Game Changer

by Stewart, Sylvie

  “I am.” I don’t tell her about how it’s fixing to get ten times crazier.

  “Why don’t you sound so sure about that?”

  My head snaps up. “I do! I am. It’s not that.”

  “Ah, then this has something to do with the reason Bobby Lee is walking around like someone ran over his dog, I reckon.”

  I groan and close one eye. “Maybe?”

  “Listen, sugar, you know I’ll never make you talk about things you prefer keepin’ to yourself, but I’m always here for you. You just remember that.”

  My ugly office swims in my vision with the threatening tears.

  “I know.”

  “Then you also know your granddaddy’s shotgun is still tucked under my bed gathering dust.”

  I cough out a laugh. “I do now.”

  She’s silent for a minute, letting me decide where our conversation will head. So, of course, I spill my guts out. Well, mostly anyway.

  I tell her about Mac and me. About how he’s this magnetic mix of profoundly deliberate acts and guarded secrets and how inspiring his work is and how he treats me like I’m a gift to be cherished in one moment and completely shuts me out the next. And I tell her how I want to save him and lean into him at the same time and how I’m scared that I may have already given him pieces of myself I can’t get back.

  And Cookie listens as I relate the bizarre encounter with his mother at Chelsea Market and Mac’s disappearing act immediately afterward.

  All the while, I can feel her soothing presence across the miles that separate us, making me wonder what took me so damn long to confide in her.

  When I’m finally done talking, she breaks it down. “It sounds to me like what this boy needs is family.”

  I swallow as the simple truth of her words settles over me.

  “I think you’re right, Cookie. But I can’t force the man to talk to me. I can’t even find him, for glory’s sake.” I close my eyes as helpless frustration pushes at my chest. “He’s not answering his phone, his agent doesn’t know where he is, and his assistant won’t call me back.” Not that I’m surprised by Jonathan giving me the cold shoulder, but still.

  She tuts, telling me my negativity won’t stand with her. “Well then, you’re just gonna have to get creative, aren’t you?”

  As usual, she’s right.

  * * *

  Old Dominion’s “Written in the Stars” drifts over the cool air of my living room as I settle in with renewed energy. My fingers tap on the keyboard, typing in the search criteria for the community youth program and its various iterations. I’ve already combed over the website we included in the WHL article, but I’m looking for something else.

  I key in “at-risk youth New Jersey blacksmith” and there it is.

  A simple click takes me to a description from the early two-thousands.

  I don’t know why it never occurred to me to ask the very first question I proposed to Naveed on the day we prepped me for my interview with Mac.

  What made you want to become a blacksmith?

  It seems so glaringly obvious now, but if Mac’s head is wrapped up in whatever happened with his family in the past, then the past is where he might have gone.

  I pour over the short piece in the small neighborhood paper, then enter the phone number into my phone and press the green button.

  My call is answered after several rings.

  “Bastion Forge.”

  “Hi. Um, I’m calling to see if you still run apprenticeship programs for aspiring blacksmiths.” I’m determined to fake it till I make it.

  I can hear banging in the background and a loud hissing sound. “Uh, you talking about the youth program?”

  “Yes. Is that still running?” My heart rate kicks up and I push my laptop aside so I can stand up.

  “Nah. Sorry. The last guy who ran that shut it down about… eh… maybe four years ago now.”

  My heart hammers at his words and I start pacing my living room. Damn. But the timing lines up perfectly with Mac’s dad’s second accident. This could still be what I’m looking for.

  “Do you know, uh, what happened to the guy? The one running the program?”

  “Mac? Yeah, um, he’s some big-shot furniture designer now over in Manhattan.”

  White flares in my vision at the sound of his name, but it’s looking like this is another dead end.

  “He still comes around every once in a while—he’s got some property up here—but I haven’t seen him in probably, oh, six months, maybe.”

  I close my eyes tight and still my steps.

  “Um, what did you say your name was?”

  “Paul. Why?”

  I pull in a deep breath. “Paul, I’m wondering if maybe you can help me out with something.”

  * * *

  I’ve never been to New Jersey and I’m beginning to think there’s a reason for that. I’m sure there are lovely areas to visit in the garden state—perhaps even ones with actual gardens—but the spot where the bus drops me is not one of them. I clutch my purse to me like the blatant outsider I am and hurry to the first open shop I see. Luckily, it’s broad daylight.

  The cashier doesn’t give me a second glance as I pull out my phone and order an Uber. I buy a coke and watch out the clouded glass of the door until my ride pulls up.

  I don’t chat with the driver, my nerves causing me to make mincemeat of my nails with my teeth as we wind our way out of the town center, past boarded up and graffitied storefronts, and out onto a decidedly less urban road. The drive only takes about twenty minutes, but it’s enough time to finish completely ruining any chance of a manicure in my near future while simultaneously allowing my stomach to eat itself from the inside out.

  Gravel crunches under the tires as the car slows to a stop in front of a small single-story house with faded siding and a detached garage. The breath I feel like I’ve been holding for the last week whooshes from my lungs as I catch sight of a familiar black pick-up parked in front of the garage.

  Thank God.

  I throw a quick thank you to the driver and get out, still gripping my purse to my chest. Now that I’m here, I have not the first clue what I’m going to say.

  But it’s too late to second guess myself as the car pulls away, leaving me on the blacktop in front of Mac’s dad’s house. The house where he grew up, where he read his first sci-fi book and got into trouble as a teenager.

  And he’s here, somewhere behind that door.

  I pull in a fortifying breath and remind myself that I’m Poppy James, slayer of magazine empires and badass modern woman who makes mere mortals cry. My shoulders fall back as I stride right up the front steps and pound on the door like a woman who’s owed something. Because I am.

  When there’s no answer, I try again, this time harder and louder. Mac is here, dammit, and I’m not leaving until I talk to him, if only for him to tell me to go to hell.

  It takes another round of banging before I hear the shift of the deadbolt releasing and the knob turns.

  My first glimpse of Mac has me blinking as it hits me in the chest. There’s a distinct pallor to his cheeks and dark circles ring the undersides of his eyes. He’s both beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time and I feel tears choke my throat when I look at him.

  “Poppy?” His voice is rusty with that razor blade edge I remember so well. It’s like he hasn’t used it in the week since I’ve seen him.

  He doesn’t need to say anything else, though, because the man who keeps himself so guarded can’t hide the relief in his eyes at seeing me on his doorstep. Intentional or not, he’s told me everything I need to know so I don’t hesitate when I barrel into him and wrap my arms around his waist.

  He doesn’t try to push me away, and even if he did, I’d hang onto him like a spider monkey and not let go. I reckon I’m a believer in immersion therapy.

  “What are you doing here?” His warm breath fans over my hair.

  “You needed me.” It’s the truth, so I don’t beat
around the bush.

  It takes him a few seconds, but he finally runs a hand down my back and I can feel his shoulders start to release. Only when I’m sure he’s not going to run or kick me out do I allow him to pull back. His thumb goes to my chin and he tilts my face up, his eyes scanning every inch like he needs to reassure himself of something.

  “How did you get here?”

  “Bus. Uber. Your friend Paul.” I shrug, not feeling like giving a long explanation. I’d rather just look at him and hug him.

  He shakes his head, his brows drawing together, but I don’t let him ask another question.

  “Are you okay?”

  I immediately regret asking when his eyes shutter and he takes a step back.

  “Mac?”

  “You shouldn’t be here. This isn’t a nice neighborhood.” He assumes his gruff tone, as if it’s going to scare me away. “I’ll drive you back.” He moves to usher me right back out the door but I put a hard hand to his chest.

  “Not so fast. I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.”

  His jaw sets, but two can play at this game.

  “I get that something spooked you and you’ve been dealing in your own way, but I care about you and I’m not letting you disappear back into your manly fortress of solitude. You need me, whether you want to admit it or not, and I’m not leaving.” I pat my purse. “I’ve got a purse full of snacks so I’m prepared to wait you out, Angus McKinley.”

  His head shifts back on his neck in surprise. I doubt anyone has ever called him on his defense mechanisms before, but there’s a first time for everything.

  I stalk right on past him into the house and don’t stop until I’m standing in the middle of the living room. The completely empty living room.

  There’s not a lick of furniture in the place. In fact, there’s not even carpet or floor coverings of any kind. A glance around the kitchen and a side room confirms that the house is a shell.

  “You’ve been staying here all week?” My voice cracks as it goes high.

  He glares at me, but I can take it.

  If Cookie were here she’d smack him upside the head, and I can’t say I’m not tempted to as well.

  “Is there even electricity?” Not that I really need an answer to that question when I breathe in the thick, musty air around us.

  He marches up to me and puts a hand between my shoulder blades, using it to try leading me out the door, but I’m having none of it. I duck down and skitter backward.

  “Like I said, I’m not going anywhere until you start talking, so if you want me gone, I suggest you work on formulating a damn good opening remark.” And, with that, I plonk my ass down on the dirty floor and prepare for battle.

  Only I’m not fighting to win. I’m fighting to set him free.

  Twenty-Four

  “Good luck to anyone who tries arguin’ with a Southern woman who knows she’s right.”

  – Cookie Rutledge

  Mac spends the first hour pretending I’m not there. In fact, at one point he even snatches his keys and stalks out to his truck like he’s gonna leave me here, but he makes it a whole three seconds behind the wheel in the driveway before he climbs back out and slams the door behind him. That’s followed by a little bit of driveway pacing—which I enjoy from my vantagepoint behind the dusty front window—and then a healthy slam of the front door behind him as he prowls back into the house.

  From there, he stands with stiff shoulders staring out into the overgrown backyard and ignoring my existence.

  I entertain myself by surfing the internet and nibbling on some Chex Mix, all the while humming a few of my favorite songs.

  After a while, I get bored, so I turn on some music and open my laptop.

  I can feel Mac sneaking glances at me as he continues the silent treatment. He takes brooding to a whole new level, but there’s no way I’m giving up.

  Like Cookie said, he needs family, and if he doesn’t have a blood one to speak of, I can be what he needs.

  I’m not saying I expect him to break down and confess all his secrets to me or declare his undying love for me, but he needs to know not everyone is going to disappoint him. Because it’s clear he’s had more than his fair share of that.

  Mac has had his turn of trying to push me away, and now I need to make it clear I’m not that easy to scare.

  Okay, fine, I am easy to scare, but not when I have my mind set on something—not when it’s this important.

  “This one’s my favorite,” I say, acting like we’re in the middle of a conversation.

  The song is by Old Dominion, of course, and it couldn’t be more perfect for where we are right now—where he is right now. The lyrics to “One Man Band” pierce the humid air of the room and it’s like the song is offering him a choice.

  Does he want to go it alone for the rest of his life, or does he want to see what could happen if he opens the door and lets me—someone—anyone—in to try and see how much better it can be when you don’t have to bear the load all on your own?

  It doesn’t work, in case you’re wondering. He ignores me, ignores the song, and goes out to the backyard, making sure he lets the back door slam his farewell.

  Now, I’m no idiot. I know he could make me leave anytime he wants. He’s proven before that he can carry me around like I’m nothing more than ten-pound sack of potatoes which—let me assure you—does wonderful things for a girl’s self-image.

  We both know he’s fighting with himself, not with me. All that remains to be seen is which side of him wins out and how long it’ll take.

  I scroll down and click send on an email to one of the web designers at Warbey and almost jump out of my skin at the unexpected sound of Mac’s voice behind me.

  “You always listen to country?”

  I think over my answer before I speak. “I listen to a little bit of everything, but I suppose more country than not. If it’s got a beat I can dance to, though, I don’t discriminate.”

  I don’t need to look at him to know he’s remembering the night we met. Good. At least my humiliation is serving a noble purpose.

  I hear him inch closer and can’t help thinking how ironic it is that this mountain of a man feels the need to approach human interaction like a mouse entering a lion’s den. The rules have changed and nothing makes sense because the beast isn’t the one doing the terrorizing. He’s the one feeling all the terror.

  “Old Dominion is definitely my favorite band, though. We saw them in concert last year in Atlanta and I swear Iris had to hold me back from climbing on stage.”

  He grunts at that and I have to bite my lip so I don’t smile. So I’m playing a little dirty—whatever it takes, right?

  Another step and he’s closer still.

  “My mother is a viper and an opportunist,” he says with not a spec of a segue in sight.

  I’m careful not to let my spine stiffen. I’m unused to the part of the predator, but I reckon that’s what I represent right now to Mac. We’ll have to work on that, though, because that role doesn’t suit me at all. I prefer to think of myself as the plucky go-getter instead.

  “She looks for vulnerabilities, angles she can work, and then she infiltrates and she doesn’t care who she destroys in the process.”

  I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. His mother sounds like a disease instead of a human being. Possibly even a sociopath. I can’t say I’ve ever met one of those before, and I’m not itching to.

  “Her husband is under investigation by the federal government. If I had to guess I’d say money laundering. Her back is to the wall and she’s getting desperate.” His boots scuff the floor as he takes another step closer. “She’ll use you to get to me.” His words are like a shot in the chest. “And she’ll play dirtier than you can possibly imagine.”

  And now it all makes sense. Mac getting us away from her before she learned my name, him building up this distance between us, him running away to New Jersey.

  He wasn’t protecting him
self.

  He was protecting me.

  Of course he was.

  I twist at the waist to watch him. “What does she want from you?”

  “What everyone from that world wants. Money.”

  I turn my body so I’m facing him, my legs still crossed on the grimy floor. “No offense, Mac, but she looked like she had plenty of money to me.” I don’t mention that he’s kinda part of that world too, by both association and his income from his business.

  He stands in the middle of the floor, his shoulders tense, and shakes his head. “They always do. Keeping up appearances is almost more important than the money itself.”

  “And she thinks you’ll just give her all your money?” I don’t even want to think about how much he must have that a woman who looks and dresses like her would come chasing.

  He coughs out something approaching a laugh, but it misses the mark by a mile. “I’d give her every dime if I could.”

  Huh? “I don’t understand.”

  He runs a tired hand over his face. “It’s complicated.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  When he doesn’t say anything else, I try letting the silence settle for a minute. It doesn’t last long.

  “Is her husband really named Sterling?”

  His lips quirk and I want to sing with relief. He shakes his head.

  “Fuckin’ stupid name.”

  “Fuckin’ stupid name,” I agree.

  He meets my eyes and I can see he’s still fighting with himself. “She’s gonna find out who you are.”

  My heart hammers, not because I’m afraid of his mama, but because he’s referring to a future—to a moment in time following this awful week and this suffocating house.

  I stand and take a step toward him. “Let her.”

  He watches my face, eyes darting to every corner.

  “I’ve got a closet full of boots and high heels and I ain’t afraid to use ‘em.”