by J. Conrad
“I don’t know if I’d call it enjoyment,” Trent says. “Of course, I want to do something more with my life than muck out stalls and fix fences. For once, I have a way to create a future for myself. A real future, through a real career. It’s a chance to start over.”
“I respect that,” I say. “And I think it’s commendable. But there’s also nothing wrong with working on a ranch in Texas. I’m sure a lot of people would love to do that kind of work every day. Some people are stuck behind a desk for eight hours. And the ranch is safe. Doesn’t that sense of security appeal to you?”
Trent laughs stiffly. “Aria, I was nearly killed working there earlier this year. It was a matter of months ago. And no, I guess that sense of security doesn’t appeal to me all that much. The work I did for Tim isn’t a real job. It’s not the type of thing a guy in his thirties should be doing. I barely made over minimum wage. And it was fine for a while. I was able to sustain myself, and I was able to rent my house. But my work on Corbin Ranch has seen its day. It’s time for me to move into something respectable. A career for life that matters, and one that I can eventually retire from.”
“Well, that makes sense,” I say.
Seeing how I can’t argue his logic, Trent flashes a fleeting smile. Then he clears his throat and frowns. “Aria, there’s something I need to tell you too.”
I blink at him. So, I was right—something’s irking him about my story of Ayden and the strange phone call, and now he’s finally going to say it.
“Like I’ve told you, once I finish my training, I’m going to be a deputy sheriff for Williamson County. I know that my being enrolled at the police academy has been stressful for you. You’re worried about what might happen to me, which also makes you worried about the future. And just as you understand my need to improve my life and make something of myself, I completely understand your concerns about my taking such a dangerous job.” He pauses, watching for my reaction.
“Yeah?” I’ve stopped eating.
“Because of this, and because of the unnecessary stress it’s causing you, I think it might be a good idea for you and me to take a break.”
7
Trent puts his hands up. “Aria, I am by no means trying to shove you away or saying you can’t be in my life. I’m in no way saying that, and I want to make sure you understand that. But it might do you some good to be away from me for a while. To just stay home with your female friends, relax, and get your mind off things like police training and daily use of firearms. I can’t stand to see how much it’s been upsetting you lately.”
I shake my head. The ice-cold air from the vents magnifies the chill running down my back. So, this is what he was withholding. I thought his odd facial expressions and withdrawn behavior were due to what happened with Ayden—the parts I told him, anyway. But they weren’t about that at all. Trent wanted to drop this bomb on me, but then I went and ruined his timing by telling him someone may want revenge. More revenge, apparently, as though what Korey did to me wasn’t enough.
I say, “It isn’t stressing me out. I’m glad you’re pursuing your chosen career, especially since you weren’t able to finish college like you wanted. Like you said, this is your chance to start over. Yes, it does worry me at times, but I’m still behind you.” The strain in my voice detracts from any conviction.
Trent pushes his plate away and folds his hands. “Well, thank you. I appreciate that. But I have to be honest. All the discussions we’ve had about it, some of them in the middle of the night, are getting to be pretty hard on me. It’s nothing against you. I like having you with me. But both of us have been losing sleep, and I can’t justify putting you through this. And as unhappy as it’s making you now, imagine when I start my new job. That’s why I think it might be a good idea to have a little time apart. You should think about it. And you should think about the fact that it isn’t healthy for you to worry so much about what I’m doing.”
I slowly nod as I conceptualize his statements. There’s what they mean for the immediate future. Then there’s what they mean for our future, period. The idea of not visiting Trent at home, of not sitting on the couch with him or having dinner with him like we’re doing now leaves a hollow, aching pain in my chest. I don’t want to impose, but the thought of being alone in actuality, right now in real life, terrifies me more than the possibility of losing him to the job.
“How about if I just don’t bring it up anymore?” I ask. But what if that’s not what’s really bothering him after all? I shouldn’t have told him about Ayden.
“Aria, that isn’t fair to you. It’s like saying you don’t have a right to communicate your thoughts,” Trent says.
“But, if what I’ve been communicating is getting burdensome and making you crazy, then I won’t. I can keep it to myself.” And I can keep other things to myself too, like burn victims and bloody souvenirs.
Trent shakes his head. “Aria, I’m sorry, but no. I think you need a break from me, a real break. And I need one too. Not because I don’t care, but because I do. And because it isn’t healthy for either one of us to be up half the night discussing me getting killed by criminals.”
Biting my tongue, I know Trent’s probably being generous. During the wee hours, we don’t only discuss the possibility of him getting offed while on duty. I also have horrible nightmares. Sometimes I wake up screaming. Occasionally I sleepwalk, and once when I regained consciousness, I found myself sitting on the kitchen floor wearing nothing but my shoes. It must be hard on him those nights I stay over. But he’s always such a good sport about it, and I appreciate his kindness so much. Trent has been there for me all the way these last eight months. I’m beyond grateful.
Trent’s eyes widen beneath his dark brows, his frown indicating he’s preparing for my imminent freak-out. I’m not going to. I’m not angry, but the diving of my stomach and the pace of my heart tells me I’m sure not happy about it. What an awful surprise after I got threatened at work.
I blink too many times and lower my voice. “Is it really because of what I told you—because of Ayden?”
“Of course not.” He rubs his chin.
“It is. Are you afraid of me?” You shouldn’t be, because I’m a nice person. But you should be because I’m also a monster. Simple.
Trent shakes his head vigorously. “Aria, no, it has nothing to do with that. And all I’m proposing is a break. We’re still friends. We’ll always be friends.”
And something more. Or maybe less. Nothing at all, yet something deep and unnamable, that’s what we are.
Silent, I gawp at him. He shoves his dirty plate aside and reaches for my hands across the table. I’m unprepared, and I twitch. The warmth of his skin against mine makes my heart all fluttery. Then the feeling is gone. My chest aches. He doesn’t want to be with me, and he probably never will.
“All right, then,” I say in a soft, even voice. “We’ll take a break.”
I pull my hands from his. Trent scratches his head and glances toward the other side of the restaurant. He sniffs. “Okay. Well, thanks. Thanks for understanding. Do you have any other questions for me?”
Yeah. Why would someone take my hands after asking for time apart? And how does a dead man’s jewelry disappear without a trace? “No, none that I can think of. Since we’ve already paid and I’m done eating, I should get going.”
Trent pushes back against the table. “Oh. Okay, Aria, sure. And hey, if you need to call me, or if you need anything, feel free to let me know.”
My core smolders with the familiar, dull hurt, but I keep it to myself. I grab my purse, slide out of the booth, and stand up.
“Thanks.” It falls flat like my smile.
Before I can say another word, my feet get moving beneath me. They carry me toward the front doors of Jack Allen’s and out to the parking lot. The warm air and sunlight of the bright August day are a shocking contrast to the frigid air conditioning. Wriggling out of the jacket as I squint from the glare, the sunlight turns my vision to
silver cotton fuzz. Reality is too bright to face. Bright and damn lonely.
I white-knuckle the steering wheel on the drive home. I’m so used to being afraid all the time that I’ve become accustomed to it. But after getting that call and now being “freed” from Trent, my fear has taken on a new layer. Since Korey was jailed, I haven’t considered the possibility of anything else happening to me. True, there’s the lingering post-trauma of it all, and its invisible cloak is hard to shed. It seems natural to carry it for a while—probably years, if not for life. But receiving a threat out of nowhere eight months later, from a caller I don’t know, is something I never anticipated.
When I experience stress or a threat of loss, I’m plagued by intermittent flashbacks of my time in the County Road 140 house. Their severity depends on the external stimuli, I guess, but there are also times I’ve had them with no stimuli at all. My therapist told me this happens to many people who’ve experienced something like I have.
This first week away from Trent is no exception. A bleak fear looms over me like dark, brooding rain clouds that never break. Rain means relief, means water, means survival. While Carol and I were imprisoned, water was such a problem. Occasionally, I got Korey to give us some if I begged and did certain things for him. The dry heat outside is like a mirror to my soul.
By day seven of no contact with Trent, the bad memories just won’t let up. In my cozy room, I block them out the best I can with a poetry book—Songs of Innocence and Experience by William Blake—and a bit of wine. That’s saying a lot because I don’t drink much. After two glasses of pinot noir, I lie in bed thinking of my last conversation with the man who saved my life. I wish there were a way to get inside his head, to find out what he’s thinking without him filtering his words for me. As I toss and turn, the eighteenth-century author’s words stay with me.
In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between, there are doors.
Maybe I can find a door. It’s terribly awful of me, but that’s beside the point.
Every Saturday night, Trent goes out for a drink with his best friend, Kyle, who is also my boss. I’ve even tagged along a few times. The Tex-Mex bar called “Chupacabra” on 6th Street in Austin is their usual haunt, and this weekend is no exception.
I get there early and find a parking space not far from the brick building on the corner. After choosing a table near the bar, since they seem to prefer that when it’s the two of them, I sit with my back facing the door. My hair is put up and hidden beneath a black cowboy hat. I order water and nachos. While I wait, I knot my straw wrapper and take in the atmospheric aromas of sweet drinks, lime, and spicy, grilled beef.
A little after seven, my stomach dives when I hear the guys’ voices behind me. From the corner of my eye, I watch them step up to the green stools at the bar. They make themselves comfortable in the yellow glow of the overhead lights and order drinks. They half-watch the television screens as they talk. For the first ten minutes, it’s chit-chat about work. Then Kyle asks about me.
“She’s having a hard time. It’s—I don’t know, it’s become too much. I don’t know what to do,” Trent says.
Under his Longhorns baseball cap, Kyle peers at Trent while he lifts a whisky glass to his lips. I didn’t hear what he ordered, but it looks like Jack and Coke. “Well, have you talked to her about it?”
Trent swigs his own drink, his old favorite Corona Extra. “Kind of. In the past, she’s told me point blank she knows we’re not in a relationship, and I don’t owe her anything. But I’m not sure I did the right thing. I told her we should take a break because she’s so stressed out. I didn’t mean no contact at all, mostly no staying over. But I haven’t heard from her in a week.”
Kyle nods. He’s young, clean-shaven, and his UT hat hides his short, blond hair. “Okay. Well, how far into it are you? Have you...” Sometimes, he’s too polite to be blunt.
“Have we screwed?” Trent snaps. “My God, man, no. Are you kidding me?” Trent’s face breaks from its stoic mold, and he cracks a smile. They both laugh.
“Just wondering,” Kyle says. “Okay, so why don’t you explain it to me more. What problem are you trying to solve?”
Trent sighs. “She was coming over about five times a week, almost every day after work. Sometimes she made dinner and would leave in the evening. Other times she fell asleep on the couch. And sometimes she slept in bed with me.”
“Okay,” Kyle says. “Well, was there physical stuff?”
I shift my legs, studying the tan and black granite tabletop inlay as I strain to hear Trent’s response. He says, “Eh, stuff like sitting on the couch together, holding hands, hugging. Things like that. But not all the time. Just sometimes.”
Kyle asks, “So you’re more than friends, but not into anything deep.”
Trent sighs. “Honestly, I have no idea what we are.”
“Because it’s so soon? Or because you just don’t like her?” Kyle asks.
“I do like her. It’s the too-soon part, mostly. And it’s the fact that I just can’t get past what happened to her and how fragile she is. It’s like I see it on replay, flashbacks of that day I looked in the back room of the house on County Road 140. I see her strung up there, hanging from the wall. But now there’s more. Earlier in the week, she told me she killed someone in self-defense a year ago. And she said she got a phone call from someone who seemed to have a connection to what happened. Maybe a guy who knew the man she killed. She said he threatened her.”
Kyle raises an eyebrow. “Wow. Did she call the police?”
“Yeah,” Trent says. “She said she did. I want to believe her. There’s no reason for her to lie, but she just seems so fragile. Sometimes I don’t know what’s going on in her head.”
“You used to tell me how strong she was, but now you’re saying the opposite. She doesn’t act fragile. Recovering, maybe, but not easily broken,” Kyle says. The waitress drops by with a sizzling plate—probably fajitas. He thanks her.
“Well, no, not in front of you at work. And I think about Elizabeth.” Trent stops and stares across the bar at the myriad-colored bottles of alcohol against their mirrored backdrop.
Kyle nods. “It hasn’t been that long. I don’t blame you. But you know, you’ve both been through some traumatic shit. Things that most people don’t live to tell. It might be good for you and Aria not to be alone. If she’s cool with the arrangement and you like her, then what’s the problem?”
“Kyle, Elizabeth’s been dead for less than a year. Even having Aria around feels wrong. I should have gone with my original gut feeling and not got involved with her at all.”
“I’m not so sure,” says Kyle. “I think you’re looking at this too one-dimensionally. You can be close friends who care and help each other get back to normal again. And if you need to hold hands sometimes, or if you both want to do more, then do it.”
“So, you’re saying the remedy is ‘friends with benefits?’ Thank you, Doctor Phil,” Trent says. He pulls a face like he’s mildly ill.
Kyle laughs and drains the last of his bourbon. “Maybe more like friends with exclusive benefits. But I’m serious. Besides, when you were hospitalized after your ordeal with Durham, Aria was with you every day until your discharge. You told me you wouldn’t have made it without her. That’s a true friend. What changed since then?”
Trent shakes his head. “I guess I wasn’t prepared for the rest of it. She started coming over without asking. It was nice at first. It helped. But it got weird. She’s in such bad shape. She screams in her sleep.”
“Well, yeah. That sicko tortured her,” Kyle says. “I’m amazed at how well she does at work. She doesn’t give any outward signs of what happened.”
“Maybe not, but she doesn’t hold back with me. One time I got up in the middle of the night and found her sitting hunched under the kitchen table. She said she had a nightmare and didn’t want to wake me. But it wasn’t just strange. It was creepy. Another tim
e I woke up, and she was standing next to the bed, just staring at me.”
“Trent, she needs help. Is she still going to counseling?” Kyle asks.
“Yeah. She’s been seeing someone. Some kind of alternative therapist,” Trent says. “Even so, standing over me at night? That’s too much.”
Kyle frowns, considering his empty glass. He tilts it and lets the ice clink around. “Maybe she just wanted to make sure you were okay. She probably feels protective of you.”
“I don’t expect you to get it,” Trent says, shrugging.
“Okay,” Kyle says. “So, your girl has some issues. Give it time. If you care about her at all, don’t push her away, and I bet after a while, she’ll come out of it. It’s probably going to take time, but she will.”
“I do care about her, and I’m not. I told her she could call if she needs anything.”
“Not what?” Kyle asks.
“Pushing her away,” Trent says.
But from the look on his face, I can tell he wants to. Korey was my monster. Maybe I’m Trent’s.
I hunch over my plate of nachos and turn my head, so my cowboy hat obscures my face from their view. I don’t have a drink to sip like Trent and Kyle do, and that’s my preference. But undiluted, Trent’s words are harsh. And at the same time, even though I don’t like what he said, I understand where he’s coming from, and not every word was bad. Still, it hurts. My chest aches with a new, raw wound because while Trent may not have wanted to be completely honest with me, he’s telling Kyle the truth.
I pay the waitress and quietly thank her. Still keeping my head down beneath the black brim of my hat, I rise and head out into the warm summer night. The outside air in this section of downtown Austin smells like beer, flowers, and the occasional puff of cigarette smoke. I turn right at the corner of Trinity Street, where I parked. I can just make out the white Camry not far ahead. It’s past the restaurant’s covered outdoor eating area, across from a white two-story building by the alley behind Chupacabra. But there’s something else too—a quick sweep of motion near the passenger’s side door.
