Combative Trilogy

by McLean, Jay

  She visibly swallows.

  I add, “What were you like in high school, Madison? Did you date? Did you have boys falling at your feet? Oh, I bet you were so damn sweet and innocent, you didn’t know you had guys after you. Yeah…” I release a bitter laugh, nodding with it. “I bet you were that girl.” I pause, watching her eyes turn to stone. “Do you have brothers and sisters? What are your parents like? How did you lose your virginity—”

  “Stop it,” she bites out, her teeth clenched.

  I stop pacing and face her. “Okay, so I guess all of those questions are off limits.” I tap my finger on my chin. “Let’s go with something easy then. How about… what high school did you go to?”

  Her face turns red, lips pressed tight as she tries to contain her sob. Her eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t let them fall. “Stop it, Ky. Please.” She’s begging now.

  And I almost cave.

  Almost give in to her.

  Again.

  “No, Maddy, I’m not going—”

  She stands up, picking up the frames and holding them to her chest before pinning me with her glare.

  And my heart stops.

  I’ve seen that same look too many times before.

  From Jackson.

  From Christine.

  Yeah, she’s pissed.

  But beyond that, she’s disappointed.

  She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She makes her way to the door while I sit down on the coffee table, my elbows resting on my knees and my head lowered. I hear the door click.

  “Madison,” I grind out.

  “What, Ky?”

  I don’t look up. “If you walk out right now because you’re too damn scared to open up to me, then don’t bother coming back.” I sniff, trying to keep it together. “I’m done chasing you.”

  Chapter 20

  “Do you think these sessions help you at all?” Dr. Aroma asks.

  “No.”

  “Yet you keep coming back.”

  I sit up straighter. “Do I have a choice?”

  She flips open a folder—my file—and skims the pages. “Oh yeah,” she sings. “You have to be here.”

  I sigh and roll my eyes at the same time. “Trust you to get my hopes up over nothing.”

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?” I ask, the irritation in my voice evident.

  She doesn’t skip a beat. “Do you trust me?”

  “No.”

  “Do you trust anyone?”

  I press my lips tighter.

  “Do you think you have trust issues?”

  “Shouldn’t you be the judge of that? I’ve been sitting here for how many sessions now and you’re still asking me things that you should be working out.”

  “You don’t give off much, Ky.”

  “Maybe that’s my choice.”

  “So you choose to be closed off and not trust anyone?”

  Tapping my foot impatiently, I shrug and look out her window.

  “Sucks for anyone who tries to get close to you, Ky. Especially if they love you. Or plan on loving you one of these days.”

  “Are you talking about Madison?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I’m talking about a certain detective that feels your pain enough to make you talk to someone about it.”

  “So I don’t I have to be here?”

  “I didn’t say that. Time’s up.”

  You know what sucks? Being mad at the world and not having an outlet. I’m too injured to train and too pissed at myself to care.

  I sleep on the couch, or attempt to anyway. I don’t want to miss it when those three knocks sound at my door. The quiet, timid knocks that let me know Madison’s on the other side. I’ve imagined it so many times—the way she’d look when I opened the door—her smile always shy, like she wasn’t expecting me to be on the other side, happily accepting her company. I even got up occasionally to peek through the peephole, eying the hallway, hoping she’d be there.

  For two days, I didn’t leave my apartment, just wishing to God I’d hear that sound.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  Nothing.

  It never came. And by the third day of nothing, I’d given up hope.

  I should’ve just taken the two steps from my apartment to hers and been the one to deliver the knocks, but that would mean me giving in to her again.

  I gave her an opening, and I gave her an out.

  She chose the out.

  And the worst part? She left me thinking about Ashlee, the girl I held on such a high pedestal. Just like I did with Madison. Maybe it was my fault—the way I let girls treat me.

  What Ashlee and I had—I thought was easy. There was no effort in being together. We didn’t fuck with each other’s heads. Maybe that was the reason she decided to fuck some other guy—but, until that happened, I thought we were perfect.

  When Madison and I were together—we were far, far from perfect.

  We weren’t even really that good.

  Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself. It was the only way I could be convinced she wasn’t worth it.

  I’m still convincing myself of her worth a good half hour after I’d hung up with Debbie from the flower shop. She told me The Madison was ready to collect and that she couldn’t wait to see us. I didn’t have the heart to tell her. What was I going to say? It was over before it even began? We just didn’t work well together? She checked my Facebook? I scoff at myself, then finally collect my balls and the remainder of my courage and knock on her damn door.

  After a moment, the knob turns and she opens it, just enough to peek out.

  I square my shoulders. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” she squeaks, opening the door wider. She stands a little taller, with her hair a mess, eyes red, and cheeks wet. It’s obvious she’d been crying.

  For a second, I lose the ability to speak.

  To think.

  To breathe.

  “Ky?” It’s one word. My name. But it holds a hundred different meanings. A thousand different questions. She opens the door fully and stands in front of me, her gaze penetrating mine. “Did you need something?”

  I force myself to look anywhere but at her. “Debbie called,” I tell her, my focus on the inside of her apartment. “She said the—” I stop myself from saying The Madison. I don’t want to say her name, regardless of what it means. “The Rainbow Rose is ready to collect, and she wanted us to pop in and see her.”

  “Okay… do you want to? I can go on my own. Or you can just go. It is yours.”

  With a sigh, I let my eyes drift shut. My heart—it’s hurting. And the lack of confidence in her words causes the pain. When I open my eyes, she’s looking down at the floor. “We should go together. She said she wanted to see us.”

  She nods but doesn’t look up. “Give me two minutes to get ready.”

  “I’ll wait downstairs.”

  * * *

  When I get down to the foyer, the first things I see are the mailboxes. A bitter laugh bubbles out of me. I’ll never look at mailboxes the same. I shove my hand in my pocket and pull out my keys, realizing I haven’t checked it in three days.

  I open the mailbox and all the air leaves me—just like it did the first day I saw her.

  I reach inside and pull out the single blue rose. It had wilted, either from lack of air in its confines or the time it had been there—either way, it was dead.

  I try to recall if Debbie had mentioned the meaning behind a blue one, and I can’t for the life of me remember. I shove the flower back in and shut the box, then I pull out my phone and search the meaning: the impossible or the unattainable.

  Before I have a chance to think, the elevator doors open and she steps out—her eyes still lowered. She’s wearing a yellow dress that goes down to her knees and a blue sweater. I wonder for a moment if it’s a sign. Yellow for friendship, blue for impossible. An impossible friendship?

  Yup. Pretty much sums up what we are.
>
  * * *

  Madison doesn’t put her hand on the crook of my elbow. We don’t even touch or speak the entire walk to Debbie’s Flowers.

  I have nothing to say, or maybe I have too much.

  Debbie smiles when we walk in, but her smile fades quickly, her gaze moving first to me and then to Madison. “Come out back, sweetheart. Let’s have a look at your flower.”

  Madison follows behind her as I stand at the front of the store, hands in my pockets, wondering what the hell I’m even doing here.

  “Did you give it to him?” I hear Debbie ask.

  I can’t hear Madison’s response or anything after that.

  They come back a few minutes later, Madison holding the plant with both hands. She sets it on the counter and reaches into her bag for an envelope filled with cash. “How much do I owe you?” she asks quietly.

  “Oh, it’s already taken care of,” Debbie says.

  I clear my throat from behind Madison, and when she turns, she refuses to look at me. “I don’t feel comfortable with you paying—”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “No. It’s always something, Ky. Nothing in this world comes for nothing.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  She turns back around and speaks to Debbie. “I don’t want him paying for it. Can I just pay and you give him his money back?”

  Debbie shakes her head. “Tell you what… how about you work it off? A couple shifts a week? I could use the help.”

  “Okay,” Madison says with a shrug, dropping the envelope in her bag and picking up the plant.

  Once we’ve left the store, she grabs my arm to stop me. “You go ahead,” she says, still unable to look at me. “I’m going to walk around for a bit. Thank you, Ky.”

  It takes everything in me to not say her name, to not ask her to look at me, to not hold her and apologize for something I wasn’t truly sorry for.

  Instead, I nod and I quickly walk away.

  I’ve almost fallen asleep on the couch when I hear it.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  My eyes snap open and I jump to my feet.

  Then I wait.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  I swing the door open.

  Madison stands on the other side, her head lowered and her hands balled at her sides. Then she looks up and inhales deeply. “My mom left my dad and me when I was seven. She found another guy. Another family. A better one. She never contacted me afterward. She just left. My dad—he took it badly. He turned to booze and neglect. For years it was bad. He never hurt me. He just never cared. And then it got worse because he started taking drugs. It started with marijuana and then stronger stuff. I was surrounded by it. I’d go days without seeing him and—”

  “Madison,” I cut in. I don’t know where this is going, but I’m not sure how much more I can hear.

  “Shut up, Ky. Just let me talk.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, unable to speak.

  Her fingers flex and ball into fists again while a single tear streams down her cheek. “Then he met a woman who took him on a whirlwind of junkie adventures. She was always at the house. She never bothered to learn my name. She called me ‘girl’ and treated me like a slave, and my dad never did anything to stop it. After a while she got physical with me. It got to the point I was too afraid to leave my room, only coming out to eat and go to school. Then by the time I got to junior high, I wasn’t even enrolled anymore. My dad—I think he just forgot I existed.”

  My heart beats out of my chest and falls at her feet.

  She quickly wipes at her tears. “Then one day, when I was fifteen, I came out for food and found a fifty dollar bill on the kitchen counter. There was no note, no message, no goodbye.” She lets out another sob and tries to recover quickly, but her breaths are shaky, causing a strain on her words. “They just left me there,” she weeps. “And a part of me was grateful. But fifty dollars doesn’t allow you to pay the rent.”

  “Jesus Christ…”

  “So, no, Ky.” She finally sees me through tear-filled eyes. “I can’t answer your questions about what high school was like for me because I didn’t experience it.”

  “So how—”

  “And that’s all I can give you right now. And I’m sorry that I couldn’t give it to you earlier. And I’m sorry if it’s not enough—”

  “Enough?”

  “I’m sorry if it’s not enough to make you want to talk to me again. Because I’ve been miserable, Ky. For the last three days I’ve been sitting in my apartment miserable, and all I’ve wanted is for you to knock on my door and talk to me. I wanted you to understand, but I couldn’t talk about it. You gave me a chance, and I just couldn’t. And then you shut me out, and you left me devastated. And I’m sorry, okay? I’m so sorry.”

  I reach out and bring her to me.

  “I’m sorry that I—”

  “No, Madison. I’m sorry.” I kiss the top of her head and hold her tighter. “I’m sorry that I pushed you. I had no idea…”

  She wipes her face on my shirt and looks up at me. “Will you please just talk to me now? Because I need you. I know it’s wrong for me to need you. And I know that you—”

  I pull her into my apartment and shut the door behind her. “Fuck, Maddy, you have no idea how fucking sorry I am.”

  “I don’t need you to be sorry. I just need you to talk to me again.” I sit us down on the couch and pull her legs over mine. She sniffs away her tears. “I’m sorry I went on your face thing. I honestly—”

  “I don’t even care anymore.” I shake my head. How someone like her is still standing, still appreciating the world the way she does, I have no idea. But just like her outlook on life, she deserves to be cherished.

  And I’m going to be the one to cherish her.

  “But I—” she starts.

  “Shush.”

  “It’s just—”

  I kiss her, not just to shut her up, but because I have to. And as I kiss away the taste of tears from her lips, the desperation in our hearts—it finally dawns on me—I need her, too.

  Fuck her secrets.

  Fuck her past.

  I’m going to change all of it.

  * * *

  With every single kiss, he stole my breath and made it his, holding it captive.

  And I knew it then—that whatever we were meant to be, for however long time would allow it, it was going to be breathtakingly, heartbreakingly beautiful.

  Chapter 21

  “Can I ask you a question, Doc?”

  “Sure,” Dr. Aroma says, straightening her shoulders.

  “Do you believe in fate?”

  She tilts her head slightly, eyeing me with a look of concern. “What do you mean exactly?”

  “I mean, do you believe that things happen for a reason?”

  “Something specific you want to mention?”

  I shrug. “Say, hypothetically of course, that you’re in Afghanistan, and you know your time’s almost up. Your commander calls you and another guy from your unit in for a chat. He tells you that one of you can go home and it’s up to you two to decide. You and the other guy draw straws. You win, but you have nothing waiting for you at home. The guy that ends up staying back has a wife who’s pregnant. Still, you picked the longer straw, so you go home… to nothing. Two weeks later, the other guy gets shot in an ambush while on patrol. He dies. All the while, you’re sitting alone in your apartment feeling sorry for yourself until the day you go to his funeral.”

  “Did this happen to you, Ky?” she asks, picking up her notepad.

  “It’s just a hypothetical.”

  “And you think that, hypothetically, one guy died and one came home, and there’s a reason for that?”

  “No.” My shoulders slump. “Yes. I mean maybe. Like maybe I was supposed to cross paths with somebody that needed me. Like maybe I needed to save her. Madison and I—we’re very simi
lar people. We both have shitty pasts, and we’re both trying to find a way to change that. Because in the end, I think we’re both struggling with the realization that the past doesn’t create us.” I take a moment, gathering my thoughts. “I don’t think it’s our pasts that define us, and it’s not even our life’s final destination. It’s everything we do in between, the actual living, that creates who we are.”

  Madison ended up in my bed last night. We didn’t do anything, not physically, but that doesn’t mean that we didn’t connect. We faced each other, holding tight to what seemed like the only thing that made sense in our world—us.

  We spoke for a long time, and afterward, we both knew where we stood. For me, I’d give her everything—and in return, she promised to give me as much as she could. And that was enough. For now, and for as long as she needed it to be.

  DeLuca called once she’d fallen asleep in my arms. “Meet me at Club Zero in an hour. You can bring that girl of yours.” I almost hung up on him and called Jackson. I wanted to tell him to call the whole thing off, that I wanted out. It just didn’t seem important at that moment, not after learning about Madison’s life.

  The case, the need to ruin someone, the revenge—it seemed so trivial, so insignificant.

  Instead, I told DeLuca it wasn’t a good night, that my girlfriend wasn’t feeling well. “Madison?” he asked after a beat. “Is she sick?” The concern in his voice seemed genuine, and I’d wondered for a moment who the fuck Nate DeLuca was. Who he really was. As a person. And why he’d chosen the life of organized crime over anything else.

  “No. Not physically,” I told him.

  He seemed to understand and asked if we could meet the next night. To say that I was surprised was an understatement. For the first time since I’d met him, I wondered if he were crazy. Legit, certifiable, bipolar-type crazy.

  “Sure,” I said, not wanting to push my luck.