by Leigh Lennon
“You’re not for real, are you?”
“As real as Green Day and Pearl Jam.” I have no idea what I’m saying, but they’re my favorite bands, and I own it, and because I’m on a roll, I finish my list of hard lines. “And my name isn’t M; it’s Malia.” I fall back on my bed, my AirPods in my ears, turning on my playlist when I hear just a little bit from Greenlyn.
“Great, I’ve gotten stuck with the most unreasonable grandma like person.” This makes me laugh. Have circumstances turned me into this? Fucking yeah, it has.
“Alive” blares in my AirPods, and my eyes adjust to the sun streaming into the room. Greenlyn’s side is still intact, where I had assumed she packed up, leaving me alone—to get as far away from me as she can. However, maybe she’s stuck like I am.
Mom and Dad didn’t have much, so when they died with the little bit left over, after Mally paid for the countless doctors and therapists, the leftovers went to her hospital bills in the end. If there had been any way to reverse the cancer or prolong her life, I would have done anything to stop it. Mally had been my legal guardian, but for financial reasons, I’ve technically stayed a foster kid, in order to have my college paid for. I had to jump through hoops for Oregon to pay for a non-state school. In the end, I won due to Seattle being my home. It’s my long way of explaining why I didn’t have enough money to have a private room.
I push back in my bed against the brick wall, taking inventory of our room. Greenlyn’s side is purple and pink from the paisley bedspread to the curtains, and all her wall art matches aesthetically. My wall is bare, minus the art piece over my headboard, a picture of Aunt Mally’s farmhouse that I painted years ago. It wasn’t a working farm, hadn’t been since my mom and aunt lived there as kids. But it’s beautiful, and I needed this memory, with the estate being sold, to cover the rest of Aunt Mally’s never-ending hospital bills. My side is plain Jane in comparison to the color of Greenlyn’s personality coming out in droves. I’m boring with gray and navy blue without any other personal objects to show anything from my life.
When the door swings open, Greenlyn strolls in with a towel draped across her chest. This floor is full of guys, and she traipses down the hall in this? Oh, lord, help me. “Morning, Greenlyn,” I begin.
She twists her long angular head toward me, just this part of her body, wearing an expression between a sneer and a tight smile. “Morning, Malia.” Her words are quick and without affection.
“Listen, about last night…”
She waives me off. “I get it. I understand your reasons.” Oh, shit, it’s happened. It takes one little search engine and my name to find out the past I try to tackle head-on, yet run from at the same time.
“What do you mean?” I try to hide my anxiety in my innocent question, but the dizziness takes over, and though I’m sitting, I hold the wall for support
“I called my mom, telling her to get me a new roommate, and she had searched your name—remembered your family’s death. No wonder you don’t want anyone in here. I get it and will respect you. If I want to hook up with a guy, I can go back to his room. No biggie.”
She turns, dropping her shower caddy on the desk. “Oh, by the way, this was left outside the door for you.” She hands me the envelope and proceeds to drop the towel to get dressed, leaving her very naked self in front of me. I open the letter, thinking it’s the adjustment to my room and board by moving in early. It comes at a great time because I want to avoid my roommate’s nakedness. My eyes have to be the size of saucers as they widen at the words my mind can’t process. My mouth dries and my fingers begin to sweat, and with a large gasp, I drop the typed letter to the floor only after I read it.
Dear Malia,
Welcome back to the city. I’ve missed you in the past eleven years, but I’m sure we’ll become reacquainted with one another soon.
It’s not signed. Greenlyn’s eyes fall on me, and at least she has on underwear and a bra now.
“What’s wrong?”
I give her my phone, unlocking my screen. “Call this number and read the letter to him.” It comes on me quick, as it normally does. I cocoon into a ball, and though I’m wide awake, the entire world fades around me.
“Sweetie, it’s me, it’s Wells. I have you.” My woozy head pops up, from the safe cocoon I’ve set for myself, and he’s leaning up against the same brick wall I had been before the stupid letter. “That’s right, sweetie, come back to me.” He’s rubbing my back in large circular motions, all the same techniques Jules incorporated from yesterday.
With his presence in my space, a twinge of remorse floods over me with the regret of him seeing me like this. At the same time, he’s here, and in a tight smile, my reply is simple.
“I thought I’ve graduated to sweetheart.” This garners me a broad smile from Wells, a green outline tracing his silvery-blue eyes and his blonde hair styled in a wild tousled type of look. How I want to rake my hands through his gorgeous messy mop on his head. Is it thick? Is it thin? His muscled biceps peek out from under his simple white crewneck shirt.
“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” His words electrify my skin with the question. Does this mean I’m going to be around him enough in which he’ll be able to answer his own question?
“I guess you’re going to have to stick around and find out.” It hits me, with my borderline comeback, what I truly mean. My fingers begin to tremble remembering the words left for me, earlier. “The letter?” I jump from the bed to the floor, and immediately miss being a part of Wells’s space.
“I have it in an evidence bag.”
“How did that sick son of a bitch know? I haven’t told anyone, not one person, I was coming here.” I’m pacing the space between Greenlyn’s and my bed.
He swings his long legs fully over the side of the bed with his index finger on his chin. “No one? You told no one, is that right?”
His authoritative voice may be sexier than any of the sexiest parts of him, and as he’s waiting for my answer, our eyes link with one another.
“Yeah, the school knew, but I hadn’t told Jules. And Greenlyn didn’t know who I was until last night. Why?”
“My captain told me you were back in town only after we had been informed there was an arrest in the case. And Jules only knew because Matt told her.”
The vein on the top of my forehead pulses, and sweat pools around my neck and underarms, my focus on it all. There’s been an arrest, but now, I get this letter. Who knows if my fate connects them as it intertwines with my past.
“I don’t post on social media, so I have no idea.” He’s back in my space, the same aroma from last night invading my senses, when he pulls at something in my closet. “Boundaries,” I warn, seeing a simple duffel bag in his hand.
“You aren’t safe. Someone is messing with you. I’m not letting you stay here.”
“And where pray tell, am I staying?” He shoves the bag in front of me, but I won’t take it, nor do I reach my hands to grab for it.
“I have an extra room, or I’ll sleep on the floor between you and your roommate.”
I’ve known this man my whole life, not personally, but every quality about him was displayed on that day. And for years, I’ve dreamed of every attribute, and in my mind, I may have romanticized it, but then again, I don’t think I’m far off. I won’t be told how to live, not after a psychopath has dictated my entire life after they stripped everyone I loved from me.
“I’m not letting a stupid note change my plans.” There’s more to tell him and I’m not done, not by a long shot. “And why would I go anywhere with you? After all the years I sent you letters and you didn’t have the decency to return them.” He stands stoic, not moving, only staring at me with the stupid duffel bag still in his hand.
“Let me go change and brush my teeth at least if you’re going to boss me around.” I leave without permission to go to the bathroom with my shower caddy and a change of clothes.
My resolve is high. It’s the only way I
could survive the nights I cried for my mom the first year. Afterward, I slept with Aunt Mally. The following year, I could leave her bed but not her room, so she moved a futon into her space. By fourteen, I’d been in my own room, but every light had to be turned on. I hadn’t suffered through the traumatic milestones, which continue to plague me, just for an alpha male to tell me I’m moving in with him. No matter how fucking hot he is.
After fifteen minutes, I’m back, showered, and changed, and my hair pulled up in a ponytail. “I’m not staying with you.”
“Oh, we’ll see about this.” He begins to rifle through my drawers, pulling out a couple of items and placing them in the satchel. “I’ll buy you a toothbrush and toothpaste.” He moves his hand to the small of my back in an almost predatorial statement, helping me from the room, down the hallway, and to his car. It’s not anything like the BMW I rode in yesterday, but it’s a new and clean Chevy Malibu.
“I like our car from last night better,” I bite out with a little joke, and I’m not sure how I feel right now. Mad? Sad? Overwhelmed? But whatever I am at this moment, his smile broadens like last night referring to something as ours.
“See, I told you I was a normal cop with the same shitty pay as most,” he teases, offering a little wink and an olive branch my way, all the while throwing my satchel in the back seat of the car. I slip into his vehicle with only one thing on my mind—get my vehicle and get back to the university. I’m here to live life on my terms.
I’ve turned to the side of the seat, twisting my entire body away from him. I hadn’t heard from this stunning man since the hour we spent together when I was eighteen.
“Are you going to pout the entire way to the police station?”
He never told me where we are going. “You act as if you and I are the best of friends, and that you have a say as to my choices.”
“And you act like a spoiled brat not getting her way. You’ve been threatened.” He turns his right turn signal for Mercer Island toward the Space Needle. “You say you don’t know me, but what about getting to know me in your dreams?”
In the attempt to stay in my seat belt, I move more of my back to him. It’s a stalling technique, and I’m willing myself to recall what the hell he’s saying because he’s not wrong. In my dreams, I’ve become very comfortable with Wells Shanahan, but in reality, where has he heard this confession?
“Ah, fuck.” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until my words cause Wells to return his own comment.
“You’re remembering now—yesterday, your dream, and what you said—aren’t you?” He pulls into an empty parking lot close to the Space Needle. He’s out of his car, chivalrously opening my door before I’m aware he’s gotten out. I sit in the seat in a dazed haze as his body crosses me, and it makes my breath hitch. What is he doing? He’s so close, and I’ve been imagining this kiss for years.
My fingers can almost dance to his freshly shaven face, compared to the scruff on it from last night. His attention rotates to the left, looking back at me when he unlatches my seat belt. “I can’t take you to the top of the Space Needle if you’re still buckled up, sweetheart.”
With the single word—sweetheart—my toes curl, and if I were to speak, my voice would shake. My racing heartbeat and dry mouth continue to be just a few of my internal sensations turning my mind to mush.
“Come on, the police station can wait for now. You need a little TLC.” The idea of facing an iconic landmark I last visited with my family would normally have me melting on the ground. In Wells’s presence, there’s a safety as if he silently says you’re going to be all right in this world, Malia Strickland.
The mere penmanship of this man has been the healing touch, more than every therapist and doctor my aunt had dragged me to. “You pull me out of my dorm after making me pack a bag because I can’t stay there now. I barely had a chance to get ready, and you think the Space Needle is what I need.” Fuck, it is what I need, but I want answers. I want him to further explain why he stopped writing to me, why he purposely withheld a hope that held so much more to me than anything else had. He may have told me two years ago, but I need more to hold onto.
“Yeah, sweetheart, I do think this is what you need. And if you lose the attitude only for a minute, you’ll figure out it’s what you need, too.” He pulls at my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. “Come on, I know you want to.” His bossiness is gone for a second, and I’m rewarded with a little bit of his easygoingness—I assume maybe in short supply.
“Okay, you won me over,” I admit. He’d won me over years ago, but I won’t give Mr. Bossy Pants the satisfaction. Not right now.
We’re at the ticket counter, and before I realize it, he has me in the enclosed elevator taking us up to the top. “Have I told you I’m scared of heights?” Like last night, he finds the small of my back, placing his hand there in both protection and comfort.
His long body leans over a little, whispering in my ear, “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
His breath connects with my skin, and the goose bumps prickle it. If he notices, he doesn’t say a thing. The doors open, and he escorts me off the elevator as though I belong to him.
Chapter 7
Wells
I’m leading her to the observation deck with the idea that the late summer breeze can calm Malia’s racing pulse. I’ve been around so many situations in the past, and I can see the beginning of a breakdown. Between her return to the city, running into familiar faces, and the letter from this morning, Malia is on a downward spiral.
She’s a mouthy little thing and taking her on a stroll around the deck with three hundred and sixty-degree views of the Seattle skyline is a technique I’ve learned to combat pent-up worry and anxiety.
“Isn’t it pretty up here? We’ve had such a mild summer. We’re pretty much in fall, though it’s technically not autumn yet,” I begin. Stopping at the rails, I look over the Puget Sound and the Pacific wheel. We don’t have to move because eventually, the deck will rotate us around, and we’ll see every beauty the city has to hold. “So, you mentioned the letters you wrote to me. And I can sense that when I stopped writing to you, I caused you pain even though I thought we talked about this when you visited two years ago.”
She doesn’t turn her attention to me, but does answer, “Yes,” in an almost whimper. My hand itches to sweep away the raven hair covering her face to catch every little glimpse of her beauty, but I don’t own this right. She’s not mine to touch, not in the way my body has wanted to since I’ve reunited with her.
“Like I told you two years ago, I read things in your letters, things that would not have been appropriate for a man thirteen years your senior to reply to, at the age you were, then.”
With a slight bob of her head as the dark waves fall in her eyes, she tells me she understands.
“I wanted to write you back. Your case never left my mind or my desk. When I was assigned to homicide, I asked for your case, especially since the detective in charge of it was retiring. I had this need to give the little girl who clung to me a reason to live, to truly live. I may not have solved the case yet, but do you know how proud I am of you, Malia? From the moment you appeared at my front steps, I knew you were determined, and you would do anything you set your mind to.”
She stares passively out into the Queen Anne area now with the rotation of the deck. “I don’t think of you as a stranger, sweetheart. Between the stories from Jules and Gail, the letters you kept sending me even though I couldn’t respond, and the work I’ve done on your case, I know you.” Her gaze finally turns to mine. “I know you used to love purple, but now, only consider black or gray and dark blue your favorite colors. I know you and Georgia text back and forth every day, sometimes hundreds of times. Briana is still a part of your life, but she’s no Georgia. You’re a beautiful artist, and you prefer watercolors, though I think your talent really lies in acrylic paints. You love candy corn and Skittles unless there’s cake, then you may eat the whole thing in one si
tting. You hate ice cream, pretty much anything food-wise that is super cold, but you’ll eat ice cream on that piece of cake you love so much. You’ve never met a sandwich you don’t like. You hate high heels but feel because you’re on the shorter side, you have to wear them, and you’d dress in shorts every day of the year if it weren’t for things like winter.”
A tear cascades down her ivory skin, and she won’t look me in the eyes. “I know when you’re uncomfortable, you avoid eye contact.” I wait for her gaze to return to me, but it doesn’t. I’m not done. “See, I know quite a bit about you, and believe me, I’m on a roll.”
A small chortle chokes from her lips. “I forgot how many letters I wrote to you until I gave up.”
“Yeah, and I read all of them, sweetheart. As I told you two years ago, I didn’t want to give you false hope that we could be more than just this.”
In a gasp and the small gaze we share, I’ve wounded her. “And what are we, besides virtual strangers, Wells?”
She’s attempting to hurt me as I’ve unintentionally upset her. “That’s the thing, Malia, and you know it. We aren’t strangers. We have a connection, and as far as who I am to you, I’m the man who will protect you with my last breath.”
On the car ride to my precinct, she’s quiet. “Are you hungry?”
“Nah, not really.” Every question I ask, she answers with no emotion in her words. I don’t push, only watch her from my peripheral. She bites her bottom lip and rubs her temples.
“Do you have a headache?”
“No, it’s just...”
“You’ve dealt with a lot more shit in your life than one person deserves,” I begin with the obvious, “and you think you’re the only one you can rely on, thus that hard exterior you have to display.”
