, what did you tell him about us?” he asks. I swallow a few times, trying desperately to win this no-cry battle.

  I stare down at my hands.

  “I can’t hurt him any more, Wyatt,” I whisper. “I can’t see you. I can’t be with you if it’s going to tear my family up. I won’t hurt them more.”

  I finally muster up a bit of courage and look up to him. He’s still staring down at the ground, but he’s nodding his head.

  “I understand,” he says, rubbing his hands up and down on his thighs. “I was hoping that time would heal some of this, but I know it can’t heal all. It certainly hasn’t for me. I can’t expect it to for him, either.”

  I nod slowly. Then, he pushes himself to stand, and I feel my heart sink in my stomach.

  He makes his way toward the door slowly. I jump to my feet, feeling panic taking over. I know he needs to go. I know this has to end here. My head knows. But some other part of me is screaming to hold on. To jump on him and not let him go.

  “Wyatt,” I say, just as his hand is landing on the door handle.

  He half-turns to me, raising his eyebrows.

  “This all…” I say, motioning between the two of us. “This all meant something to me. More than I bargained for.” I take a few steps closer to him.

  He smiles that sad smile again, hanging hi
s head and turning toward me.

  “For me, too,” he says, barely above a whisper. “More than you know.” He looks up at me, and all it takes is one quick connection, for our eyes to meet, for me to start forgetting it all again.

  I launch myself forward so that our chests slam together, pushing his back up against the door. I cover his lips with mine, tasting him, taking him all in. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck, pulling him into me as closely as possible. It takes him a moment, but then I feel his arms snake around my back. He shifts so that he can lift me up, letting my legs wrap around his waist. He pushes off the door and into the apartment more, swirling us around. Our tongues are intertwining, our lips crashing into each other desperately. He carries me to the other side of the apartment, placing me on top of our breakfast bar. I reach my hands down to tug on the hem of his shirt. I lift it slightly, and I can practically feel the warmth of his familiar chest before I even lift it past his belly button. I need him, to be pressed up against him, my skin on his, feeling it all.

  But he reaches his hands down and grabs mine, stopping me. He tears his lips from mine, both of us heaving with heavy breaths, and rests his forehead against mine.

  “Maryn,” he whispers, and I know I’m not going to like what comes next. I reach my hands up around his neck, pressing us harder together, hoping I get him to shut up and kiss me again. “Maryn,” he says again, unlocking my hands from his neck and kissing them. “I can’t do this.”

  I close my eyes for a moment, letting his words hit me like a ton of bricks. Then, I open them and stare into his.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “but it’s going to make it harder not to do it again. And again. And again. We can’t do this. Not if we need to be apart.”

  And those last few words are all it takes for my heart to crumble to dust in my chest. He takes a step closer to me, forcing my legs apart slightly. He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me into him, and the other hand around my head.

  He kisses my jaw softly then my lips. He presses his lips to my forehead one last time then to the top of my head. He squeezes me gently then slowly pulls himself away from me.

  “I’m going to miss the idea of you being mine,” he says with that same sad smile.

  “The idea of it?” I ask. He nods.

  “I never even got to take you on a real date,” he says as he gets closer and closer to the door.

  “Wyatt, I was yours,” I whisper as the tears form in my eyes. He drops his head again then pulls on the door handle and disappears. And the tears start flowing down my cheeks, because I know that I still am.

  23

  April 2015 - Wyatt

  There’s this blinking light in the vending machine in front of me, and I am staring at it like a bug with a porch light. Overall, this is probably the saddest looking vending machine I’ve ever seen. The contents are sparse; the only section that’s still full is the fig bars—because no one goes to a vending machine with the intention of grabbing one of those—and almost everything else is empty. Plus, I know now, from watching three different people insert coins, that it no longer takes money. It spits them back out with impressive force. It’s almost like it’s just standing here, waiting to die, not wanting to be bothered. Right now, I have more in common with this vending machine than I care to admit.

  “Come on back,” I hear Detective Robinson say, his voice hushed. I turn my head slowly to his office door.

  Oh, that’s right.

  We’re here because they think they found my sister’s dead body.

  He leads us down a dark corridor, and I find it ironic that the lights are so spread out. It’s like every scary movie you’ve ever seen that has a scene in a morgue.

  My parents are a few paces ahead of me, my mom shaking vigorously as my dad tries to steady her. We reach the door with the damning “MORGUE” sign on it, and we all stop.

  “Do you all want to go in?” Detective Robinson asks. Mom’s nodding her head as little sobs shake her body. My dad grumbles out a “yes” but turns to me.

  “Son, do you want to wait out here?” he asks.

  I think about it for a moment because, yes, the idea of seeing my sister’s dead body isn’t exactly on my list of things I want to do today.

  But I know that if I don’t, I’ll regret it. I’ll regret it because if I don’t see it with my own eyes, I won’t believe it. I’ll always doubt everyone else. Not that I have much faith in myself these days, but as sickening as it is, I need the visual confirmation.

  I’m a grown man. I can handle this.

  I nod, and Detective Robinson nods back. He takes a deep breath then slowly pushes open the big, heavy door to the morgue. The room is freezing. I see the drawers against the back wall, and it sends a chill down my spine.

  Like a goddamn horror movie.

  There’s a stretcher in the middle of the room, covered in a white sheet. Now that I think about it, everything in this goddamn room is white.

  So white it’s making my head hurt. I’m sick to my stomach.

  We walk toward the table, and Detective Robinson takes a deep breath before reaching for the sheet. He looks up at us.

  “Are you ready?” he asks.

  We nod, Mom squeezing her eyes shut.

  Then, he lifts the sheet.

  Mom screams, stumbling backward as Dad catches her. Detective Robinson is grabbing her other arm, helping Dad steady her.

  And me… I’m staring at my sister’s dead body. Before I realize it, I’m on my knees on the ground. I put my hands out to steady myself, but the whole room is spinning. Why is everything so goddamn white?

  Someone else comes into the room carrying a small cup of water for Mom. They are ushering her out, and someone’s calling for a chair.

  But I’m still here, kneeling below my sister’s body. Her lips were puffy and had a hint of purple. Her cheeks were taut and narrow. But aside from the bruised handprints around her neck, she looked the same. The same as the night I let her go into that store.

  God, why is everything in this room white?

  Everything around me is spinning again, then I feel the burning in my stomach as it erupts. I puke all over the floor in front of me, blinking back as my eyes water. Someone comes in and pulls me up, and then I hear the rolling of a mop bucket a few seconds later.

  I’m pulled out into the hallway, and they slump me into a chair. Detective Robinson is kneeling down in front of me when I finally open my eyes. He’s holding out a small plastic cup of water.

  “I’m sorry, Wyatt,” he whispers. Then, he stands up, cupping his chin with his hand and shaking his head. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Then, he walks away. I turn down the hall and see my parents making their way toward the door, being escorted by a larger policeman who is, no doubt, there for catching purposes in case my mother drops again.

  I take in a few deep breaths, staring at the big “MORGUE” door right in front of me.

  My sister is dead.

  24

  Wyatt

  It’s been almost two weeks since I walked out of her apartment, and they’ve been the longest, slowest two weeks of my life.

  My days have consisted of working myself out so hard at the gym that I want to faint, working my ass off so hard at work that my eyes are crossing, and then collapsing onto my bed at the end of the night, feeling like I’ve accomplished nothing.

  And then I picture her, or her face pops up in my email address book, and it’s all I can do not to get off on the thought of her.

  In fact, a few times, late at night, when I’m in the shower or lying in my bed, there has been nothing I could do to stop myself.

  I think of her naked. I think of her half-naked. I think of her fully-fucking-clothed, smiling and laughing as we got pizza or drinks, or as she stuck her fork into my Chinese food.

  I think of how I could talk about Willa so easily with her. How I didn’t feel like I had to hide that part of my life, because she already knew about it. I think a
bout how she made me want to go back to Tilden, be a part of the town that made me.

  But it’s too good to be true. Because our lives collided all those years ago and were never meant to cross again.

  I’m sitting at my desk on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, clicking away at a pen while I stare at my screen. I’m supposed to be presenting at a staff meeting this afternoon, but I’m feeling less than inspired. Plus, I could school these guys with something I pull out of my ass five minutes before the meeting, so there’s not much riding on it.

  I hear laughter in the hall, and when I look up, my balls feel like they’re sucking up into my stomach.

  She’s walking down the hallway with Nate, laughing at something he’s said. They’re headed for the elevators, and my head is pounding with jealousy, curiosity, and a little bit of suspense.

  I grab for my coffee mug for a fake refill and hop up so that I’m landing in the hall just as they’re passing my office.

  “Hey, guys,” I say, keeping my voice as casual as possible. I feel her icy blue eyes lift up to me then back down. Nate nods his head back and gives me a look.

  And now that I think about it, we haven’t talked much in the last few weeks. And that stirs all these emotions up just a little bit more.

  “Hey, man,” he says quietly, lifting the strap of his laptop case up higher on his shoulder.

  “You guys headed out?”

  “Uh, yeah,” he says, running the back of his fingers against his chin. “Another quick lunch meeting.” I nod. He’s not giving up anything, and by the way she’s avoiding eye contact with me, I can tell she won’t either. “We actually have to get going so we’re not late. We’ll catch up later, yeah?”

  I nod and smile, watching her for a moment too long before they disappear into the elevators.

  I get back to my desk without even bothering to complete the charade of getting another cup of coffee and pull up their calendars again. Blocked. I bet it’s that fucking gallery. What is this client? Why is there no record of it?