Cuffed

by K. Bromberg

  At some point, I walk into the house, turn off the oven, and blow out the candle as if I’m on autopilot. My eyes burn. My stomach churns. The pressure in my chest makes it hard to breathe.

  Because she is right.

  I wrote her name down. It may have been a doodle, but her name was there on the top of the list.

  I held on to the file when I knew I shouldn’t. My initial intentions might have been pure behind it—find out what exactly she experienced so I could . . . so I could be the goddamn hero.

  Fuck.

  I’m such a damn asshole.

  I didn’t want to screw this up and look what I just did.

  Trust is hard for her.

  And I just went and fucked that up.

  I clench my fist and beg for something to hit.

  The problem is, the only thing worthy of being punched is myself.

  I drive.

  I press the pedal to the metal and push the limits of the engine as I roar down the rural road. I use the rush of the air through the open windows to fill my ears and drown out my thoughts. And to dry my tears.

  I don’t know where I’m going.

  I have no clue.

  All I know is I need space and freedom and air that Grant Malone doesn’t breathe.

  All I want is to lose myself in something—possibly in someone—so I can remind myself why I don’t let my guard down.

  All I need are my rules back in place.

  All I want is my chest to stop hurting and my heart back.

  I know that, regardless of how determined I was to hold on to it, I left it back at Grant’s house.

  I gave my heart to him, and I gave my trust to him.

  And he has just broken both.

  “You want to tell me why you’re beating the shit out of the heavy bag like it has done something to you?”

  I don’t have time for Grayson or his shit right now. “I can punch you instead.”

  I grunt as I connect again. The jolt of my fist against the bag ricocheting up my arm and slamming into me is nothing compared to what I deserve.

  “Who pissed you off?”

  “No one.”

  Another grunt. Another unsatisfying slam against the bag.

  “Ah, so then you pissed yourself off.” He chuckles, and I don’t respond. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry, man,” he says suddenly, as if the wind has been knocked from his sails. And it’s just enough to catch my attention that I glance his way.

  “What?”

  “Did you blow your interview?”

  “No.” I hit the bag again. “I killed the interview.”

  “Then what the fuck man?” A few seconds pass. “Oh.”

  “Yup.” A one-two combo.

  “How’d you fuck it up?” I love that I have brothers who understand what’s going on without my ever saying a word, but at the same time, it’s annoying as fuck when I want to be left alone. A blessing and a curse.

  A jab combo. An uppercut that I pretend is Grayson if he doesn’t leave me the hell alone.

  “Because I am a dumbfuck, is how.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Gray says and dodges to his left as I miss the bag on purpose and come a little closer than I should to his chin.

  My arms ache, but there’s nothing I can do but blame myself.

  “So? What did you do?”

  It’s his question that steals my air. I throw one more punch and then let my arms hang as I rest my head against the bag and try to catch my breath.

  “I broke her trust,” I murmur, not even sure I want to tell him. How could I have been so damn stupid?

  “You are a dumbfuck.” He slaps me on the back, and I jerk my shoulders back to get him off me.

  “So we’ve established.” I step away from the heavy bag and walk toward the bench where my water bottle sits, gritting my teeth when he follows.

  “Considering you’re here and beating the shit out of a bag instead of figuring out how to make it up to her, I’d say it’s definitely been established.”

  “Leave me the hell alone, Gray. I can handle things on my own.”

  “You sure about that?” Not at the moment. “Because I may not know what the fuck you did, but the big brother I know doesn’t give up without a fight. You’re the hero. The guy who saves things . . . so, go save this.”

  I glare at him.

  “I’m out of the hero business.”

  “Like hell you are.”

  “C’mon, Em. Open up.” I pound my fist on her door. Again. The same as I’ve been doing for the past ten minutes.

  “She obviously doesn’t want to talk.”

  Leo’s voice startles me, and when I turn, I find him leaning against the wall of the next hangar over, arms across his chest, eyes hidden beneath the shadow of a ball cap, body riddled with irritation.

  “Thanks, but it’s none of your business, Leo,” I say and turn back to the door.

  “It actually is my business.”

  I’m not in the mood for this shit. “You know what?” I say as I take a few steps down the stairs. “I love that you watch out for, Em. I do . . . I love knowing that when she’s here alone, you have her back . . . but I’m not the prick from the loan office trying to get in her pants. I appreciate the whole big brother thing you have going, but it isn’t needed. So, do you mind?”

  Leo stands to his full height and takes a few steps toward me. Christ, here comes the macho bullshit.

  “Choose wisely,” I say with a lift of my brow. While I may not be in the mood to fight after hitting a heavy bag for over an hour, landing a punch on a real, live person might feel a lot more satisfying.

  We stare at each other for a few seconds before he nods slowly.

  “She isn’t here.”

  “Where is she?”

  He shrugs. “Not sure.” He knows where she is. “She took off outta here like a bat out of hell.”

  “Christ.” The gypsy girl has gone, and I have no one to blame but myself.

  “You’re a good guy, Malone, but cop or no cop, you hurt her, I have no problem throwing a punch in her honor.”

  “I think she’d have no problem throwing one herself.”

  The entire day replays in my head. Over and fucking over.

  Killing the interview. I nailed every question with such precision that when I walked out of there, I had no doubt I was going to get the promotion.

  The highest high.

  Coming home to what I thought was perfection—Emerson’s car in my driveway and her waiting for me in my house—and then it turning to shit.

  The look on Em’s face. The accusations she hurled. The goddamn fucking everything I did to her all because I kept the file. If I wasn’t going to look at it, then why did I keep it?

  The lowest low.

  Fuck me.

  The rest of the night is a blur. The gym. The showdown with Leo. The coming home to see the file sitting on the table and knowing I’m to blame for all of this but having no clue how to fix it.

  If she thought I broke her trust before—twenty years ago—and she had a hard time getting over it, then she sure as shit isn’t going to get over this.

  But what kills me more than anything is what happened this afternoon when I went to move her file into the storage box. I can’t get it out of my head. The loose picture that slipped out and fell to the floor. The one of an eight-year-old Emmy Reeves—eyes haunted, skin pale, body language withdrawn, scared as hell—staring back at the camera.

  The sight staggered me. My memory may have remembered a little girl with bouncy pigtails, freckles, a smile with missing teeth, and a laugh that came from her belly, but that was only the reality a naïve little boy could see. A little girl who looked so scared she might break if you push her shoulder with your finger is what she was.

  And even two hours later, I can’t get the image out of my head because that haunted look she had in the photo was the same one Emerson looked back at me with today before she left.

  “Earth to G
rant,” Grayson says, throwing a pretzel at me. I don’t react.

  Leave me the fuck alone. I repeat it in my head for the millionth time but don’t say a damn word. I want to wallow in my pity. I don’t deserve to, but I’m going to.

  “It must have been really bad,” Grady says.

  “You think he cheated on her?” Gray asks.

  “I’m right here, assholes. I can hear everything you’re saying, so why don’t you just ask me yourselves?” I say it, but I don’t want them to ask. I just want them to shut up. So, I slump farther down into the lounge chair in my backyard and stare up at the stars above.

  “You’re not responding when we came here to try to cheer you up, so . . .” He shrugs. “We’re gonna keep guessing until you start talking. You know it’ll make you feel better.”

  “I didn’t cheat on her,” I mumble as the words she said ring in my ears.

  “Well, that’s good because that’s one fire I wouldn’t be able to put out,” Grady says and then looks at me when I don’t respond. “C’mon, you know that was a little funny?” He holds his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Just a bit?”

  “Shit. He thinks he’s Chris Rock now with the jokes,” Grayson chimes in as the crack of a bottle of beer opening sounds off.

  “Thanks for the visit, but you guys can go now.” Their banter is not what I want to deal with right now, but it’s obvious my statement falls on deaf ears. They don’t move. “Okay, then I’m going to ignore you guys like you aren’t here.”

  Grayson swears at me when I reach over and snake his fresh beer from his hand without asking. I take a long pull on it, lay my head on the back of the chair, close my eyes, and tune them out.

  And think of Emerson.

  It works for a little bit until something Grady says breaks through my thoughts and catches my ear. If he’s purposely trying to get me to talk, it works.

  “I bet you anything he couldn’t handle it,” Grady says.

  “Couldn’t handle what?” I ask, lifting up one eyelid to look at them

  “You think?” Grayson interjects as if I’m not even here and hadn’t spoken.

  “Yeah.”

  “What the fuck are you two talking about?” I growl. I’m tired. I’m drunk. And fuck me, I miss Emerson, and for more reasons than just because. This guilt and regret are eating away at me from the inside out.

  “You looked her up, didn’t you?” Grady says, prompting me to close my eyes again and exhale. “Curiosity got the better of you, and you looked her up. Pulled her file or whatever the fuck you cops do so that you knew what you were facing.”

  Ignore him. He’s just trying to goad you into talking.

  “Just like our Grant to need all his ducks in a row so he knows exactly how to handle a situation, especially when that situation is a feisty, sexy handful who doesn’t just fall into his arms like every other woman on the planet,” Grayson adds with a chuckle that grates on my last nerve.

  “Too bad a person isn’t a situation,” Grady says, the statement hitting its mark. Good thing I’ve had enough to drink that I’m mellow or I might just have landed that punch I was jonesing for yesterday.

  Don’t take the bait.

  “True,” Grayson muses. “I’m not saying that I’d ever follow through with it, but I can’t say I blame him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s natural to want to know what you’re dealing with. I mean . . . we all know whatever happened to Em was fucked up . . . so, maybe Grant was being a good guy and wanted to know what triggers to avoid or some shit like that for her own benefit.”

  “You’re giving him too much credit,” Grady says, and I clench my jaw. They may be enjoying making their damn point, but that doesn’t mean I have to react to what they are egging me on to. “You know our Grant. He just wants to swoop in and save the day like always.”

  Another dig. Another bullshit dig.

  “He did save our asses a few times,” Grayson says.

  “But this is different.”

  “It is different. It’s Emmy. And Grant’s in love with her.”

  Grady snorts. “Hasn’t he always been?”

  Patience snapped. Buttons pushed.

  “Will the two of you shut the fuck up already? You’ve made your goddamn point even though you have no fricking clue what the hell happened,” I lie because they nailed it on the head, which makes it even worse. That I’m that fucking readable and predictable. I shove up out of the chair to pace, and it takes me a few seconds to gain my balance. The beer is hitting me, and I already know I need it to hit a lot harder.

  Because they’re right.

  I am in love with her.

  Jesus Christ, when the fuck did that happen?

  Probably about second grade.

  I look at the list of texts on my phone.

  Grant and his apologies and explanations and hurt I don’t want to deal with.

  Christopher and his promises that we should have loan approval in a week or two, and since he’s charging me a below the rate fee, how about I repay him by going out for a few drinks. At what point will the man understand that it isn’t going to happen?

  Desi and her daily check-in to make sure I’m okay and that I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth.

  Leo and his questions about the classes over the next few days and how to arrange staff since I’m the one who typically does it.

  I scroll through them again and then toss my phone to the end of the bed before snuggling deeper under the comforter. It smells too much like Grant and so I pretend the world outside and everything that happened doesn’t exist.

  I know they all think I’m out jumping. That I closed my eyes and put my finger to the map and drove to that spot. That I’m chasing the wind and being the gypsy I typically am.

  But I’m not.

  My car’s in the red hangar where it can’t be seen.

  And I’m holed up in my apartment. Alone.

  The person I’ve become fighting the urge to cut myself, while the little girl underneath screams for more of the pain she knows. The pain she needs to feel again to know she’s alive.

  But I haven’t cut myself.

  And I won’t.

  If there’s one thing I’m going to win in this whole damn situation, it’s going to be that.

  I don’t even have a desire to jump.

  Grant stole that from me.

  Just like he stole my heart.

  My trust.

  But both of them have been broken before. Both of them have wounded me, and I have survived.

  The only difference this time around is my ability not to feel anything.

  Because hell if right now I don’t feel everything.

  So much so that it hurts.

  It pisses me off more than anything because I can’t turn them off.

  That I can’t run away from them when that’s all I’ve ever known how to do.

  “You’re restless.”

  “No shit.” I look over to Nate, who has obliged me with a drive by of Miner’s Airfield for no other reason than to see if Emerson is back.

  “Just go talk to her.”

  “I’ve tried.”

  “Well, try harder. It’s not as if she isn’t going to notice the cruiser driving by several times this week.”

  “I know. It’s just . . .”

  “I know, I know. There’s more to it that I don’t understand other than you fucked up royally . . . well, royally unfuck yourself,” Nate says and shakes his head.

  “Gee, thanks, Dad.” I roll my eyes and turn back onto the highway.

  “Did you call her?”

  “She won’t pick up.”

  “Did you text her?”

  “She won’t reply.”

  “Did you stand there and pound on her door?”

  “Ha.” The image of Leo flexing his muscles comes to mind. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “Did you send her flowers? Chicks always love flowers.”


  “Not this chick,” I murmur, thinking I won’t test fate by sending them to her twice.

  “Then what is it she likes? What is it that is unique to you two? Use whatever that is. Chicks dig uniqueness.”

  “According to you, chicks dig everything.”

  “Be original,” he repeats.

  And I laugh. But as I glace at the Blue Skies sign one more time before we leave, an idea starts to form as a call comes across the radio.

  “Grant?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Don’t you want to go out front and play?”

  “No. I don’t feel like it.”

  The screen door creaks. The wood of the porch flexes with each step she takes. The smell of her perfume fills my nose when she sits next to me.

  “You miss her, huh?”

  I nod instead of talk because my throat burns from trying to hold back the tears. Boys don’t cry over girls, but she’s gone, and all I want is to cry because I miss her.

  My mom slips her arm around me and pulls me against her side. I concentrate on pushing the rocks on the porch beside me around with my finger instead of crying.

  “Why did she have to go?”

  I’m the reason she left.

  She made me promise, and I told.

  I’m the reason she left.

  “She’s gone for just a bit. She and her mommy are at the hospital for—”

  “Is she sick?”

  “No.” My mom makes that one word sound so sad. “She’s just not feeling well.”

  “But why—”

  “And then after they leave, they are going to go on a big adventure,” she says in that funny voice she uses when she tells us the dentist is going to be fun. Like I’m supposed to believe her when she’s not telling the truth.

  “Where?” I ask, my hopes getting up that she’ll send me postcards.

  “I don’t know,” she murmurs and then sniffles as if she is crying, but when I look up to her, she shifts suddenly so I can’t see her face. “Are these the rocks you were painting?” The dentist voice is back again.

  “Yeah. I painted them for Emmy.”

  “That was nice of you.”