My forehead furrows as maybe she didn’t understand. “I’m cursed, Scarlett.”
Scarlett cups my face with her hand and the soft feel of her skin against mine is too close to heaven. This can’t be real.
“You love me?” she says.
“I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember. I don’t remember not loving you.” It’s always been there—as easy and beautiful as the sun rising in the morning.
“You’re not cursed.”
“My mom died—”
“You’re not cursed.”
“And since being with me, your problems have intensified.”
“Do you believe I love you?”
Even if I wanted to deny it, I couldn’t. Love for me radiates from her in waves. “Yes.”
“Then there is no curse, and if there was, it’s not there anymore. Because if you were cursed, we wouldn’t be having this moment right here, right now. My dad doesn’t know how to love—that’s a curse. My mom doesn’t know how to love—that’s a curse. There is absolutely nothing you can say to me to convince me that you’re cursed when love actually exists. We love each other—that defeats everything else in our path.”
I knot my fingers in her hair, and she kisses me. The type of kiss where your heart breaks and bleeds and then is sown back together. The type of kiss that is experienced once in a lifetime, and I’m not cursed because after she briefly pulls away to shift closer to me, we share the same kiss again.
Scarlett pulls back breathless, and I’m breathing hard myself. It would be easy to keep kissing her tonight—to go further than we have before, to press upon boundaries and get lost in each other. She’s lost, I’m lost and we’re both begging to be found, but I don’t want to find each other that way. From the way she touches me with hunger, yet keeps her lips a small distance apart from mine, she’s feeling the same way.
“I love you,” I whisper.
Scarlett’s mouth hesitantly lifts. “Do you know that besides tonight, you’ve never said that to me before?”
I frown. “Yes, I have.”
She laughs and the sound brings me peace. “No, you haven’t.”
“Yes,” I start, but she places a finger against my mouth, silencing me.
“You haven’t. Trust me, I’d remember something like that.”
I search back in my brain, thinking of all the times she’s brought me joy, and while the memories are numerous, there’s no declaration from me. I squeeze her gently in a hug for loving an idiot, then rest my forehead on hers. “I don’t know what to do with the land.”
She squints as if she doesn’t understand. “What do you mean?”
“Most of the choices I’ve made in the past have been my attempt to avoid the curse. Some of them have worked out in my favor, but plenty haven’t.”
“What’s that have to do with your land?”
“What if everybody is right and the only reason I’ve wanted the land is because I’m afraid what would happen if I left it? That I was afraid of the curse?”
She tilts her head in sympathy. “You love this land.”
I do. “But what if I fear this land more than I love it, and I just have never given myself the opportunity to know the difference between love and fear?”
It’s a tough question without an easy answer and because Scarlett is perfect in every way, she understands that I don’t need words right now, but just her. She cuddles in close to me and holds me as I hold her.
JESSE
I couldn’t say 100 percent before, but I can now: suits aren’t my thing. They smother me from the inside out.
Marshall and I wait outside a conference room for the parole board to call us in. I don’t know what I was expecting. A courtroom, I guess, or maybe some grimy room within the prison itself where when I walked down the hallways I’d hear the yells from prisoners getting into fights.
I need to stop watching so much late-night TV.
My cell vibrates in my pocket, and along with good wishes from Nazareth, Leo and V, there’s a text from Scarlett. A text from her own phone that she pays for herself. It’s simple and strikes straight to the heart: I love you.
Three little words and her faith gives me the courage to move mountains, which is what I need. Me: I love you, too. I’ll text when I’m done.
Scarlett: Good luck. Just think how fantastically boring life will be when the hearing is over and we head back to school. New normal for the win.
It’s early January, and it’s our last week of winter break. What no one else knows is that I’m not going back. On the last day of school before break, I went into the school board office and picked up my high school diploma. No fanfare, no cap and gown, just me knowing I have a lot of decisions to make and a few months left to make them.
I glance up to spot Marshall stalking my cell, and I raise an eyebrow. “Privacy?”
“You haven’t told her.”
No, I haven’t. “I’m telling her tonight.”
“Cutting it short, aren’t you?”
The honest answer? “I’m afraid if I told her earlier I’d let her talk me out of it.” I’m not as brave as Scarlett. If she were me, she would have already told me what’s going on and have gone forward full throttle, and that’s the reason why I’m doing what I’m doing. I need to become her equal. I need to be as brave as she is in how she lives life.
Marshall places a hand on my shoulder then squeezes. “You’re making the right choice.”
I think so, but the question is, will Scarlett? Will she understand that what I’m doing will hopefully help me figure out who I am? Or will she feel betrayed?
“Do you think she’ll go with you?” Marshall asks.
The idea of being without Scarlett causes my chest to hollow out. I want her with me, every step of the way, but I don’t think she’ll follow me. She’s stronger than that, and I need to become just as strong as she is. “No.”
“Mr. Lachlin?” A woman with short brown hair sticks her head out the door. “We’re ready for your statement.”
I nod, and Marshall slides in front of me. “Remember, this isn’t the parole hearing. It’s an opportunity for you to tell them your emotions regarding your mother’s death and your father’s possible parole. Are you ready?”
As I’m going to be. “Let’s go.”
We walk in, take seats and some words are said. Marshall talks, the people at the other end of the conference table talk, and while it’s important to listen, I can’t. It’s all buzzing in my head. Then there’s a nudge on my arm, Marshall angling his head to the words I had written on the piece of paper to keep my thoughts in order. It’s my turn to speak, my turn to announce my truth and no longer stay silent.
“First, I want to thank you for the opportunity to speak to you on behalf of my mother. To be honest, I wish I could say that if she had lived through what happened that night between her and my father that she would be in this chair talking to you and telling you not to offer him parole, but I can’t say that because it would be a lie.”
I glance up, and each of them watch me. Not one of them is on their phones or taking notes. I have their full, undivided attention.
“Throughout my childhood, my mother bounced from guy to guy. Many of them I met, probably many more I didn’t. My mom needed someone in her life to feel secure, which is ironic because rarely was she safe in any of those situations.
“Mom and I were vagabonds drifting in the world. In between staying with guys she dated, I found a home base with my grandmother, Suzanne. She was my mother’s mother. Sometimes my mom would stay with us, but there was a hole inside her that drove her away and into another man’s arms.
“I lived my life fearing the day my mother would show up at my grandmother’s and tell me she had found someone new. Someone who would love and take care of us. I never understood why she couldn’t see the people who loved her in the safety of my grandmother’s trailer, but she didn’t, and I’ll never know why.
“I�
�ve spent nights on cold floors, went hungry more times than I can count, and watched as my mother was physically and verbally abused again and again. There were a few times I found myself at the wrong end of one of her boyfriends’ fists, and I have to admit that I found myself grateful that I was the one who was hit, not her, because somehow in my eight-year-old mind, I thought I could handle the pain better.
“It hasn’t been until recent years that I learned that my mother had kept in contact with my father—a man she had met when she had turned eighteen. She had told me once that she had fallen madly in love. I don’t know much about the love my parents shared, but I do know about the mad. Of all the people my mother had been with, it turns out he was the most abusive.
“What had driven them apart initially was me. My father didn’t want me, my mother did, but she agreed to never bring me so they could be together. I tell you this to paint a picture of who my mother was. She made bad choices, but she also loved me. Her love might have been destructive, but it was mine, and as a child, I took any type of love I could get.”
I think of how Mom would hug me tight when she’d walk in the door. I think of how we’d stay up for hours, and she’d talk to me about the maps. I think of how I’ll never be able to show her another report card with an A. Of how I’ll never be able to tell her about Scarlett and how I learned to love. I think of how someday, I’ll never dance with my mom at my wedding, and I’ll never place my child in her arms.
A million moments stolen from me. Moments I’ll never be given back.
“The summer before my freshman year, my mother and father had entered what I presume would be called a honeymoon period. She thought they were fixed and would be together forever. One of her last mistakes was making this assumption and bringing me to stay with him. It was a day of many firsts for me. It was the first day I left the state of Kentucky, it was the first day I had a strawberry milkshake, it was the first time I had ever seen anyone so angry that my heart literally stopped beating.
“I’m not going to go into detail on what happened that night. There was a trial, and I’m sure you have the information and evidence that convicted my father. I understand that three years have passed, and that he possibly has had time to change, but I’m going to be selfish here and explain to you that three years has not been enough time for me to change.
“When my father killed my mother in front of me, I froze. I froze after my father smashed a chair over my back in anger. I froze when my father started beating my mother. I froze as I watched her die by his hand. I froze on the witness stand during the trial. I froze whenever my grandmother or my older cousin tried to touch me in comfort. I froze whenever I tried to tell my best friend what happened. I froze, and I’ve stayed that way for years.”
My throat closes and the edges of my mouth turn down. I clear my throat once, twice, a third time and when I take a deep breath, I’m too close to a sob.
“It’s okay, Mr. Lachlin,” says a man with gray hair and a kind expression. “Take your time.”
I take a drink and hate how the hand that holds the bottled water shakes. I clear my throat again. This time, I create enough of an air passage to continue.
“Over the past few months, through the love and dedication of some very important people in my life, I’m starting to change. The change has been hard. It’s been a push and a pull, and there are times I have fought it every inch of the way.
“Even though there has been change, I’m going to admit, I don’t know who I am, and I’d like a chance to figure that out. I’ve spent a good portion of my life believing I had to stay on my family’s property, but I know now I can leave, and that has opened a whole realm of possibilities.
“It’s overwhelming and frightening, but for the first time since my mother’s death, I feel alive. It has taken me three years to get to this point, and I’m asking you to please allow me more time to explore myself, these changes and my new possibilities.
“What my father did froze me. He might have had time to change, but I haven’t. I need this time, and if he’s released, I’m scared it’s going to return me to my previous state. He’s the one who put me in this position, and it’s up to me to change, but I need that time. I ask that you please take a long look at the crime, at how violent it was, at how he hurt me physically and emotionally, and then remember what I asked you here today. I ask that you please deny him parole and to keep him in prison. Thank you.”
SCARLETT
I am the master of microwave spaghetti, and today I’m going fancy and I bought a loaf of Italian bread. Jesse had a long day meeting with the parole committee—exhausting, I’m sure, and I want to do something special for him. Dinner, TV and holding him tight.
I’ve been in the apartment for a few weeks, and so far, so good. Money is tight, the balancing act between school and work a bit tighter, but I’ve survived and for that I’m proud.
A knock on the door, and I cross the room. I smile at the Louisville Slugger Leo bought me as a housewarming gift that leans next to the door. He had a twinkle in his eye as he told me it was my home security system. Sort of freaked me out, but it was honest.
I check the peephole and my heart happily flips when I spot Jesse with a bouquet of flowers. Appears I wasn’t the only one who planned on making tonight special. I undo the two security locks and the lock on the knob and then open the door. Jesse flashes his pirate smile as he walks in and offers me the bouquet of mixed wildflowers. I absolutely melt.
I raise onto my toes, and Jesse gives me one of his fantastic slow kisses. I heat up fast, and so does the kiss. Hands in hair, caresses along curves of backs, both of us pressing our bodies together in glorious ways.
We’re alone, in a room, where there’s a bed and not much else. My blood pounds in my veins. If I don’t break this off now, we’ll never eat dinner. “I should put these into water.”
My cheeks are hot from kissing, and there’s shy embarrassment at how my voice comes out shaky. Vase-less, I decide upon a plastic cup I saved from a fast food restaurant, fill it with water and then stand at the counter as I arrange the bouquet.
Jesse cocks a hip against the counter and watches me as if I’m performing the most interesting act in the world. I’d like to offer him a place to sit, but other than the floor, there’s the bed, and if we plan on eating dinner, we better not start there.
“How did today go?” I ask, and Jesse tells me. I listen as I finish with the flowers, finish making our dinner and then place it on the picnic blanket on the floor. Jesse continues to talk as he cuts up the loaf of bread and butters a few pieces.
Last night, he had read to me what he was going to say to the parole board and each word tore me apart. As he finishes telling me how he had the courage to read those words to strangers and still be standing tall, I hug him close.
“I’m proud of you,” I say. “I bet your mom and Suzanne would be, too.”
Jesse squeezes me, then draws back. “Marshall said he’d be shocked if my dad is granted parole. He said I did a good job, plus my father hasn’t served long enough for the crime he committed.”
“That’s good.” Because it is. It’s what Jesse needs.
We sit on the floor, and Jesse switches up the subject by asking me about work, and I let him. Jesse and I aren’t used to sharing the darkest and scariest places of ourselves with anyone. Sharing can be raw and consuming, and understanding that, we’re very patient of any steps forward, then of the retreat.
Jesse and I gorge ourselves with bread and use it to sop up any remaining spaghetti sauce. We chat, we laugh, we enjoy each other and soon we’re kissing. We’re kissing long, we’re kissing deep, and Jesse takes my breath away when he lays us down on the blanket and rolls me underneath him.
I love this feeling. The heavy weight of his body over mine. The safe, protective sensation as he caresses my cheek, the tingles of my skin as he feathers kisses down my neck and the warm, melting tickle in my blood at how we fit perfectly together.
/> There’s nothing rushed. Each and every touch, brush of fingertips and kiss is memorized and fully explored. A reverence for each other as if this is a gift, as if we are a gift, as if each second is to be savored.
Soon my head starts to spin, a wonderful and beautiful thrill sprints through me, and then I break away, gasping for air, and Jesse, ever-so-patient Jesse, kisses the side of my neck and rolls onto his side facing me.
He slides a finger along my hot cheek and looks down at me with such love and devotion that my heart’s a cup that’s running over. “I have something for you.”
“You already bought me flowers.”
“Yeah, but this will last longer than flowers.”
Jesse pushes himself off the floor, walks out into the cold evening and quickly returns, shutting out the darkness and the winter wind. He has a large rolled-up poster held in place by rubber bands. He slips the bands off, unrolls the paper and in front of me is a map of the United States with little stickered stars of varying colors across the map. “I brought you a map for your wall.”
Seeing how bare my walls are, this is absolutely … “Perfect.”
“Where do you want it?” he asks.
I do a slow spin of my studio apartment and then skip over to my bed. I plop down on it and touch the wall next to me. “Here.”
It takes longer for me to dig the tape out of my Tupperware box of miscellaneous things than it does for Jesse to tape the map in place on my wall.
Once he’s done, he tosses the tape back into my box then joins me on my bed, climbing behind me. I settle between his legs, he holds me close and I snuggle contently in his arms. Jesse rests his head against mine, and I get lost in his deep voice as he tells me the places he’s marked and what he hopes to find there someday. He describes wonders that if they are even half as beautiful as he says, to experience them would be life-altering.
Only a Breath Apart Page 33
