Off-Limits Box Set

by Ella James

  Then I dive right off the cliffside.

  For a second, there’s just air around me: thick and cold and slightly sharp. I glimpse the dark green water as it rises up to meet me. Then I’m plunged into the cold.

  The impact and the low temp jolts my system, and I want to gasp. Instead I open my eyes, blinking at the surface. Always eerie down here. With my lips still pressed together, I imagine opening my mouth. I imagine sinking while Lake Fate simmers above me.

  I can see the headlines.

  McKellan dead in hometown

  Bestseller drowns in Alabama

  Author dies mysteriously

  But it wouldn’t be mysterious, would it? Soon, the story would get out. My dad would talk, or Victor would. My agent. Everyone would know what happened. That’s how I would be remembered.

  What would Marley think?

  I kick a few times, hard, and kick again, and then I’m gasping at the surface. Then I’m swimming toward the shore.

  You can take the boy out of the lake, but you can’t take the lake out of the boy...

  I’m not a boy, though, am I?

  By the time I trudge onto the sand, everything is tinged in dusky blue. Somewhere fifty feet above me, Cora whines out her concern.

  Marley

  The bike ride to my childhood home takes less than ten minutes. I spend the first two wondering what my ass looks like. When we were together, Gabe would always talk about me on a bike. How it made me look—and what it made him want to do to me.

  Is he looking out the window as I pedal down the street?

  Marley, get a grip.

  I tell myself he doesn’t care, but that rings hollow. Clearly, he doesn’t not care. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since our terrible encounter, and since then, I’ve heard the pipes glug when he runs the water, felt the floor tremble when he slams a door, and heard the clink of what I thought might be free weights.

  Every sign of his existence in the space below me is a shock. When I remember how he acted, I feel more shocked. It’s been twelve years. Does he hate me that much? I guess there’s a reason people avoid their exes. If I’m smart, I’ll swallow my pride and find a new place. I make a mental note to call around and see if anything is vacant.

  And if not, a little voice asks as I pedal underneath the oak trees.

  You’re thirty-two, I tell myself sternly. I’ve lived twelve years away from Gabe. Twelve years in which a lot has happened. I’m not some weak, submissive woman who lacks confidence and courage. Someone who can be walked all over.

  I tell my old self-doubt to fuck off, and pedal harder toward the street’s end, where I coast down a hill, into a grove of tall pines right beside the lake. The houses in the cul-de-sac are little, white-washed matchboxes. Most have flowers by the mailbox, or a swing on the tiny front porch, but Mom’s doesn’t.

  Still, I find the house, with black shutters and a plain, pink wreath, in reasonable condition—which is good, because I’m paying Mr. Morrison, the man next door, to take care of the lawn and porch.

  I didn’t bother calling Mom before I headed over. My mother is enough for me to handle when she’s not expecting me.

  I press my mouth to the door’s crack: “Hey! It’s me, Mama!”

  When she doesn’t answer, I unlock the door and push it open slowly. My mother smiles at me from her recliner. I inhale the scent of sugar cookies and stale cigarette smoke, closing my eyes for half a second as I stand there in the doorway.

  “I baked those for you,” she says in a wheezy voice.

  I force myself to cross the dingy rug and hug her neck. “You look good,” I lie.

  “And look at you,” she says, pulling away, so she can crane her neck and see me. “New glasses. Are they…purple?”

  “Yep.” I push them up the bridge of my nose and look down at my mother. She’s got oxygen tubing taped to her face, and her pale skin is papery and slightly gray, but she looks glad to see me. Her version of glad.

  “How’s it going?” I ask. Years ago, I realized I do better dropping by here if I act extremely low-key. No theatrics—none of any kind—no matter what my mother says to me or how badly she tries to stir the pot.

  Mom waves to her ancient, green, suede couch.

  “Sit down,” she rasps.

  After years of battling multiple sclerosis, it’s the lung disease that got my mom—her body’s fuck-you for years of smoking menthols on the back porch.

  I sit gently on the edge closest to her mechanical recliner. “Only for a few minutes. I’ve got to go by the grocery store. Stock my empty fridge.”

  “Well, you’ve got to see your mama first,” she says in chiding tones.

  “How are you?” I ask again.

  She runs a palm over her gray hair, looking wary and annoyed. “I’m still here, I guess.” She looks at me with her lips pinched into a sort-of smile. “I managed to make cookies for you. My ankle hurts now.”

  Of course it does.

  “Thanks, but you know you didn’t have to.”

  “Nonsense.” She waves dismissively. When she fails to pick up her thread of the conversation, I resort to small talk.

  “Mr. Morrison seems to’ve been taking care of things. Looks like he re-painted those porch steps.”

  “Took him four whole days.” Mama looks incredulous, as if she can’t believe the nerve of the bastard.

  “Maybe he was busy.”

  “He was,” she says. “Dallying with his favorite neighbor.” She wrinkles her nose. “That Ms. Carthridge. Wears too much perfume and barely got her husband in the grave. We all know those tits are fake as balloons. That dead husband of hers was a salesman.”

  “Sounds like a delight.” What I really mean is you’re a bitch. I stand up and walk into the kitchen, looking for the promised cookies. I find them on the stovetop, on a Halloween-themed plate. A glance around the room reveals a fabric wall calendar with Velcro’d witch hats, brooms, and black cats bearing dates, as well as spider and spider web salt and pepper shakers. My mother has a thing for seasonal decorations—especially those she can find at the Dollar Tree.

  “Bring me one, and Diet Coke, too,” she calls.

  “Sure.”

  I sweep my gaze around the kitchen, which smells like bacon grease—the way it always has—then tip-toe down the short hallway that leads toward the rear of the place. Mom’s room is the first door on the left. I peek inside, and, finding her things in their proper place—nothing on the floor that might trip her; no evidence of any sort of issue—I rush back into the kitchen.

  I return to the shabby living room with a platter of five cookies and two big glasses of Diet Coke. I know if I don’t have some myself, Mom will start to nag and, eventually, scoff at my dislike of carbonated things, so I always pour some and have a few sips as we talk about the weather (cold, for fall, Mama insists), Mr. Hubert and Ms. Carthridge (yawn), her oxygen compressor (“acting finicky”), and her hot doctor, a fifty-something-year-old who always smells like mothballs, but has wide shoulders and an ass my mother wants to squeeze. Shudder.

  She’s just finished telling me about how Dr. Benson seems to relish calling her by her first name—Delphina—when Mom shakes her head and says, “I guess you heard about that poor ex-husband of yours.”

  I almost spit the Diet Coke out. “What?”

  Glee crosses her face: joy at catching me off-guard. “I heard that Gabe McKellan has come back,” she says with some dramatic flair. “Staying with his grandmama.” She shakes her head, looking mournful. “They say something awful happened up there in New York.” She waves her hand toward the ceiling, as if New York is up there with her dusty ceiling fan.

  “Something awful?” I shouldn’t take the bait, but I can’t seem to help myself.

  Mama waves her hand again. “Who knows exactly what,” she says. “But I heard it was tragic!”

  “Mm. Well, that’s not good.” I keep my tone neutral, even as my heart pounds. “No one gave you any details?”
r />   “You know, they never do,” she says, shaking her head. “No one ever talks to me.”

  I wonder why.

  I change the subject, though it pains me, and five minutes later, I’m cycling down the quiet street—with instructions to get mom a pork chop at the grocery store and “find yourself another husband, so you can make a grandbaby before I die.”

  Perfect.

  Three

  Marley

  For a while, I almost had another husband. Corey was the first doctor I met when I moved to Chicago after med school. He was—and is, I guess—the classic silver fox: confident without the ego, witty but not a show-off, capable but never arrogant. Corey made me feel safe and comfortable at time when I was still shell-shocked from what happened with Gabe. The thirteen years between us meant while I was struggling to get a foothold as a young professional, he was purchasing a second home and giving conferences to groups of anesthesiologists. From the first date on, I craved the safe and sheltered feeling he gave me.

  I was wearing his ring when, a year and a half ago, I started talking about babies over Chinese take-out. Instead of saying what he usually did—"I’d love to see you pregnant” or “You women and your baby-talk”—he said, “Listen, Marley…I’ve been fixed.”

  Fucking Corey had a vasectomy during his marriage to his first wife. When I lost my shit and demanded to know why he’d never told me, he gave our relationship the final blow: “C’mon, Marley, you weren’t serious! You’re on call every other weekend. Also, Mar, I mean this with utmost affection but…you’re not maternal. You’re a great physician. You don’t want your own rug-rat, not really.”

  “I have always said that!”

  “And you say you want to move to Africa!”

  Africa is, in fact, near the top of my bucket list, fuck you very much.

  I moved out the next morning. The next month, I missed my period, which sent me running, in a panic, to my OBGYN. She sent me home with a prescription for Xanax and contact info for her favorite psychotherapist. I spent three months in therapy before I felt like I had moved far enough past Corey to see clearly.

  Verdict: I want a baby. Why? Because I do. Because I want to be a mother. I just do. Why do I need a reason? More to the point: why do I need a husband?

  Yes, it’s true, it would be ideal if my child had a present father. But that doesn’t mean a baby born to me alone would have a less-than-awesome life. Men could mentor him or her. I’m a big fan of the idea that women can mentor—in a sense, “mother”—children, even if they don’t give birth to any. Why couldn’t male friends and relatives do the same for my baby?

  I did some soul searching, and I still felt good about it. So I found a good sperm bank, vetted some donors, and never looked back until I lost my angel at thirteen weeks.

  Mom has no idea. She’s not someone I trust with my emotions, so I didn’t tell her any of the trying-to-conceive bit. I didn’t even tell Zach. Kat and Lainey knew, and several of my girlfriends from Chicago. But that’s it.

  I’m going to keep it that way until I’m past twelve weeks again. That’s what I focus on as I pedal past the Fate Hotel and take a right, toward the grocery store. Just a few more months. I can hang in here a few more months, right?

  Right.

  By the time I lock my bike to a lamp post near the store’s front doors, I’ve put my mother’s desire for a grandchild out of my mind. I stand beside the Coke machines and pull out my phone, to go over my list.

  A quick glance at the screen reveals I’ve gotten four lunch invites. One is from my Grandma Ellis—my late Dad’s mom—asking if I want to go to Meg’s Soup Saucer. I do, of course, but I already have plans: Kat and Lainey are taking me for tacos. Kat’s text says, ‘Is noon okay? Can’t believe you live here now!! Cartwheels!’ The third text is from my brother, Zach. ‘Do you need me to help you unload the truck, or take it to the return spot? Want to grab lunch?’ And then there’s the one from my landlady, Miss Shorter: ‘I’ve got some fresh bread for you, honey. Come by when you can, and I’ll make you some chicken salad, too.’

  Well, then. If that’s not a hearty hometown welcome, I don’t know what is. I text everyone back, then glance down at myself. I’m wearing black Nike running shorts, pink sneakers, and a blue Cubs sweatshirt: perfect for a grocery run in my old Chicago neighborhood, less ideal for an outing in a town where everybody knows me.

  Oh well. I adjust my ponytail and stroll into the store.

  As I recall, there’s not much in the way of organics: basically just fruit, veggies, and milk. A quick trip around the perimeter confirms I’m right. I stock my cart with all my faves, and then strike off down the middle aisles for starchy things like cereal, granola bars, and crackers. Not to mention light bulbs, detergent, and trash bags.

  My mind wanders while my feet do: right to where it shouldn’t. Gabe. And what to do about him. Stay or go… And what about what Mom said?

  I make a mental note to ask Kat at lunch. Of course, that means I’ll have to tell her and Lainey what’s the what. Who am I kidding, though? I’ll need to tell them anyway. So they can know that when they visit me, they’re near the enemy.

  I replay our encounter for the dozenth time as I browse the popcorn and peanuts aisle. He was outside when I got out of the truck, and retrospectively, he seemed righteously outraged—probably shocked. Did Miss Shorter really fail to tell him I would be his neighbor? She’s in her nineties, now, though; maybe she forgot. The information wouldn’t stand out to her… Almost no one here in Fate knows Gabe and I were together for two years right after high school. Our marriage and divorce were both expunged from public record shortly after he found fame.

  I decide the trick—for now, at least—is just avoiding him. Which should include avoiding thoughts of him. I refocus, filling my buggy near to overflowing. Then, as I head toward check-out, I remember Mom’s pork chops.

  Dammit.

  As I wheel back toward the deli freezers, I notice my least favorite high school English teacher—or rather, her hair. Those are definitely Mrs. Parton’s blue-gray curls, poking up from behind a People magazine.

  Uh-oh! I duck down the pasta aisle and scurry toward the rear of the store. I can see the pork chops from this aisle, right between the chicken and the ground beef.

  With one last glance over my shoulder, I stroll to the pork chops, reach for a pack that says “extra thick,” and freeze as a large arm snakes in front of me, the hand closing around it.

  I let out a little “ooh,” turning my head so I can—what the—

  “Are you serious with this?”

  Gabe blinks down at me, my pork chops cradled near his chest, enclosed in his big hand. He, in fact, looks owl-eyed serious. Or maybe eagle-eyed. He looks staunch and slightly fierce, like a bird of prey who just stole a smaller bird’s rabbit. On second thought, make that smug. What he looks is smug, the motherfucker.

  I hold my hand out. “Give that back!”

  “Well, hello to you, too, Marley.”

  I glare, and he shakes his head, a little for shame shake that makes me want to claw his eyeballs out.

  “I think what you meant to say is ‘give that to me,’” he says smoothly. “No ‘back’ about it.”

  “Yes, I do mean back.” My voice shakes with the effort I’m making to keep it steady. “I was reaching for it first.”

  He holds it up, his face and his demeanor calm. “I think that’s obviously untrue. Regardless, all you have to do is grab another one,” he says, all reasonable-like, nodding at the freezer shelves behind me.

  I turn back around to them, but there are no more extra thick pork chops.

  “I don’t need those thin ones, or pork tenderloin, or any of that other stuff,” I explain in forced-patient tones. “I need extra thick pork chops.” I fold my arms and angle my body toward Gabe. “That’s what my mom prefers,” I say, shooting my own for shame look at him.

  I glance at his buggy. It’s nearly empty. I note a head of living lett
uce, a rotisserie chicken, and a loaf of gluten-free bread before I swing my gaze back up to his.

  He shakes his head, his infuriating smirk getting even smirkier. “Tell Dephina to try the teriyaki tenderloin. It’s better than pork chops.”

  “Delphina” my ass. He never called her that!

  “If that’s the case,” I tell him, “why don’t you just get the tenderloin? Dephina asked for pork chops. She has a recipe for pork chops. She’s not in good health, Gabe. She wants a damn pork chop. Give me that pork chop.”

  He lifts his head a little, like a giraffe going for a leaf, and pointedly examines my buggy. “What will I get?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  He makes an “o” of his lips, giving a slight shake of his head—impersonating someone reasonable. “I was going to eat this tonight.”

  “You don’t even like pork chops!”

  His blue eyes meet mine. He blinks. “I do now.”

  “This is totally ridiculous.”

  “Maybe you should try the Piggly Wiggly,” he says lightly. “I’m sure they have more.”

  I used to work there in high school, before I worked at Robards’ Drugs. Gabe knows how much I hate that place.

  And anyway— “I can’t. I only have a bike in town! My car is still in transit from Chicago. I can’t ride that far. So maybe you should.” My face is blazing red now. I can feel it.

  “Would Brenda really mind if you cook something else for her?”

  Now purple. I inhale deeply, struggling to find my equilibrium. “I’m not cooking,” I grit. “She is.”

  He shrugs. “You’re a good enough cook, if I recall. I’ve gotten better, too. I’ve got a pretty good tenderloin recipe I could send you.”

  What. On. Earth. Is. Wrong. With. Him.

  In the last twelve years, Mr. Big Bestseller must have lost his fucking mind.

  “I don’t want your recipe!” My tone is shrill. I swallow, and then aim for calm and tolerant. And fair. “I saw that first, and I was grabbing it when you snatched it away. If you like the idea of going somewhere else, you should take your car and go. And let me have that. For my mother.”