Resisting Love

by Christine Zolendz

  “You coming?” Liv asked, as she slid out of the car, smiling back at me.

  I wanted to.

  With every fiber of my being, I wanted to go inside with her and forget everything. Have something nice and innocent for one small moment in my life. Something good. Real. Pure. Her big blue, doe eyes blinked innocently at me.

  I hesitated, looking back out at her. I wanted to remember the way she looked then. Wild hair, whisking around her head in the wind—moonlight kissing her face—perfect.

  “I gotta go back in…to work,” I said. My voice broke like I’d been yelling for days.

  “But you were at work before…” Her words tailed off into silence.

  This was what it was like.

  This was the life of a police officer. This was what I wanted to shield you from. “It doesn’t matter, something came up. I gotta go in.”

  Her mouth opened slightly, then snapped closed quickly. She straightened up, pulling herself away from the car. She leaned her hand on the open car door and looked off into the distance down the street. She blew out her cheeks and released her breath in a low whoosh. She snapped her head back toward me, her lips pinched tight. “Okay, well, goodnight then,” she said, behind a bitter smile.

  She broke eye contact with me and slammed the door closed.

  I watched the sadness weigh down her shoulders as she walked up the path to the house. I wanted to tell her I wanted to come inside.

  I wanted to be with her.

  It was the only place I wanted to be. The only place I wanted to be in a long time. It had been years since I’d met anyone who I wanted anything with.

  But I couldn’t muster up the words, because giving her hope in anything that had to do with me would be the shittiest thing I could do to her.

  Chapter 12

  Liv

  Eight hours had passed, and I still felt his hands on my skin. It was as if his fingerprints were seared into my flesh, branded there with invisible scars, that only I could see or feel. I paced the floor of Brooke’s guest room until the early hours of the morning, rubbing at my skin. Was I trying to brush his touch off or knead it in, I didn’t know, but I kept rubbing and pacing—wearing a hole in the rug and making my skin tingle with fire.

  Was he really going into work when he had just left there a handful of hours before? Or was he going back to Boozer’s for the sloppy drunk girls he left without saying goodbye to?

  Was I just not enough? Why would he dance with me the way he did then? Why did he tell Brayden and the guys from Mad World that we were going home, to bed? Just so they couldn’t have me? Ha, that’s a laugh, I could go right back out and get all the bad-boy band cock I wanted.

  I punched my fists into the pillows on the bed.

  I’m the idiot who just wanted him.

  What the hell did I do wrong?

  Or did he really have to work? But he told whomever he was on the phone with that he had drunk four beers. His sergeant wouldn’t make him come back in with alcohol in his system, would he?

  Or maybe it was me?

  Why the hell were men so fucking confusing?

  I flopped back onto the bed and stared blankly at the ceiling.

  I guess it really didn’t matter, just like he said.

  Either Dean wasn’t interested enough in spending more time with me or he had no time to give me. Either option was not good news for me. The question was: why did it matter? All I needed to do was stay until the handyman I hired installed a new door, and then I was back in my car on my way home. My so-called mother made it perfectly clear I was unwanted in her life, so why stay?

  So I was just wasting my time pining over some guy whom I’d never really be able to have a relationship with. What did I want from him, just one night?

  That was setting myself up for heartache, wasn’t it?

  I needed to see the reality of my want. What I was craving was the potential of what we could have, not the reality of it. He had no time for me. I lived too far away. What did I think was going to happen?

  And why couldn’t I stop myself from hoping?

  At ten o’clock in the morning, Dean still hadn’t come home. I listened for any noise upstairs, and there was nothing. Again, I wondered if he spent the night with someone, or was he just at work all night. I didn’t think it was possible. Being at work for that long. At half past ten, I decided I wasted enough time thinking about him. He wouldn’t get any more of my thoughts.

  I padded into the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee.

  The house was eerily silent. It didn’t look as if Brooke was up yet, so I just quietly leaned against the bay windows and held the warm mug in my hands.

  Dean’s Jeep was still in the driveway, same position as the day before. But I wasn’t thinking about him anymore. Nope. Wasn’t having any Dean-like fantasies at all.

  Pancakes.

  Pancakes were the solutions to any of life’s problems.

  Crazy drunk mother almost dying in a kitchen fire?

  Make pancakes.

  Guy you’ve crushed on secretly since your childhood still treats you like you’re fifteen?

  Chocolate chip pancakes.

  Guy you’ve crushed on said he was taking you home to bed only to leave you at the doorstep with nothing but wet panties and questions?

  Chocolate chip pancakes with butter and syrup.

  Unfortunately, Brooke kept her pantry empty, and refrigerator too. There was honestly a half-gallon of milk inside and a handful of Chinese take-out cartons; that was it.

  “Ugh,” Brooke moaned, as she staggered into the kitchen, holding her head. She peeked her eyes out through a space between her fingers. “I haven’t shopped for food in weeks. Sorry.” She melted into one of the kitchen chairs and laid her chin on the table. Her eyes were weighted down with heavy dark circles, and the shiner she got at work the other day was now a bright purplish-yellow.

  “I don’t remember you having more than four drinks last night. Did you grow up to be a lightweight?” I asked, grabbing an empty cup from the dish rack and making her some coffee.

  Her eyes followed my movements, but she didn’t respond until she drank more than three quarters of the cup I poured her. She shook her head slowly. “No, it’s not that. My ex kept calling me last night.”

  “Why didn’t you shut your phone off?” I demanded, stunned.

  Her chin dipped down as she winced, “I wanted to hear what he had to say.”

  “So, what did he say?” I asked, slowly, folding my arms over my chest.

  She slid down in the chair, and hugged the coffee cup to her chest. “He wants to get back together. He misses me. Things like that.”

  “You don’t look happy though,” I said.

  She shrugged half-heartedly and gave me a polite smile, “I’m just tired. I need to catch up on sleep.” She sipped again at her coffee and tilted her head to the side, “Anyway, what was going on with you and Dean last night? You guys looked pretty close.”

  “So did you and Ryan,” I smiled at her and changed subject.

  “He’s sort of arrogant and pushy. I think I hate him,” she said, sipping lightly at her coffee.

  “But, he’s really attractive,” I added, smiling at her.

  “Yes. Really attractive. Too bad he couldn’t just keep his stupid mouth closed and just sit and look pretty,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “He’s that bad? I thought he was pretty funny.”

  “Ew, no. He’s one of those guys who takes penis enlargement pills,” she said, smirking.

  “What?” I asked, curiously.

  “It’s got to be true, because every time I see him he’s a bigger dick than he was the day before,” she grinned, topping it off with a quick wink.

  I burst out laughing. “I completely fell into that one. Didn’t see it coming.”

  She leaned her elbows back on the table, set down her coffee, and plucked down her chin on her hands. “So… What are you doing today?”

 
I sighed, placing my coffee cup in the sink. “Straightening up the rest of the witch’s things and waiting for the handyman to put in a new door.” I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “Then I’m leaving.”

  Her posture straightened, and her hands dropped flat onto the table. “Oh no! Please stay another night or two. Please. I miss having a girl around to talk to. Don’t you have a few more days until school starts again?”

  My chest tightened. I liked being with her too. We were so close as kids. I didn’t remember ever having one fight or one disagreement with her, ever.

  “Come on, please?” she said, making a sad face.

  I answered her with a small nod, “Maybe another night.”

  She stretched out her legs and smiled wide, “Good. Yay, I’m excited. Do you want me to help you at your mom’s?”

  “No!” I blurted, waving my hands. “God, no. I don’t want anyone else cleaning up that woman’s messes.”

  “Liv,” she said, getting up and lightly touching my forearm. “Me and you? We’ve been doing that since you were little.” She sighed deeply and gave me a thoughtful expression. “Remember the time when we found her in the backseat of that abandoned car with only her bra and panties on?”

  I winced at the memory. We were only ten, and I hadn’t seen her for two days. She missed my class play, but the Furys were there to whistle and clap for me when I was on stage. “We woke her up and took her inside.”

  She pulled me into her shoulder, hugging me. “We fed her. Then, you cleaned up her vomit as I washed the towels and stuff in my mom’s washer.”

  Tears clouded my vision. “You were the best friend anyone could ever ask for.” My chin trembled with the words. “Her place is pretty clean now. I just have to do a few more things, but I’d rather do it alone. I feel like I have to.”

  “I get it; I do.” She stepped away and put her cup in the sink, brushing off her hands. “So then, if I’m not helping you there, how about I go food shopping and make a really great lunch…” she looked down at her watch and laughed. “Or dinner for us?”

  “Okay,” I said smiling, wiping the stupid tears from my cheeks. “That sounds great.”

  We ended up walking out together after dressing and trying our best to look presentable to the outside world. I helped her cover up her black eye with some amazing foundation she had at the bottom of her make-up bag.

  “Sometimes, I bruise easily. This is the best stuff for covering it up,” she explained as I watched her dab it into her skin with a thick brush. Within seconds the bruise faded under the thick cosmetic. I assumed that was a cop thing—walking around with cuts and bruises you had to hide from everyone. I wondered what Dean had under his clothes. Was he full of bruises and…? I needed to stop my thoughts from wandering to him at every opportunity—especially when the conversations or situations had nothing to do with him.

  For instance, there was a beautiful bouquet of flowers on the porch outside. I knew it was for Brooke. I knew it would be from her ex, who still had no name to me. But, for a split second, I imagined they were left for me from Dean.

  I’ve turned into one of those stereotypical, desperate love-struck girls. “Punch me in the vagina,” I mumbled.

  “What?” Brooke asked, stepping around the beautiful flowers.

  “Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. You know you’re screwed when your thoughts are being said out loud because your emotions have high-jacked your mouth, and it tells all your secrets. “That’s kind of sweet. He left you flowers.”

  But she didn’t look like someone who thought it was sweet. Brooke’s eyes scanned the front yard with a quizzical brow.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she sighed, picking up the sweet-smelling gift. “I’m just surprised that’s all. We didn’t end our conversation on a good note last night.”

  “Seems like he really wants you to reconsider him,” I said, thoughtfully.

  “Yeah,” she whispered, walking down the steps and tossing the flowers into the garbage. “Flowers aren’t going to make that happen.”

  My mouth dropped open as I watched her climb into her car and drive away. Maybe Brooke caught him with someone else? I turned my head and eyed the ominous flower arrangement. I haven’t gotten flowers in…ever. No man had ever bought me flowers. My heart ached.

  Well, that realization made me feel special.

  Frowning, I stomped across the snowy grass and onto my mother’s porch. I didn’t need a man to get me flowers. I threw open the front door and furiously grabbed at the dozens of bags of garbage I needed to drag out to the curb.

  If I wanted flowers, I’d just buy myself flowers.

  Hell, there was a whole garden box hanging from one of the windows in my apartment back in Vermont. I could plant my own damn flowers.

  I hauled all the bags out and piled them high. How embarrassing, it looked like an episode of Hoarders was filmed there; The Drunk Years.

  And if I wanted my flowers to last forever, I’d do exactly what my mother did and buy a fake-ass vase of them and keep them as a centerpiece on my dining room table for twenty years.

  Storming back into the house, I slammed the door behind me. I ignored the slight smell of bleach that still lingered in the air and ran into the kitchen. The place didn’t look half bad. There were just a few things left to do, like go through that wretched pile of papers I jammed in the corner of the counter the other day.

  I snatched the mess of papers, slapped them onto the coffee table in the living room, and flung my ass into the clean-smelling couch cushions.

  Bar flyers. Off course there would be flyers for bars.

  Ladies’ Night advertisements.

  Happy Hour circulars.

  Each one crumpled and crushed in my fists. These were the papers she didn’t want anyone to touch? These were the things that were important to her?

  Some of the papers were filthy, sticky with God-only-knew-what, so I shook the remaining papers out and wiped my hands across the fabric of my pants. I’d do a wash later.

  As I did that, one page of the chaos in front of me stood out against all the others. It was a handwritten letter tucked inside a creamy yellow envelope addressed to my mother and me.

  A sense of uneasiness tightened low in my stomach. I quickly slipped the letter and envelope out from the pile and unfolded it in my lap.

  Dear Audrey and Olivia Rhys, it began in neat cursive handwriting.

  The Troy family is deeply saddened to inform you of Kenneth J. Troy’s untimely passing on January 3rd following a tragic illness.

  Kenneth J. Troy was my father’s name.

  And January 3rd was over a month ago.

  I suddenly felt dizzy.

  Kenneth J. Troy is survived by his beloved wife Camilla Troy, of thirty years, and their two children, Isabella (24) and Madison (20).

  He had a family?

  Following his wishes, the Troy family held a graveside service at the family plot on the Troy-Fitzgibbons estate in Georgia. Kenneth J. Troy was a modest, private man and wanted it that way.

  He had an estate?

  I clawed through the rest of the papers.

  Formal letters from lawyers.

  Orders of protection. Restraining orders. Dozens of them.

  Bank statements that went all the way back to the year I was born.

  I pawed through each one, separating them into piles across the coffee table to examine them.

  Each month the Troy family, of Berkeley Lake Georgia, deposited exactly $15,000 into an account with mine and my mother’s name on it.

  For the last twenty-five years.

  The most recent bank statement was from January, last month. Totaling the account to a little over four million, five hundred thousand dollars.

  I was a millionaire.

  Paid in full by a family who from what it looked like, compensated my mother for pretending I’d never been born.

  Chapter 13

  Dean


  The cadets were dead.

  Both victims shot in the back of the head at close range. The perpetrator used a Beretta Panther—wasn’t hard to tell since the bullets blasted right out of the front of both their skulls—embedding themselves in the wall of a vacant building a block away from our command. Red spray paint was used to decorate the walls to create a more sickening effect. The word, “Whore,” painted over and over in drippy bold letters. A real estate agent and her client found the bodies sprawled out on the fourth floor just beyond the sliding glass doors to the balcony.

  The client ran out screaming, ended up falling down a flight of stairs.

  I guess she didn’t appreciate the view.

  Lucky for her, she would still get to sleep peacefully that night with her ankle wrapped up tight on ice, while I stayed and scraped the dead children off the floor.

  And they were children.

  Both of them were only seventeen.

  Telling parents that their children are dead is the worse thing imaginable. When I first got promoted to detective, I used to stop in a restroom somewhere before I had to say the words. I’d lock the door and say the words out loud to my reflection. I’d use the parents’ name, making sure I pronounced it right. I repeated it slowly over and over until I could do it without a hitch to my voice.

  With my years on the job, I’ve learned to make it look easy.

  It never was, and it never will be. These are the words a family will replay in their nightmares for the rest of their lives, and as a cop, you end up hating yourself for being the one that has to say them.

  You lose yourself somewhere in the heaviness of your heart or the racing of your pulse and become the stone on which the grieving need to fall against.

  “Mrs. Tatum, I’m Detective Dean Fury.” Clear, precise. “I am so terribly sorry.” I held her hand in mine, and I broke her heart one word at a time. I’ve always said the words with utter genuine compassion and empathy—as if they were being told to me. You say the words you’d want to hear if it were your child, and you wait and you deal with their response as best you can. You take whatever they throw at you. You listen to every word they have to say. You stand and take it, absorb it all in. Answer any questions they have in the kindest way you can.