“Enough about crotches. We’re not playing strip poker. Ready to finish the game?” Elaine calls out from the other room. She then contradicts herself. “Sweet Mary, Jesus and Joseph, it’s eleven o’clock! Mikey, you have school tomorrow. Game over!”
Mark narrows his eyes and looks at me like he’s sizing up a perp. The change in his attitude puts me on edge. It’s a one-eighty turn, and I don’t like it.
“See you around, Carrie,” he says and walks into the kitchen to give Elaine a hug, then saunters out the back door like he hasn’t just upended my life and turned my insides to butterflies.
We both watch him disappear into the darkness.
“He still loves you, Carrie,” Elaine says quietly. She doesn’t look at me as she washes the coffee pot for the thousandth time. Mikey’s long gone now, and Brian’s snoring lightly in his chair.
The show he’s watching isn’t even over.
Somehow, in under an hour, everything I’ve run away from came roaring back, right in front of my face.
Elaine leaves the coffee pot and walks over to me, her arm around my shoulders. We both stare at Brian. She just shakes her head slowly, but with a smile.
“That man.” And then she frowns. “I’ll show you the trailer…” Her voice goes soft. “I feel so bad sticking you in there. But Mark took the last cabin.”
That makes my eyebrows crawl into my hair. “He what?”
“About a month ago, he moved in. His apartment building is going through renovations or something.” She waves her hand in the air like waving away the details. “We had an opening and of course we welcomed him. Nothing like having a police officer on the premises to feel safer.”
That makes my throat swell up. Having a cop in my life made everything harder.
I don’t say anything as she leads me out the door. The rain has stopped, leaving the night balmy and misty, with raindrops stuck to the tree leaves like hanging diamonds. They glisten in the moonlight.
The tidy walk between the front door and the nineteen foot trailer is lined with colorful succulents and cacti that must look gorgeous in the daylight. Everything is shades of grey right now, though.
Everything. Especially my feelings for Mark.
Elaine pulls a key out of her pocket and opens the padlock that secures the trailer’s front door. “Brian installed this today,” she explains. “There’s no easier way to make sure you’re safe.”
“You want me to padlock myself in?” I ask, my voice going up high.
She laughs. “I thought it was crazy, too, but Brian insisted you need to feel as safe as possible. You can crack the door a little, attach the padlock, and then you have enough room to fit the key from the inside to unlock it. You’re a young girl out here, all alone.”
“I’m twenty-two. Not a young girl.” Not quite a woman, though, I think.
As she opens the door, she turns to me with a wistful expression. “You’ll always be a sweet little girl to me, Carrie.”
I can’t. I can’t let myself feel what she wants me to know. The idea that so much love could be waiting for me, the unconditional parental love that everyone wants so badly, makes me ache.
I used to have that.
Mark took it away.
Chapter Six
I take a step up and enter the dark trailer, fumbling for the light switch. When I called Brian a few weeks ago to ask about renting from him, he mentioned the trailer. Clean, dry, with full septic and water and electric. “I can’t let you live in there for free, but if you can manage three hundred dollars to cover utilities, it’s yours for the school year,” he’d said. That was enough time to get established. To save up for first, last, and security on an apartment.
“You use it to go hunting, though!” I’d argued. “I can’t take it from you.”
“We don’t go on hunting trips like that anymore, Carrie,” he’d said sadly. I hadn’t asked why. Something in his voice told me not to.
“And,” he’d added, answering my unspoken question, “we were about to sell it.”
Oh. I knew that when dad was arrested the feds took the entire bar and tried to claim it was all run with drug money. Brian had suffered.
Living in his trailer made me feel a little better. I’d argued him up. “Four hundred a month, and if the utilities get too high, you tell me,” I had declared. My voice had wavered, but I wasn’t going to back down.
I’m not a charity case. My new job pays well enough for me to pay four hundred a month and will help me to kill off my student loans and dad’s funeral expenses if I can hold on for two years.
I managed in Oklahoma City all alone, seeing Dad when I could, picking up extra shifts at the bank where I worked, living in a crowded house to cut expenses. All those lawyer fees…
Including mine. Once the district attorney sank his teeth into the case, he opened it up to investigate everyone. I had turned eighteen a few months before and was in my second year at Yates. My first year I had doubled up, doing a year of high school and a year of college at the same time. The special program that admitted me paid for everything but books.
Dad had beamed with pride when I got in. His heart had nearly burst when I received a full scholarship to finish up.
But here’s the thing: when the DA comes after you on drug charges and you’re eighteen and in college, you freak out. No dad to help because he was behind bars. No mom because she was dead.
Brian was investigated, too, so he and Elaine had their own mess to manage.
The arrest happened two days before the deadline for getting student loans, so guess how I paid that eight-thousand dollar lawyer retainer fee?
Yep. And with nothing left for tuition, I had to drop out. I left a mess behind to go to OKC and face an even bigger mess.
“Carrie?” Elaine whispers. Blinking hard, I realize I spaced out. My hand is on the light switch and I turn it on.
A low glow fills the small trailer. I guess the thing was built about the same year I was born. The couch is all shiny grey and mauve and beige, in a swirling pattern. The wood accents are scarred and gouged, but the trailer smells clean.
And it’s all mine.
No noisy roommates, no strange men to run into in the bathroom at three a.m., no roommate Janie begging me for condoms I didn’t have at one in the morning because she and her booty call ran out already.
No more.
“Here’s the sink. Brian hooked up water. And you have a bathroom,” she adds, pointing to the back. “You can use it, but once the tanks get full we’ll have to pump it out.” Elaine laughs, a bit embarrassed. “So use our bathroom in the house liberally.”
“Message received,” I say, laughing with her.
It feels good to laugh. Her shoulders shake and her face spreads with a look of youth that makes me blink. I imagine her my age, her whole life stretched out before her. What was it like to be married at twenty, like I knew she and Brian were? Living your life committed to being a grown up like that must feel so different.
Being loved so young must feel like paradise.
The coziness of the trailer drains away and I’m cold suddenly. A shiver starts at the base of my spine and travels up. Exhaustion sets in.
I’m so tired.
Elaine stops laughing and walks to the door, bending her head down as she climbs down the stairs, her sweater stretching across her shoulders. At the bottom of the stairs she looks up at me, the moon making her eyelids a mask.
Her lips are a smile.
“Welcome home, Carrie. No matter where you go, and no matter what happens, we’re always here for you.”
And then she closes the door.
The rush of air that pours out of me makes me see I’ve been holding half my breath. For hours. It hurts a little to breathe properly. I make myself do it anyway. Lungs that have been on best behavior stretch out and scream a little.
It’s a good ache.
Now that I’m alone I can really examine my new place. The kitchen is a counter with a
sink big enough to fit a gallon jug. That’s it. One stove burner. A tiny microwave above the burner. The kitchen is so tiny I’ll be lucky to make microwave popcorn.
The counter is polished stainless steel. A dorm-sized fridge is tucked to the right of the sink. The cabinets above have some old, mis-matched dishes in them.
Everything is neat. Not a speck of dust or dirt. Another deep breath and I realize the trailer has a scent. Cinnamon.
Elaine’s favorite. When I was a little girl she made reindeer ornaments out of real cinnamon sticks. Dad would catch me sucking on one, a craft eyeball from poor Rudolph’s face stuck to my lip. He’d put Elaine’s ornaments up high, out of my reach.
But I still love the taste of cinnamon. Nothing better than a latte with a sprinkle on top.
Coffee. My mouth waters at the thought, but it’s way too late. Then again, my hands and feet feel like they’re buzzing anyway. My body is too jazzed to sleep.
I make my way to my car to get the small bag of groceries I’ve had in there for the road trip. Hot tap water and some instant coffee won’t kill me.
Someone clears their throat behind me and I whirl around, senses on guard. Brian and Elaine’s neighborhood is safe, but nowhere is really safe enough.
A man is standing behind me, leaning his bottom against a split-rail fence, the ground beneath his feet lined with bright white pansies.
Mark.
I drop the bag in shock and hear a sickening crack.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hiss, bending down to get the bag. I look in.
My cinnamon is all over the place, the jar looking menacingly uneven. Damn.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.” His voice is hard, though his words are caring.
“It’s five feet from my front door to my car,” I say, making an impatient sound. I turn away and march up my own steps, reaching for the door handle.
His hand closes over mine.
“Let me help,” he says, his hot breath in my ear. Skin that hasn’t reacted to anything in three years gives a jolt. His body is two inches behind mine, his heat infiltrating my back. Warmth spreads through me, combined with the flush of wanting him.
Wanting more.
My hands are full with the bags and I don’t want to break anything else. I nod and he opens the door. As fast as I can, I get rid of the bags, then turn with a fake grin on my face.
He’s supposed to know it’s fake.
“Thanks for all your help,” I say in a voice that says the opposite.
He doesn’t move. “You look great,” he says, perched one step below me. Our eyes are even. It’s unsettling, because normally he towers over me. Now we’re equals. My eyes study his, not from the perspective of looking up.
Looking at.
We say a thousand words with one long look, but none of them is right. No silent words can heal the rift between us. A light breeze lifts the sandy blond hair off his forehead. The skin around his eyes wrinkles, showing a wistful longing.
And then it turns to a raw hunger that makes me shake, because I feel it, too.
“You let your hair grow out,” he whispers, his fingers reaching out to touch one unruly lock. It rests right over my heart and the way he tenderly picks it up sends my pulse into a salsa beat. The air goes inside me and pauses, waiting to find sanctuary from so much that crackles between us.
And then I release it to the wind, to mingle with Mark’s hair.
“It’s easier,” I say, fumbling for words. I couldn’t afford the haircuts, not while trying to help Dad with lawyer fees and prison money. Letting it grow out was my only choice. Besides, when you don’t have someone special to look beautiful for, why bother?
My hand is still on the doorknob but I don’t move.
“I liked it better short,” he adds.
Memories of Dad, of adding funds to his account so he could buy soap and toothpaste in prison, of counting out my pennies and nickels from tips at the diner so I could make rent, whip through me.
Mark’s words break the spell.
“Goodnight,” I say firmly, and close the door. With trembling hands I put the padlock on.
As it clicks into place, my heart rate returns to normal.
Whatever that is.
Chapter Seven
“Yoouuuuuuuuu!”
My best friend Amy’s squeal of welcome is so blood-curdling you would think I’d just been murdered. Her hair, though, is a nice, sedate black color. Not something you would find in a Kool-aid packet. And her hair cut is chic. Refined. It’s long and controlled, framing her big brown eyes.
She looks so put together I shrink a little in her arms. A flowery perfume tickles my nose. Hyacinth? What happened to the sandalwood essential oil she used to put at the edge of her hair, to tame it?
Our hug is genuine, even if she feels a bit unfamiliar. “I can’t believe you’re home!” she squeals again. People in line, waiting for their coffee fix, give us a glance. Nothing more. We’re just two silly women in the town’s new (well, new to me…) coffee shop.
“Half caf mocha skim latte!” a barista cries out. I know that voice. When I look over Amy’s shoulder I see Mikey behind a hissing machine. He wears a red apron with the store’s logo on it, a white outline of a man’s face, eyeballs wide and bloodshot, the words “COFFEE FREAK” large above the expression.
Subtle.
I’m more than a little freaked out, standing in what used to be Dad’s bar. It’s a short walk to the university. Dad loved that. He could work at the college and walk here in under five minutes. It made life easier.
Back when life was easier.
Amy pulls back from me and we examine each other. “You let your hair grow out!” she exclaims, and touches the exact same piece of hair Mark did last night.
I shiver.
“You cold?” she asks, her brow furrowing. “Let’s get you a drink.”
The thick eyeliner she always wore is now gone, a lighter touch making her eyes seem big and alert. The lip piercing is gone, too. A tiny sapphire nose jewel is tucked in her nostril. Discreet. Beautiful. And just enough.
We get in line, but Mikey waves us over to the counter where people pick up drinks. I hesitate. Amy doesn’t, striding to him with purpose.
My God, is she wearing heels? And a pencil skirt? Who has my best friend become? She went from being an emo-Goth girl to Sex in the City in three years.
A plume of something too close to jealousy fills me. I want to be more like her. We used to be equals and now…I feel lesser.
This isn’t going as planned.
Amy returns to me, two white paper cups in hand. Mine has “Carrie mocha triple cin” on it, and I take a sip.
Perfect.
Catching Mikey’s eye, I hold up the cup in a toast. He winks, then works on the next order.
“How did he know?” I gasp as Amy and I sink into huge, overstuffed burgundy leather chairs. The springs in mine are shot, so I go back further than expected. The coffee nearly sloshes out, but I hold it high.
Amy giggles. Her chair, of course, is perfect. She takes a sip of her drink and I can’t help it.
“Nails? You got your nails done?” I gasp. My turn to squeak. The Amy I grew up with would never in a million years do a manicure.
A two-toned, sleek manicure with perfectly filed nails.
Her lipsticked mouth spreads in a knowing smile. “Corporate life changes you.” She touches the hole where her lip piercing used to be. “It’s nearly closed up now.”
I can’t tell from her voice whether that makes her happy or sad.
I’m not sure she knows, either.
In May, she graduated. I was supposed to graduate with her. In July, she was offered a great position as an account executive for a huge financial services group forty minutes away. We had texted and talked until she was numb. Her mind and heart were torn between working odd jobs but having her freedom and being a corporate slave. She’ll pay off her student loans in five years.
The corporate handcuffs won.
Her chocolate eyes are warm and curious when she asks, “You ran into Mark yesterday?”
“How did you…” I look pointedly at Mikey. “Oh.” I take another sip. “And how did Mikey know my drink?”
She laughs, a mature sound of sophistication that makes me feel like a giggly tomboy. “I remembered. You don’t change, Carrie,” she declares. It’s not a question.
Indignation flares up in me. Now I have reason to feel smaller. It feels like my best friend is trying to make me feel that way.
“Just because I’m the same on the outside,” I say quietly, “doesn’t mean I haven’t changed on the inside.”
Amy looks stricken. She reaches for my hand. Her skin is warm from holding her coffee cup. I see genuine emotion in her perfectly made up eyes. It helps my shoulders to release.
It helps me to breathe.
“Carrie,” she murmurs. “I am not like one of them.” The emphasis on the last word is close to the sound of someone spitting. Her anger bubbles up fast, and now she looks like the old Amy.
Minus the silver ball on her lip and hair like a parrot’s feathers.
“I might look like a pod person on the outside,” she adds, laughing softly to herself, her lip in a sneer. “But don’t ever lump me in with them. I’m not being passive aggressive, or negging you.”
“Guys do the negging. Not women,” I say, jumping in.
Amy makes a dismissive sound. She leans in, like she’s sharing a secret. “Women do it the most. You know, those backhanded comments that make you feel like shit inside, except you have to act like nothing’s wrong? Women are experts at that.”
“At work? At your new job?” I ask, worried about my own new job.
“Catty bitches are the worst,” she says, turning those nails into claws. “Meow.”
“You’re not like that!” I hiss.
“I know. And I’m making sure you know. I’m being open and honest with you, Carrie,” she explains.
That makes my eyes fill with tears and I squeeze her hand. “I know,” I murmur.
“No, you don’t.” She says this with a sad smile. “I know you think you trust me, but after what you’ve been through I couldn’t blame you if you never let anyone in at all.”
Dangerous To Love Page 166
