Leave Me Breathless

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  I look and see the stall where some stocks are set up. “Is that Father Fitzroy?” I ask, sipping away at my cider as I’m carted up the high street. The old boy is on his knees, his head and wrists secured in the stocks while kids throw pies at his face. He’s laughing, watching as pies splat everywhere around him except on his face.

  “He won’t be laughing in a minute.” Ryan sets me on my feet and claims a pie, encouraging the kids aside as he lines up his target. The old priest soon pipes down. “Hi, Father,” Ryan says, spinning the pie on the top of his finger cockily.

  “You’ll go to hell,” he mutters, clenching his eyes shut as Ryan pulls back his arm and fires like a pro pitcher.

  It lands with frightening accuracy slap bang in the middle of the priest’s face. “Bull’s-eye!” Ryan yells, and the kids go wild, all trying to surrender their pies to the champion shooter.

  “You really will go to hell.” I shake my head at him as he takes me in a headlock and walks us across to Mrs. Heaven’s cake stall to claim a muffin.

  “You come see me, Ryan Willis,” shouts Father Fitzroy as he wipes the cream from his face. “I have an opening next month.”

  I frown, looking to Ryan for some clue as to what the old man is talking about.

  “For the wedding,” the priest adds, and I balk.

  “What wedding?” I shout back, making him chuckle. I divert my attention to Ryan. “In the past twelve hours, there’s been talk of moving in, babies, and now a wedding?”

  “You panicking?” he asks, shoving a chunk of muffin in his mouth and chewing as he watches me.

  “No.” I down the rest of my cider and place the glass on a nearby table. “I have to go check on my budding artists.” I walk away but stop, feeling his smirk burning my back. “I’m not marrying you,” I declare to the blank space before me.

  “We’ll see,” he muses casually.

  This smile on my face is so big, it’s reaching both ears. “We will,” I retort, lifting my chin and getting on my way. I hear him chuckle as I go, and all I can wonder is what it would be like to be married to Ryan. To be his wife. I wouldn’t be a trophy. He wouldn’t dictate…everything. He loves me the way I am.

  The warm fuzzy feeling inside is squashed when I see Darcy approaching. Oh no. She stares me down as we walk toward each other, and just as she’s passing me, she stops briefly. I fear the worst. “Don’t try to replace me,” she mumbles, and then she carries on her way.

  “Darcy, I would never—” I’m cut short when her silencing hand lifts, and she looks back over her shoulder, a filthy glare being fired my way.

  Oh boy. I sigh and continue back to my artists to check their progress. “Looking good, guys,” I say, nodding my approval. “You have an hour remaining.”

  “I’m almost finished,” Alex yells back at me. “The pageant starts soon.” Her tongue comes out and rests on her lip as she leans in, concentrating on the last finer details.

  “Alex, this is so great,” I say, taking in her effort.

  “Thanks. Do you think I’ll win?”

  “It’s going to look a bit dodgy if you win the pageant and the painting competition, especially since your granddad is judging both.” I reach forward and point to one of the shop fronts. “A little more shading there.”

  “I knew there was something missing.” She dunks her brush in the gray paint and gets to shading quickly.

  “And what’s this?” I ask, pointing to a black blob in the background.

  “Oh, that’s a truck.”

  I peer up, looking for it. “Where?”

  “It drove off so I had to use my memory. I mean, didn’t he know I was painting it?”

  I laugh. “How inconsiderate.”

  Alex jumps up. “Done. I’ve gotta go.”

  “I’ll look after it for you!” I call as she dashes off.

  “Okay!”

  I straighten and take in the busyness around me, unable to stop myself wondering how I got so lucky to choose Hampton. I see Molly blowing her whistle, declaring the start of the egg-and-spoon race, and Mr. Chaps is outside his store dishing out toffee apples. Mrs. Hatt is holding a crocheting class, and then I see Ryan, who’s on the stage shifting boxes so Cyrus can sweep it clean, ready for the pageant. No matter where I turn, I see smiles. I see happiness.

  Ryan looks up at me as he unbends, a heavy box in his hands, and he flashes me his crooked smile that sends my insides to mush. That makes my heart swell. It’s the smile that was the start of something beautiful. I see a million promises in his eyes as he watches me watching him, and I believe every one of them. I nod and he nods in return as he turns and follows the directions being given to him by one of the volunteers. I sigh, utterly content, and slowly peruse the high street.

  The cotton candy stall, the apple-bobbing barrel, the face-painting tent, the—

  I do a double take, back to the top of the street, seeing it again. A truck. I step forward, squinting, but a few people walk across my path, and I quickly step to the side to get it back in view.

  There’s no truck. But there was a truck. A black one. A Mitsubishi. Didn’t Ryan say it was an idiot in a Mitsubishi who ran him off the road? I find myself reaching to my nape without thought and rubbing there, my feet suddenly welded to the ground. Chills. They glide down my spine like melting ice, and I look around me, a horrible sense of unease rooting itself in my gut.

  “Oh my God, Hannah.” Molly appears beside me, but I can’t see her face because it’s concealed behind a huge spray of red roses. “These were delivered to your store this morning before you arrived. I totally forgot and stored them under the toffee apple stall.” She thrusts them at me, and my arms automatically come up to take them. “Who knew Ryan Willis could be so romantic?”

  As she hustles off, I stare at the flowers, my unease not leaving me. I pluck out the card nestled amid the roses but have to put the arrangement on the ground to free both hands and open the envelope. I pull the card out, and I frown when I see a photograph with it. What? I stare down at the image, confused for a moment, until I realize what I’m looking at. My paintings. The ones I sold. They’re hanging on the bare brick wall of a room. I open the card, but there are no words, just one single x. A kiss. My head tilts a little, my stomach turning. The man who bought my paintings sent me flowers? Why? I pull the photograph back to the front, gazing down at my art, and the temperature of my blood seems to drop a few too many degrees. I look up and around.

  And I see the Mitsubishi again, parked at the end of the street. My heart flies up to my throat as I back away. I make out the silhouette of someone in the driver’s seat, and I’m definitely not imagining the feel of their eyes on me. “No,” I breathe, blinking away the sudden bombardment of familiar feelings. Fear. Anxiety. Dread.

  My feet get caught in something, and I trip and stumble, crashing into the toffee apple stall, sending things flying everywhere. But I can’t tear my terrified stare away from that truck. It’s just sitting there, almost threateningly. Then the headlights flash a couple of times, as if the driver is acknowledging that I’ve seen him, and I retch. The happy noise around me fades and all I can hear is every single nasty thing he ever yelled at me. My surroundings start to spin.

  “No.” I turn and run, staggering and tripping as I go and falling through the door of my store clumsily, locking it behind me. “No,” I sob, shaking my head, as if I can shake myself from this nightmare.

  He’s found me.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  RYAN

  I swing the mallet with as much force as I can, smacking the target on a grunt, and the ball shoots up the shaft and smacks the bell, earning me a few cheers. “Piece of cake.” I drop the mallet and brush off my hands, ready for the next game.

  “Young whippersnapper,” Father Fitzroy grumbles, entering my name in chalk at the top of the scoreboard. My chest puffs out. It’s childish, I realize, but I’m having fun being champion of everything.

  I look back to where all the
easels are set up for Hannah, hoping she’s seeing me annihilating the competition. I pout to myself when I don’t find her, and head to that end of the street to track her down.

  “Hey, Dad!” Alex yells, and I look back, seeing her ready to climb the steps to the stage. It’s my girl’s turn to prance up and down and be assessed by the townspeople. She pulls that ridiculous dress out and twirls for me, rolling her eyes as she does. “You’re coming to watch, aren’t you?”

  I look back toward where the artists are painting, still seeing no Hannah. Where is she? “Of course,” I say, reversing my steps, making my way to the foot of the stage just as Darcy’s father speaks. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the ravishing, and incredibly intelligent, might I add, Alexandra Hampton-Willis!”

  The crowd cheers, and I join them, clapping my hands as my Cabbage struts across the stage dramatically, like she could be on a catwalk. I chuckle as her grandfather continues to sell her, detailing her grades, her passions, and her strong lineage. “Crock of shit,” I mutter, listening to him harp on about her talent with a violin. She fucking hates the violin. I cast my eyes back again, looking for Hannah. She should be here. She should be seeing this.

  “She’ll win, of course,” Darcy says as she swoops in to my side, smiling proudly at Alex as she claps. “Woohoo for Alexandra!”

  Alex gives her mum the death stare, her little nostrils flaring. “You’re embarrassing her,” I say.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “It’s actually a novelty to see her squirm.” I raise my hands and clap, too, then belt out an ear-piercing whistle. “Go on, Cabbage!” Her face is a picture of horror, and I grin at her. It’s payback for her little stunt this morning.

  Darcy giggles, her hand covering her mouth. That’s a novelty, too. “All right?” I ask, and she looks at me, all bashful and…flirty? I’m immediately wary. She looked at me like this recently, and the next minute she wanted to cook me supper.

  She bats her lashes, toying with a lock of her hair.

  Oh no.

  “Darcy…” I stretch her name out, taking one step back away from her, worried she’s going to pounce at me any minute. She closes the gap, and I hold my hands up, warning her back. “No,” I say assertively, aware that I’m about to get either a mouthful of abuse or a face full of her palm. “It’s never going to happen.”

  It must be the tone of my voice, or maybe the resolution on my face, but she backs off, her face falling. “I just thought…” She fades, looking across to Alex on the stage.

  “What, that we’d pick up where we left off eleven years ago?” Does she need a reminder of what actually happened that night, because as far as I remember, it consisted of lots of alcohol and a quick wham-bam. There were no fireworks. There was no passion. We were both scratching an itch. Or at least, I was. “Darcy, we have nothing in common.”

  “Well, we do have something in common.”

  I look at Alex, who is still parading up and down, but her attention is straight on us. Her parents. Talking. She looks worried. She should be. I force a smile onto my face to reassure her, coughing my throat clear. “Darcy, I respect you, I care for you, but only as my daughter’s mother. You don’t want me.” Does she?

  She nods a little, reluctant, turning away from me. “I can’t stand the thought of being lonely, Ryan. Alexandra is such a daddy’s girl. I know she’ll always choose you over me. What if she wants to live with you forever? I’ll be all alone.” She looks at me, and I see the true fear in her. I take no pleasure from it.

  I sigh and do what instinct is telling me to do. “Come here, silly.” I pull her into me and give her a hug, catching her fleeting look of surprise just before she’s tucked in my chest. Darcy Hampton doesn’t receive many hugs, if any. She needs one. She molds against me easily, and I sigh into her hair. “You’ll never be alone. Alex adores your neurotic bones.”

  She chuckles and sniffles, wrapping her arms around me. “She’s a good kid. Messy but good.”

  “She is,” I muse, looking across at the stage. Our messy but good kid is looking at us like we just stepped off an intergalactic flight from Mars. Her head tilts, her eyes widen, and her hands come up like, What the hell is going on? I wave off her concern and gesture for her to get on and win the pageant. “Do me a favor, yeah?” I say to Darcy.

  “What?”

  “Go take a look at the painting she’s done.”

  “I already did.”

  “And?” I prompt.

  “And she’s not just beautiful and intelligent, but creative, too.”

  I smile. “Make sure she knows that.”

  “I will,” she sighs.

  “You heard from Casper?” I break away before she gets too comfortable, and she wipes at her nose.

  “No. I know it’s for the best. It’s been a long time since there was any love in our marriage.”

  “You’ll find your Mr. Perfect,” I assure her softly. “There’s real love out there waiting for all of us.”

  “Like you?” she says a little suggestively, prompting me to scan the street for Hannah again. Where’d she go? “She’s nice,” Darcy adds, and I know it took everything in her to admit it.

  “How much did that hurt?” I ask seriously.

  “Stop it.” She gives my arm a playful slap. “I don’t mind admitting when I’m wrong. I shouldn’t have stepped on her toes.”

  “You didn’t step, Darcy. You stamped.” I’m back to searching for the woman in question as Darcy chuckles. “Have you seen her?”

  “Oh, yes.” She motions back up the street. “She fell into the toffee apple stall.”

  “What?”

  “Wasn’t looking where she was going. Backed right into it.” Darcy arranges her bag in the crook of her arm as the crowd erupts again. “She ran into her shop. Embarrassed, probably. She made a right mess, poor thing.”

  I’m running toward Hannah’s shop before I’ve had a chance to let all the information Darcy just fed me sink in. I don’t like the sudden increase of my heart rate. I don’t like the whoosh of blood in my ears. And I fucking hate the prickles of apprehension stabbing me all over.

  I reach the door and push, but it doesn’t budge an inch. I peek through, seeing her store empty. “Hannah,” I yell, banging on the glass with my fist. I’m aware of what happened the last time I broke in, namely, nearly having my head shot off, so I’m sure to make myself known, hoping she’ll answer before I kick the door in.

  “Hannah, it’s me. Open up!” I cup my hands around my face and peer through the glass again, cursing under my breath. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial her, pacing up and down outside her door as it rings. It goes to voice mail. I growl and dial again, looking back through the door. “Answer your phone,” I order. She doesn’t. “Fuck this.” I wedge my shoulder up against the wood near the lock to get my aim just right, and then rear back, throwing my body into it. It flies open, hitting the plaster behind with a thwack. I still for a moment and listen.

  “Hannah!” I yell, stalking through the store, scanning high and low. “Hannah, where are you?” I pass through the kitchen and fly up the stairs, barging into each room like a bulldozer, my heart sprinting faster with each room I find empty.

  I push into her bedroom and my eyes fall straight to her bed. The sheets are strewn everywhere, clothes scattered here and there. A nasty, dull ache stirs in my gut, threatening to break out into agony. I cast my eyes across her room to the wardrobe. The doors are open, empty hangers scattered on the carpet before it. The drawers of her chest are all open, too, items of clothing hanging over the edges.

  “No,” I breathe, shock and devastation immobilizing me. I swallow, spotting her phone on the nightstand. I walk over and slide it off the edge, looking down at the two missed calls from me. I inhale. Take the handle of the drawer on her nightstand. Slowly drag it open. No gun.

  “Noooooo!” I roar, turning and stalking out, smashing the door against the wall as I charge through it. I run down the stairs an
d through the kitchen to the back door onto the courtyard. The gate onto the rear alleyway is swinging back and forth. “God damn you, Hannah.” I race into the alleyway, looking up and down. There’s no sign of her. “Fucking hell.” I take a left and sprint to the end, onto the country road that leads out of town. I nearly cough my heart up when I see her in the distance, running toward a taxi. “Hannah!” I yell, sprinting after her.

  She looks back, but doesn’t stop, struggling forward with her duffel bag. Her rejection is like a knife through my fucking heart.

  “Don’t you get in the fucking taxi, Hannah!” I sound possessed, but I’m completely out of control, being fueled by panic, hurt, anger. Something’s happened. Something to make her run. Fuck, what?

  She reaches the taxi and tosses her bag in, jumping in behind it. “Hannah, I know!” I yell as the door slams shut. The driver pulls away quickly, driving fast, and even I realize I can’t chase him down.

  He has too much of a head start already. I’m fit, but I’m not a fucking cheetah. My pace breaks down as I watch the cab get smaller, until I’m standing in the middle of the road, a broken man, completely and utterly fucking destroyed. “I know everything,” I wheeze, my head dropping back and looking to the heavens. “I fucking know!” I slam my hands onto my head as I watch the woman I love run away from me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  HANNAH

  My face is stinging as I’m driven through the countryside, my tears relentless, my heart the heaviest it’s ever been. Just get away. Run. It’s my natural instinct, and I’m unable to stop it. I wish I could stop and face my fear. I wish I could tackle it head-on. But the truth is, I don’t just fear for myself now. I fear for Ryan, too. I know what Jarrad is capable of. I can’t put Ryan in the firing line. And I can’t ruin his illusion. I’ll be gone, but at least he’ll remember me as I want to be remembered. Smiling. Happy. His Hannah.