by Mary Frame
I’ve been avoiding hanging it up, because while I love it, seeing it there every day reminds me of what I’m missing.
Needing some air, I step out onto the square patio. It’s basically the fire escape and the size of a small coffee table, but still. It’s mine.
The sounds of the city surround me, distant honking, tires shrieking against the pavement, voices blending and filling the night air with a distant murmur. It’s the sound of home.
But when I look up, I can’t see the stars.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I was once troubled by the many paths that lay before me so I decided to be admirable at everything.
–Cyrano de Bergerac
* * *
“Night, Beast.”
Lucas passes me on the way to his car, and I throw him a two-fingered wave, waiting until his door is closed before shoving the key in my ignition. But before I put the truck in gear, I check my phone.
I miss you.
It’s two a.m., way too late to write back. Or too early. Four a.m. in New York. My fingers hover over the keyboard. But then I toss the phone down on the empty seat and get moving.
Driving home from work isn’t the same without Fred next to me. I glance over at her side of the cab.
Nothing is the same.
School is starting next month, and I’ve been trying to distract myself until then by working as many hours as possible. When classes start, I’ll still work part-time, helping after school in the kitchen at Bodean’s for a few hours each night. Anything to keep my mind from lingering on the woman with a boy’s name, the heart of an angel, and a tendency to ramble when she’s nervous. It would take me a full twenty-four hours to reach her if I kept driving.
When I pass the tree where we used to park, I almost give in to the urge.
But when I reach the turnoff that stretches down to the ranch, I take it.
The next morning, Grace is in the kitchen, sitting on the counter with her laptop open next to her.
She jumps down when she sees me. “You want coffee?”
I nod and she practically flies to the machine to pour me a mug.
She’s been doing this ever since Fred left.
“How was work?”
Fine, I sign.
“Are you hungry?” She smiles at me. “I can cook something for you. I’m really good at slapping together sandwiches and pouring milk into cereal.”
I shake my head no.
Her smile droops and she pivots away, facing her laptop.
I grimace and rub a hand through my hair. I miss Fred. It’s difficult to pretend otherwise. Grace has been doing her best to be positive and upbeat and make me feel better, but I know it’s only because she’s harboring guilt.
It’s not Grace’s fault. She’s just a kid who already has enough to deal with. Staying is my choice. But part of me wishes I could leave. If I knew Grace would be okay, maybe I would go to New York.
I set down my coffee and walk over to her, leaning back against the counter so we’re facing each other.
Are you coming with me today? I sign.
She nods. “Of course. I have an appointment later, too.”
According to the doctors, my larynx is weak from disuse. The larynx itself is a muscle that houses the tissues and vocal cords used to create sound. I’ve got to strengthen those muscles in order to produce anything more than moans and shrieks. But first, I have to push through the swamping anxiety that threatens me every time I try.
After Fred left, I upped my sessions to three times a week. More than anything, I want to be able to talk to her. To call her.
Texting hasn’t been completely awful. Some of the pictures Fred has sent me, along with the more explicit messages, are exhilarating, and yet they make the hole in my heart that much bigger. She also texts photos of landmarks, excited to show me every part of her city whenever I can visit, but I just want to spend that time with her in bed, exploring the parts of her body in the other photos she’s sent.
I have to delete everything so Grace doesn’t come across them while snooping on my phone. She doesn’t do it to be cruel or anything, it’s just part of her—tech is something that gives her a measure of control when the rest of the world feels like it’s spinning out of it.
Even with the therapy, pushing anything through my throat continues to be difficult. It would be laughable if it weren’t so pathetic. But difficult doesn’t mean impossible. It’s getting better—especially since meeting Fred—but loving her isn’t a cure-all. There is no magic button. Every day, it will get a little bit better as long as I roll with the inevitable setbacks.
Setbacks like Fred’s absence. Since she left, everything has been harder. Touching her helped. Taking care of her helped. Her taking care of me helped. Being understood, accepted without judgment. Not once did she make me feel less than, even when she knew everything.
The rest of my family helps, too, but it’s not the same.
I’m going to get chores done before we leave, I sign to Grace and she nods.
“Beast,” she calls before I can make it through the door.
I stop and face her.
Her mouth is a thin, colorless slash in her normally expressive face. “You’re not happy.”
I’m fine.
She sighs. “Make sure you close the coop door if you’re checking on the eggs. Kylo Hen’s been more ornery than usual.”
Two weeks later, things are better and things are worse. I spoke a word in therapy. One clear, careful word, with proper enunciation and everything.
I’ve video messaged with Fred three times, which is wonderful and weird all at once. She’s been practicing her ASL and we spoke using a combination of hands and texting, but at least we could also see each other. Her beautiful smile filling the screen is a double-edged sword of pleasure and pain.
The next morning I’m cooking breakfast for Jude and Reese. Jude levels me with a penetrating look. “Not sleeping?”
I shrug. I’ve been having problems falling asleep and staying asleep. It’s something that used to be an issue, years ago. It had gotten better, but now . . .
“You smiled more when she was here.”
I cut him a sharp glance.
“No reason to get cranky, big fella, that wasn’t judgment upon your current level of stoicism.” He pats me on the shoulder. “You have options. No one is forcing you to stay, not even the teenage menace to society.”
My jaw clenches and I scowl at him. He knows why I can’t leave.
Jude lifts his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I’m just sayin’, we would all understand if you had to follow your own path. We won’t ever stop being your family. Where you live isn’t important.”
I wish it were that easy.
Later in the week, my therapist prescribes me an anti-anxiety medication to help with the ongoing cognitive behavioral therapy.
Part of me recoils at taking pills, not only because of the side effects, but because I should be strong enough to work through things without medication. Physically, I can take on anything. I’m not used to feeling weak. But I know that’s pride speaking. If it will allow me to progress to the point where I can speak with Fred, I’ll crawl through broken glass to make it happen.
And then one Sunday, everything changes.
Granny has allowed me to take over Sunday supper duties, a miracle in and of itself.
She and Grace are target shooting in the backyard and I’m braising short ribs on the BBQ when Grace comes pounding up the porch, out of breath.
Are you okay? I sign, but she doesn’t appear injured. She’s smiling.
She shoves a thick white envelope in my hands. “This came for you today.”
The return address is in New York.
I stare at her long enough and hard enough that she smacks me in the arm. “Open it.”
As I tear open the envelope, the words on the paper blur before my eyes. It’s an acceptance letter to the CIA, in New York. The one Fred told me about.
I blink to clear my vision, emotion gripping my throat, but this time it’s not because of anxiety or apprehension.
My gaze flies back to Grace and holds.
She bites her lip. “I’ve been selfish. I can’t hold you back from what you want. I love you. I care about what you want more than what I want. And you will be happier wherever she is.” She swallows and then talks in a rush of words. “So I might have sort of hacked into your computer and stolen your résumé and sent it in. If you love me, you’ll go. Because nothing is more important than your happiness. You are always looking out for everyone else, and it’s time that someone looked after you.”
I put my hands up to sign, but she stops me with a shake of her head.
“And it might be possible that the time you applied to that other culinary school in Dallas, maybe I made sure you wouldn’t get in. But that was wrong, and now I’m trying to make it right. Besides,” she continues, “if you had gotten in to the other place, then you never would have met Fred, so really I did you a favor.”
Okay, even I can admit that’s stretching. But still.
“It’s my turn to sacrifice something for you,” Grace says. “Just like you did when we lived with he who shall not be named.”
I smile. Fred made Grace watch all of the Harry Potter movies over Christmas break. And then a week later, during a fit when Grace threw her laundry at Fred, Fred danced around yelling, “Dobby is free!” and Grace laughed so hard she cried.
I blink through a film of tears. Shake my head. How can this be real?
I sign, How can I leave you behind? And I still can’t talk.
“Don’t argue with me. A lot of people don’t talk. And you’re learning. You will talk. I know it. There’s no reason you can’t continue your voice therapy in New York. And maybe,” she bites her lip and her head droops, “maybe I need to learn how to be on my own, too. But I’m not really on my own. We will always have each other no matter where you live. Jude and Granny and the rest of them won’t let me be lonely. And I’ll visit you. Please, Beast, follow your happy.”
I yank her to me, hugging her tiny frame. When she was born, she almost fit in my hand, she was so tiny.
She pulls back first. “I had to pull some strings to make sure you could start when the next term begins in a month. And Granny wants another party before you leave, so it’s going to get busy. Are you going to call Fred?”
My grin is so wide it hurts my cheeks.
Fred was the hero in her story, and now it’s time for the rest of us to follow suit.
Chapter Twenty-Five
All those letters, they were you . . .
All those beautiful powerful words, they were you! . . .
The voice from the shadows, that was you . . .
You always loved me!
–Cyrano de Bergerac
* * *
“Do you want to come over later? We can watch a movie or something. I’ll even let you feed me cupcakes.”
Scarlett laughs, the sound tinny from my phone’s speaker. “I would love to stuff your face with cake and frosting, I’ve got some new flavor ideas for the truck and I could use some advice, but Guy has something planned for us tonight.”
“Oh.” I sidestep a questionable puddle on the sidewalk. It hasn’t rained in weeks. That’s either booze or urine. “Maybe tomorrow? Or Sunday? I could use a distraction.”
“You’re not hanging out with your new friends tonight? I thought maybe you had plans.”
“Nah, they’re cool and all, but I didn’t feel like being social.”
I have hung out with my coworkers periodically over the past few weeks. I’ve gone for drinks, out for dinner, I even went to a movie with a fellow new hire. I’m practically a social butterfly. It’s helped ease the incessant longing pushing at my heart, despite the excitement and gratification with my job.
I haven’t talked to Beast as much lately. We’ve both been busy. And I can’t help but wonder, is he slipping away? Will our calls and texts get more and more infrequent and eventually cease entirely?
“You don’t want to be social, but you wanted me to come over?” Scarlett asks.
“With you I can be bleak and miserable. With my coworkers, I have to put on a face like I’m happy and normal.”
She pauses. “Aren’t you, though? Happy?”
I stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. “I mean. I am in some sense. I’m ecstatic about my job and apartment. But . . . I know, I can’t base my entire happiness on someone else, and I’m not, but I miss him, Scarlett.” I can’t stop the thickness from entering my voice.
“I know, Fred. Why don’t you go home, take a bath in that awesome claw-foot tub, order takeout, and call Beast? I bet you’ll feel better.”
I swallow. “You’re right.”
“And call me in the morning, okay?” There’s something off in her tone, like she’s distracted, but it’s probably just Guy or one of the kids. I don’t want to push her on it, and I’ve reached my building anyway. We hang up and I get out my keys for the front entryway.
The elevator has a Do Not Use sign so I trudge up the stairs. I guess it’s a good thing. This is the only exercise I get. I exit the stairwell onto my floor and halt.
Down the hall, a large figure sits in the hall, head tipped back against my door, eyes shut.
Oh my Chuck.
“Beast?” The word, only a whisper, may as well be a gunshot.
He jerks up. Our eyes meet.
“Am I hallucinating?”
He smiles at me, shaking his head no. He lumbers to his feet, and I’m already running.
Heart pounding, I leap into him in a graceless move that should send us both sprawling to the floor. But he would never let me fall. He catches me, holding me up against him while I rain kisses all over his face.
I hold his face between my hands, tracing his features with my eyes. He’s thinner. Grey smudges line his eyes, and there is enough stubble under my fingers to indicate he hasn’t shaved since at least yesterday morning. “You’re here. You’re really here. I’ve imagined you here, but I can’t believe this is real.”
Then we’re kissing again. I lift my legs to wrap them around his waist and he grasps my ass in his giant palms.
He leans back against my door, his mouth devouring mine like I’m a succulent dessert and he hasn’t eaten in months. I start unbuttoning his shirt and then my neighbor’s door opens and a whistle jars us out of our kissing trance.
Flushing, I unwrap myself from Beast but his hands don’t leave me, touching my back, my shoulder even as I unlock my door and he picks up his bag from where it was sitting on the floor.
“Hey, I was enjoying the show!” my neighbor yells.
“Good night, Dave.”
“I think yours is gonna be better than mine,” he calls out as I shut the door.
We get inside the apartment and I lock the door. He drops his bag on the floor and then we’re kissing again.
This time, it’s not a consuming scorch of lips, but a tender expression of intent. Soft and sweet, full of heated emotion.
We pull apart, and I grasp his hand and lead him into the bedroom. It’s not yet dark outside, though the sun has disappeared behind the buildings, casting the sky with an orange glow that seeps through the curtainless windows.
No words are needed as we undress each other, the only sounds the whisper of our clothing as it hits the floor.
He runs his knuckles over me, from my breastbone to my navel and back up. Tracing delicate patterns over my skin in effortless seduction. Then we’re falling into bed.
He shifts over me, arms braced on either side of my head, the blunt head of him pressing against my sensitive entrance. His mouth sips at mine as he pushes inside, hard and insistent.
I grip at his lower back, pressing at him, rocking my hips to drive him deeper, but he’s inexorable, the power of him a leashed force entering me barely an inch at a time. Finally, he pulls back from the kiss,
our eyes locking, and he plunges the final inch. We shudder together, holding on to the moment. My hands glide up his body to close around his nape.
His gaze is raw, possessive, full of a primal heat that echoes inside me.
And then he moves. Our bodies rock in unison, a slow and tender dance. He lifts one hand to brush against my skin, cupping my breast, drawing circles around the sensitive peaks.
I lift my legs and lock around him, clasping him, guiding his movements into the perfect angle to thrust right there. Minutes later, pleasure ripples through me without warning, a wave that takes Beast out with me, and we’re both groaning in the aftermath of release.
Sometime later, actual time has ceased to have meaning, but the room is dark and we’re lying in bed, facing each other with my leg up over his waist.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, tracing the line of his shoulder with a finger.
He shakes his head. Then he reaches out and runs his thumb over my lips, his eyes following the movement before he meets my eyes.
“I love you.” His voice is deep and soft, comforting like hot chocolate, the words hoarse.
I can’t move. I can’t think. I can only stare at him in awestruck wonder, my heart pounding.
“Beast,” I manage to get out between frantic breaths. I push up to sitting and stare down at him. “You talked.”
His eyes widen in feigned shock. “I did?”
Stunned by both his words and the fact that he can make jokes at a time like this, I burst into tears.
He pulls me into his chest.
“You talked,” I blubber all over him. “You told me you loved me. You’re here. It’s all so overwhelming I’m not sure I can take it.”
His chest moves under my cheek, and I pull back to watch, holding my breath while he takes a couple long seconds to force out words again. “It’s . . . hard.”
The words aren’t quite as confident as his profession of love. This time, his voice is forced, a little ragged with effort.
