by Anna Brooks
She doesn’t see me approach her from behind. “Hell. No.” I growl.
“Jesus! You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing?” She leans on the side of the brick motel with a hand to her heart.
“What the hell are you doing? It’s four in the morning.”
“Oh, my God. You’re following me!”
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her, but I still know her. And right now, she’s scared. Her act of annoyance is fake. This anger bullshit is a cover-up for fear. Of what, I’m not sure yet. But I’m going to find out.
“Damn straight, I am. You ran once. It’s not happening again.” After finding her last night, I took care of some stuff at home then came back to the motel and hid out in the parking lot. My tinted windows prevented her from seeing me through the glass, but as soon as I saw her come out of her room, I couldn’t sit in my car anymore.
“I don’t even know what to say to you. Go home, Brandon. It’s pointless.” She leans down to stretch, and my eyes take in all the beauty that is Mary. Always more of a tomboy, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in a dress or skirt. Her body twists and turns, and I bite back a groan.
When she takes off in a jog, I quickly catch up. Glad I changed into track pants last night, I keep pace next to her. I know what she’s doing. Well, I know she’s avoiding me. Seeing her in one piece last night—safe, healthy, alive—I knew from taking one look into her troubled eyes that she ran. The one truth I was unwilling to face. I made up scenarios in my head about her writing that note against her will or that it was fake. My initial reaction was that somebody took her. I refused to believe that she left me. That shit hurt. I thought I meant something to her.
We’re jogging at a fairly fast rate through an old park, the sun is barely up, and I’m not quick enough to grab her before she trips on a branch and falls. Her hands brace the majority of the impact on her body, but one hip slams on a rock and she yells out in pain.
“Shit. You all right?” I kneel down next to her and try to help her up. She pushes me away and scoots back until she’s sitting against a tree.
Her tears fall onto the dry soil while she catches her breath. Seeing her in pain, any kind of pain—emotional or physical—brings me to my knees. I sit on an old tree trunk a few feet away and wait. I’ve waited twelve years. A few more minutes won’t hurt.
“I was fine,” she whispers. “I forced myself to be okay. I accepted it.”
“Accepted what?”
“It was my fault.”
“I’m not following. What was your fault?”
The glazed-over look she shoots me makes her almost unrecognizable.
“Everything.”
Frustration takes hold, and I move to squat down next to her. I wipe away the tears with my thumbs and lift her head so she’s looking at me.
“I’m clueless here, babe. Fill me in.”
Her sad eyes blink another tear out, and she says, “Your dad.”
No. “Please tell me that you don’t blame yourself.”
She nods.
“God, Mary. Is that why you ran?”
Her body is a blur as she abruptly stands. “Yes. Okay? I did it because there’s no way I could ever be around you again. You or your family.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“It’s my fucking fault your dad can’t walk, and I’ll live with it for the rest of my life. Not only that, but Scott Smith told me that I’d pay for getting him shot. And I couldn’t risk hurting you or your family anymore. I had to disappear.” Inhaling a huge breath, she continues, “You have your answer now. You see I’m fine. So please, stop trying whatever it is you’re doing. Just go home and leave me alone. It’s better for everyone.”
I shake my head and rub the back of my neck in frustration. This is fucking unbelievable. She gets a few feet away, when I say, “He can walk.” Her knees weaken, but she manages to stay upright. I walk until my lips are next to her ear. “And Scott Smith is in jail. He was caught a week after he shot my dad. He’s not getting out anytime soon.”
She twirls around and her ponytail hits me in the face. “But . . . how?”
I pull her closer and leave one hand around her waist while the other twirls the long brown strands that are still so soft they feel fake. The fragments of myself that I’ve been missing piece back together when I touch her. “How what?”
“How can he walk? The nurse in the hospital said . . .”
“She was wrong. He’s not entering a marathon or anything, but after many sessions of physical therapy and his notorious determination, he’s able to take a couple of steps with a cane.”
Small hands push me away. “Don’t patronize me!”
Before she gets any further, I grab her wrists and pull her to me then press her against a tree. She can’t get away from me again; I won’t let her. “I’m not patronizing you. He’s fine. He’s happy. Nobody blames you. The only thing anyone is angry at is that you left us. You fucking left me!” I would never hurt her, ever, but I step back and take a deep breath, needing to distance myself to collect my thoughts. I wished for her every day, but now that she’s in front of me, I don’t know how to react.
“Didn’t you care at all what you were doing to me? Did you ever think that maybe talking to me would have been a good fucking idea? ”
“I was keeping you safe.”
“That’s not your job! It was my job to keep you safe, to protect you . . . and I fucked that up.” I look at her scar, and she rubs her arm. “I should have been there.”
“I can’t do this right now, Brandon. I just can’t.” She places her hands on my face. “I’m here. I’m alive. Now go. Live your life and be happy. It’s better without me in it.” Then she presses her lips to mine and jogs off.
Chapter 6
Mary
HE CAN WALK.
A few steps with a cane is not the same as walking, though. Brandon can say Steve’s fine, but he’ll never be able to dance with his wife, go for a run, or play basketball with his grandkids.
I need to get away from Brandon. I need to think. My hip is throbbing in pain from when I fell, but I push on and practically sprint back to the motel. His shoes echo behind me, close enough for me to know he’s there, but far enough away to give me space.
One of the things I’ve always loved about him—he gave me what I wanted. And I don’t mean materialistic things. When I asked him to keep a secret, he did. If I didn’t want to tell him something, he backed off instead of pressing me for details. Open arms welcomed me if I was sad and offered comfort in the most sincere form.
And God, do I want that right now. His strong hold squeezing out all the torment I’ve lived with. Even if Steve is happy and safe, it doesn’t change the fact that he was shot. Because of me, because of my parents.
I used to run for exercise. But after being stuffed up in a motel room, I’ve found it helps clear my mind. It’s a necessity. I always go early in the morning just before sunrise, usually because I can’t sleep . . . because a nightmare of the past has somehow crept into my dreams. And at four in the morning, it’s practically desolate. It may have been a risk, but I had to take it for my sanity. I needed an hour a few times a week with just my feet pounding the pavement.
I slow to a walk, go into my room, and shut the door behind me. When I peek through the flowered curtain, Brandon waves at me. I don’t know how, but he’s gotten even hotter. His dark hair is now buzzed short, and his tall frame is surrounded by the perfect amount of muscle. He’s not too bulky, but his arms stretch the sleeves of his t-shirt in that sexy way and I know the kind of power that must be behind them.
I shake my head to rid it of the dirty thoughts taking shape and go shower to get ready for the day of cleaning gross motel rooms. If I stay busy and distracted, I won’t think about him.
* * *
Betty sits at the front desk and my mouth curves up in a smile at her as I carry a load of dirty laundry to the washer. I quickly throw the towels in, and wh
en I pass her again on my way out, she grabs my arm.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks.
“Hmm?”
“You look upset.” She pats my arm and leans back in her chair.
“How is that?” I cross my arms and squint my eyes at her.
“I can’t put a finger on it.” Her unpolished fingernail taps her lip. “It’s your cheeks.”
I laugh. “My cheeks?”
“Yes. They look pale.”
“Umm, I’m tired. After last night, I didn’t sleep well.”
She tilts her head. “Oh, yeah. Did the cops wake you? I forgot to ask.”
“You knew they were here?” How could she? She knows I’m hiding. She’s the one who lied to them and said she hadn’t seen me when they came looking after I disappeared. It’s not like her to be so careless.
Her eyes widen, and she covers her mouth. “Oh, Mary. I’m so sorry. They came looking for someone, and I told them to ask you if you’d seen her. Did something happen?”
“Oh, Betty. No. It’s fine.” She’s helped me so much; now I feel horrible that she feels bad. She doesn’t even know what happened last night, and already she’s about to cry. If it wasn’t for her, I would probably be dead. The only constant and safety I’ve felt in the past twelve years has been from the woman in front of me, and I refuse to let her feel guilty. “Nothing happened; I was just sleeping when they came by. It woke me up, that’s all.”
“I didn’t even think they might recognize you or take your name. It didn’t cross my mind. It was late, and they caught me off guard. God, what was I thinking?”
I pat her hand and help her back into her seat. “Nobody recognized me,” I lie. “It’s fine.”
“Okay, dear.”
I finish cleaning for the day, and my mind wanders to Charlotte. I wonder what happened with her and Travis. I really hope everything works out okay. The last time I saw him, he was just a kid. My eyes focused on Brandon last night, so I didn’t get a good look at Travis. I’m sure he’s attractive. Good looks run in that family.
When I’m finished with my work for the day, I set a bowl of microwavable soup in the worn-out microwave and wait. As I’m sitting on my bed, I reach under it and pull out an old shoebox. Staring at the cardboard, I contemplate for the hundredth time whether to open it or not. I haven’t looked inside of it since the day I dumped everything into this rectangle. The bright orange shoebox stares back at me. All my memories with Brandon are firmly tucked inside. I take a deep breath and flip the top.
The first thing I see makes me smile. I pick up the tattered baseball and roll it in my hand, his first homerun ball on the varsity team. Brandon’s autograph is still there but slightly faded. He told me it’d be worth millions someday so I needed to keep it safe.
The next brings a tear to my eye. One of those old keychains that have a tiny picture in the end, made larger when you squint and hold it up to light. I got it at the amusement park when we were sixteen. The first time his parents let us go by ourselves. I press it to my eye and aim it at the light. Brandon is standing with his arm wrapped around my shoulder, and my hand is resting on his stomach. It reminds me how everything between us was always so easy. For a brief moment, I wonder if what I did was a mistake, if leaving him wasn’t the best choice.
I pull out an old photo of us and laugh, remembering how scared I was. It was Halloween and we had bundled up in sweatshirts and hats. October in Chicago is usually pretty cold so when he said he wanted to go to a haunted house, I made sure to dress appropriately. They had taken the picture before we went in, and I was huddled to his side, waiting for something to jump out at me. His arms were wrapped firmly around me and he was whispering in my ear to stop being a baby because nobody could touch me. It was supposed to be fun. Scary. But fun. What happened that night was one of the worst experiences of my life.
I will never forget the fear I felt. Being ripped from his arms and thrust into a dark, cold hallway. It was worse than all the nights when grown men had tried to sneak in my bedroom. The real reason I would leave my bed for Brandon’s—the reason he didn’t know about.
After a dozen or so times of me sleeping in his bed, his persistence paid off and I finally told him something. The lie slipped so easily from my lips. “It just gets loud, Brandon. My parents are always having people over and I can’t sleep.”
My own father didn’t even get upset that one of his ‘friends’ was in his daughter’s room after I screamed the first time it happened. I pushed my dresser against the door after they left my room and sat up all night, staring at my door with scissors in my hand.
The next time, I didn’t even scream when someone began to pry my door open. The music was blaring from downstairs, and I knew nobody would be able to hear me. The dresser scooted inch by inch, and when I saw long, fat fingers gripping the doorframe, I ran to my window and climbed down the tree. It was either stay outside until morning or go to Brandon’s house.
So, wearing nothing but pajamas, I ran. When I reached his house, I had a choice. Wake up his family or try to get into his room. I found a few small rocks and threw them at his window. My arm got sore and I was afraid he’d never hear me. Alone and cold in the dark. Scared of every shadow. There was no way I was going to ring his doorbell. Finally, he peeked at me out of his window, and with a worried expression, flung the curtain closed. I met him at the front door, and though we were just thirteen then, a kind of security warmed my bones just because he was standing in front of me. He only walked to me, grabbed my hand, and led me to his bedroom. I slept in his bed that night while he slept on the floor.
Safe. That’s what he did to me. He still does, if I’m being honest. And that’s what scares the shit out of me. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since I saw him again, and already, I feel safer than I have in over a decade.
A knock on the door startles me, and I quickly shove everything back in the box. Betty said she was coming later to get the books I had picked up for her. A quick look out of the peephole makes me take a step back.
Brandon
“I don’t know why you’re pretending you’re not in there. I can hear you.”
I stand outside Mary’s door with a paper bag in my hand. I left her just this morning, but it’s already been too long. She’s not been back in my life for even a full day, and I can’t get enough of her. I have some buddies doing patrol to keep an eye and make sure she doesn’t take off again, but I don’t think she will. The threat of Scott Smith is gone; she has nothing to fear anymore.
When I was looking for her, our memories kept me going. The only thing pushing me forward. But now that I know she’s here, the future is suddenly obtainable. A future with her. A future I thought was never possible. A future I knew I always wanted.
We used to play house. At first, I hated it; I would have rather played ball or something with Travis. She had no other friends, so I was stuck playing the dad. She would be off in her own world being the mom. I sat in a chair with a fake pipe and newspaper watching her gently bounce a doll, humming and rocking it to sleep. Then she’d put it in a fake crib and bring me supper. I always knew she’d make a great wife and mother. Being in our own pretend little world was one of my favorite places to be. I’d imagine that was exactly what it’d be like when we grew up. Eventually, we got too old to play house, but I never forgot that.
The door swings open, and I take off my aviators, firmly setting them on top of my head.
“I’m not pretending I’m not here. I’m ignoring you. There’s a difference.” Her crossed arms make her perky tits stand at attention, and I lick my lips imagining what they look like. Although we made out a few times, it never went much farther than that. Funnily enough, looking back, I don’t understand what the fuck I was such a pussy about. Dad really wouldn’t have made her stay away.
“Oh, my God! Are you really doing that right now? I haven’t seen you for twelve years, and you have the balls to stare at my chest?”
I
peel my eyes away and look at her face. “I’m sorry?”
“Yeah. Okay.” She uncrosses her arms and rests them at her side. “What do you want?”
“For you to stop acting like you’re pissed at me. Which is complete bullshit, seeing as I’ve been searching for you for twelve years. And the fact that I moved to Wisconsin, just because I got a lead on your whereabouts, should make you realize how much I sacrificed for you.”
Her eyes widen with every word, and she struggles to speak. “I . . . I’m sorry, Brandon. Really, I am. I figured you wouldn’t want me around since, ya know? Your dad and everything. And with the threat Scott left me, I was so scared he would try to hurt one of you guys. I was trying to protect you.”
I run my finger down her face, and her eyes close. “How could you ever think that? You were my best friend. I loved you and you disappeared. Just up and left me.”
She raises her lashes, and wetness brims the sexiest pair of green eyes I’ve ever seen. The hurt, the agony, and the guilt she’s been holding in fills every tear that falls. She never cries. Always holds her emotions tight in her chest.
“Shit.” I step into the room and kick the door shut behind me. The paper bag gets set on the floor and I pull her into my arms. “Not a day, Mary. Not a fucking day that I didn’t think about you. I would have nightmares about what was happening to you. Thinking you were hurt. Not knowing if you were dead or alive. I never felt an ounce of anger toward you for what happened to Dad. We were never threatened or afraid that Scott would retaliate.”
Silently, her body shudders, and I decide to get it all out there. Things I should have said when I first saw her instead of pretending I could just be content with having her back in my life. I still have so many questions about what she’s been doing, but all I care about right now is that she’s safe and she’s in my arms. But there are some things I need to get out in the open now and out of the way.