Begin with You

by Burgoa, Claudia

  Fuck, I mouth. She’s shivering, and I didn’t realize it until I touched her. What’s going on inside that mind of hers? Abby spilled all that information because she was thinking out loud. She wasn’t really sharing, just trying to avoid another panic attack. I’m not sure if we should be going back to work.

  Once we arrive at the building where the Ahern offices are located, I direct her to the stairs.

  “We should go home,” I suggest.

  “No. I want to settle in before I officially start working next week,” she protests.

  “I get it. You think I can’t function, and that’s why you’re giving me this job and …” she clamps her lips together tightly and shakes her head.

  “Hey, you’re one of the smartest people that I know.” I lift her chin with my finger. “This job is yours because Dad wanted it that way. You could do it from anywhere, but I love that you are here, with me.”

  “So, you’re saying I can leave?” She eyes me with a daring scowl.

  “You make it sound like you’re my prisoner,” I say, disappointed. “I was under the impression you came because you wanted to be with me—not because I forced you.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “Why are you here, Abby?”

  “Because of you. I couldn’t jeopardize losing you.” Her eyes scan the area. “This place scares me. I know you think I’m insane but—”

  “No. What I think is that you’re hiding something important.” I touch her temple. “Whatever happened in the past is affecting you, and it’s getting worse.”

  “What if the past catches up with my present?”

  I’m a little disappointed in her. It’s been years since she left her old home. She doesn’t want to talk to a professional about it and insists that therapy can’t help her—when the real reason is because she’s unable to talk about her past. And I can’t judge her or assume, but if she doesn’t help herself—no one will.

  “It takes time to overcome your traumas,” I say firmly.

  I touch my chest lightly. “I was a kid who lived out of garbage cans. My house was filled with prostitutes and trash. I have no idea who my mother was or if I even had a mother. My parents, Will and Linda, understood your food issues because they went through the same battle when I came to live with them.”

  “It’s not the same,” she whispers. “You didn’t have food. I had food, but I wasn’t allowed to touch it, unless …”

  “Abby, what happened?”

  “Nothing. Maybe you’re right. I’m overreacting.” She scrunches her nose and pulls back her shoulders. “I told you several times that I didn’t want to come back, but you said you needed me.”

  “You came back out of pity?” I groan.

  My shoulders slump. This woman, who is barely hanging on by a thread, came back because she thinks I can’t stand on my own two feet.

  She lifts her chin; her eyes find mine. “No, I was afraid that I’d lose you if I didn’t come. I can’t imagine my world without you, Wes. I decided to live among the monsters because I choose to walk through pain and relive my past, if it means that I’m beside you.”

  This is one of the millions of reasons why this woman owns my heart. She might not tell me who the monsters are, or what happened to her, but she battles them for my sake. How did I dare doubt her?

  “You’d never lose me, no matter what, Abigail Lyons.” I pause, feeling tears begin to burn the back of my tightening throat. “If you need to leave, I’ll understand.”

  “Wes,” she says. My name on her lips makes me shiver.

  I close my eyes, waiting for her dismissal. The shortest affair of my life—lived in less than twenty-four hours. We kissed, we promised to give it a try, and then she left me behind.

  “You’re right,” she says, caressing my jaw. “My past shouldn’t hold me back from my future. And I would never leave you—not when I know there’s the possibility of so much more.”

  My heart restarts with her words. They are perfect, exactly what my head needs to hear, but deep down in my soul, I still know that’s it’s not right for her and maybe not right for the two of us either. The pain in her voice and her distress over the past couple of days are proof enough that this isn’t the place for her. I should be thinking about her wellbeing. She’ll wreck my fucking world once she leaves, but I’d do anything to see her happy.

  “Hey, Weston Ahern, stop trying to fix my life. I’m responsible for it. The decision to come here and stay is my own to make. Not yours.” She faces me with a conviction I haven’t seen in a while.

  The last time she did that was when she turned down Dad’s offer to send her to DU, all expenses paid. Abby had a plan and had saved all the money my parents had given her for lunch, clothing, and her allowance. She had enough to leave the state and find work. I offered to pay for any school in the country. Dad eventually ended up picking up the tab, but she wasn’t afraid to start from zero, as long as she was far away from this city.

  “If I’m saying I want to live here, it’s because I do.” She pokes me in the chest. “And you have to respect that. It’s time you treat me as an equal, not a like a flimsy piece of paper that’s about to blow away.”

  “You’re so many things, but flimsy isn’t one of them,” I say smiling.

  “Then don’t treat me like I’m about to crumble. I get it, I’m not normal. Just don’t make it so obvious.”

  “You hate the word ‘normal,’” I remind her. “You need to understand that I won’t stop pampering you—or worrying about you. I just want to see you happy—and safe. That’s my main goal in life.”

  I run a hand through my hair, closing my eyes briefly. “Sorry. I thought that by bringing you here we could finally be together.” I breathe harshly. “But now, I’m not sure if it was a good idea.”

  “Now that we’re together, are you sorry about it?” She angles her head, cupping my head with her soft hands.

  “Of course not. I’m thrilled that we’re giving this a chance,” I say. “It’s always been us. Together.” I say capturing her with my arms and bending my head down. I pull her closer against my body.

  19

  Abby

  I nibble on my lip while searching for my phone. Where did I put it? Last night I counted the little crystals on the chandelier. The compulsive counting lasted for hours while I tried to fight the flashbacks. Since nothing worked, I tried Netflix on my phone. Nothing I chose numbed my mind enough. Hovering constantly in the background were thoughts of Wes and Peyton. It’s been more than a week since I saw her, but seeing her made every memory feel fresh.

  Weston Ahern wants me happy, an emotion I’ve yet to feel.

  Is it safe to tell him that I’m fresh out of happiness?

  Poor guy. He tries so hard and nothing he does gets me to that point. The truth is that I haven’t been happy in years. Content, yes. But happy? What’s really the meaning of that word?

  Happy or not, I still have to live my life and face the fear. Maybe I can’t speak about what happened, but I can live with it. That should be possible, shouldn’t it?

  I jump into the shower before going to work, and I flinch as my scalp burns intensely. This time I skip the shampoo. I should stop scratching my head every time I panic. Counting the drops instead, I force the memories to the back of my mind. Today is a new day, a fresh start. A day where the feeling that someone is watching me might trigger a panic attack. I haven’t told Wes, but I swear, I can feel them close. One of them is watching me.

  The need to escape increases. I don’t give in, because I won’t let them take more than they’ve already taken.

  I turn off the shower, grab the towel, and clean the fogged mirror, taking a deep breath. The woman in front of me gives me a blank stare. Her eyes are bloodshot, and there are dark circles under her eyes. I’m on day three without any sleep.

  “You need to get a grip,” I order her. “The way you’re living is pitiful. You have a great job, a wonderful boyfriend, and a fut
ure. Why are you still trapped by your past?”

  Because what if they’ve found me and they’re following me? I whisper back at her.

  My gaze drops. I can’t look at her. She’s going to remind me of his promise—the threat. I dry off and moisturize my skin before walking into my closet. I choose a pencil skirt and a sleeveless blouse with a black blazer. As I lift my hair and twist it, I cringe. Today is a wet, loose, curly hair kind of day. I wish I could change into more comfortable clothes. Business casual sucks. Adulting sucks.

  I apply enough makeup to conceal the dark circles, but I skip the contacts. Wes better not start asking questions because I’m not in the mood to avoid him today like I did yesterday. In the past week, he has pumped more information out of me than anyone has in six years.

  Where is Shaun?

  I wonder what Corbin told the police and social services about his son—or if he ever mentioned him. Unlike me, his children were homeschooled. Was there ever any record of them? I should ask Wes to help me get the police report from that day. What did Corbin say? Why did everyone assume she was my sister? He could’ve made up a story about me and claimed I was Ava, but he didn’t. Why?

  When I was younger and in the thick of it, I played the blame game. I blamed myself for what was happening. Now, I understand that the only person to blame was my mother. Mom was impressed by Corbin’s parenting skills—and his money. He was a single dad who not only worked hard, but also homeschooled his own children. The problem about my mother is that she only saw the sparkly wrapping on the outside. She never asked herself what he did for a living. Olga Lyons thought she was smart. I bet she didn’t question anything. Unless, she didn’t do it until it was too late and that’s why she’s gone.

  Am I a bad person for not being sad about her death?

  I was scared when I heard the news. Even though she didn’t care about me, I was safer when she was alive.

  — — —

  Abby Age Fifteen

  “You ate more than you’re allowed to, Abigail.” Mom’s sweet voice disappeared right after Corbin closed her door and walked away from the car.

  Well, Mom, you said I should be nice. Your boyfriend insisted that I had the same as his children.

  Honestly that part creeped me out. He ordered for the three of us.

  “A steak for Shaun,” he turned to Mom giving her a pleasant smile. “He’s growing up.”

  Then he looked at his daughter, who stared at the silverware. “Should I order you a salad, Ava?” She didn’t answer, but rather, remained silent. “I should do that for you girls. You two need to keep your figures.”

  “What do you think, Abby? What would you like to eat today?”

  “The steak sounds good, but also the salmon, and the enchiladas. We can all have the pasta.” I had no idea what had come over me. I only knew that no matter what I ate, there’d be hell to pay when I got home.

  “Steaks for everyone,” he announced looking at Ava. “You better finish it all or you’ll be in trouble.”

  I didn’t care about his warning to Ava; my goal was to eat whatever they brought because I might not get to eat anything else for a week or two. It all depended on how Mom felt about this dinner. I’d never had to compete with other children, in fact she’d never cared about my grades or my plans. But that day, it seemed like she was my number one fan.

  Corbin seemed pleased when he learned that as a sophomore in high school, I was taking college level math. His daughter wasn’t very smart—his words. Not like Shaun. If they were in school, he bet that Shaun would be taking all advance placement classes. But since he’d homeschooled them, at sixteen they were already finished with high school. Shaun took some online classes while Ava had no plans to continue.

  Mom tried to come off as the best mother in the entire metropolitan area. She’d helped me so diligently with math when I was tiny, and it paid off. While she never asked me about my grades, she swore I was a distinguished academic with straight A’s. The woman knew nothing about me. My grades were average, except I excelled in science and math.

  “I won’t let your behavior cloud my night,” Mom continued, pulling away from the parking spot. “This was a good beginning, you know. I have to think about my future too since you won’t always be here.”

  I’m not going anywhere. You are. The house is mine.

  “My lawyer thinks that we can sell the house once you turn eighteen. After that, you’re on your own,” she warned me.

  I wouldn’t put it past her to have a plan for how to make it happen without giving me a dime too. Does social services remove children who are treated like shit by their parents? Fortunately, and unfortunately, I didn’t have bruises or wounds to show for the way my mother treated me. I hoped that the new guy and his family would keep her away from me.

  Although, if that were the case, I’d never eat. Not that I ate much when she was around anyway. She barely bought food for the house. She counted the items she stored in the pantry to make sure I didn’t eat without permission.

  “He works,” Mother continued.

  Finally, one guy who wasn’t a deadbeat living with his mother. I noticed when he paid for the food. His treat, he winked at Mom when the check came.

  “He could be your teacher too. You heard that his children are already done with school.” I was no longer the genius she raised.

  “If they move in with us, you’ll have to share your room with Ava,” she continued daydreaming.

  The road to Thornton from downtown Denver felt eternal as I continued listening to her plans. She told me how adorable it would be to have a little daughter like Ava. Didn’t she notice Ava was sixteen? She dreamt of the perfect marriage to this man who, in her mind, was willing to offer her everything she wanted but never had.

  I never knew my father. No one ever explained to me who he was or why he wasn’t around. My last name is the same as my mother’s and my grandparents’. Did my father offer her this dream and then take it away from her? I had no idea, but sometimes I hoped that this sperm donor would arrive at my doorstep and claim me—treating me like a father should treat his child.

  That night I understood Mom and I weren’t all that different. We both wanted a family. I just didn’t understand what I did to her to make her treat me that way.

  When we arrived at the house she looked at my bare feet. “Where are the shoes I bought you?”

  I lifted my hand, showing them to her. They hurt too damn much. She bought them in a size eight. I’m a size nine.

  “You’re an ungrateful bitch.” She yanked my hair from side to side.

  By the time she stopped, I felt dizzy and my neck hurt. Tears pricked in my eyes, but I didn’t say anything.

  “Tonight, you’re not allowed in your room. Sleep on the floor outside—without a blanket.”

  She pulled the cushions from the couch and the loveseat, locking them inside the coat closet. Then, cranked the air conditioning to sixty-five and left me downstairs shivering for the entire night with a dress that barely covered me. I sat next to the couch, on top of the old carpet and held onto my knees, resting my head against them. Pain throbbed so violently around my skull that I feared that it might crack open. I truly hoped it would so someone would pay attention to what was going on in this house.

  Would things improve if Corbin married her?

  I needed to survive three more years. And then I’d be free.

  20

  Wes

  Present Day

  When I arrive at Abby’s place to have breakfast, she opens the door with bleary eyes and slightly slumped shoulders. She didn’t sleep again. And she didn’t let me stay with her. Instead of arguing with her, I hand her the rose I bought for her. She loves that I leave little presents around her office and that I bring her flowers almost daily.

  I get it. It’s the simple details that mean so much. I fall in love with her each time I find a note under my mug wishing me a happy day. Abby loves sticky notes and has them in all kinds
of shapes and colors. Her new thing is leaving them around with different messages. Last night she left one on my phone: I’m thinking of you. I had a long meeting, and she got me lunch. The note on it said: I missed you. See you at home.

  It’s been more than a week since she came home, and we started dating. We’re adjusting, and I’m aware there are things we need to discuss, but every time I see her smile I know that this is working out for both of us. This past Monday we decided to take turns preparing breakfast and dinner. I’ve juggled a few things around, but I’ve kept my promise of not staying at work past six thirty.

  “You’re wearing jeans?” She scrunches her nose.

  “Casual Friday,” I remind her. “It’s in the manual. Didn’t you read it?”

  “Only the important stuff, not the dress code. It’s not like I’m going to go to the office dressed like a harlot.”

  “Isn’t that term a little outdated?”

  “Maybe.” She shrugs, opening the door wider. “Grandma used it all the time.”

  I stop in front of her, leaning forward and giving her a peck on the lips.

  “Good morning, Wes,” she smiles at me, giving me a deeper kiss. “I missed you last night.”

  “How did you sleep?” I push her eye glass frames away from her nose and run my thumb along the big bags under her eyes.

  “Okay, I guess. I might accept your offer to stay with me tonight.” She grins. “We could find new ways to tire me out—without counting.”

  We can count how many orgasms you can have before you fall asleep, I want to offer, but instead, I take her into my arms and devour her.

  I’m trying to make up for the time we missed. I owe her years of kisses.

  “Let’s have breakfast. I have a conference call with Sterling.”

  “Why aren’t you meeting him at the office?”

  “He’s preoccupied with something important,” she says walking away from me.

  “It’s smells great,” I catch her up, pulling her toward me and giving her a quick peck on the lips. “What did you make me?”