by Kristie Cook
“Genevieve, you are going to be as good as new by morning,” Reed says confidently.
I’m distracted by the way his perfect mouth wants to turn up in the corners as he holds back his smile. I wonder if all lunatics are this beautiful. “And, how is that possible, Reed?” I ask sarcastically. “Am I just going to grow some new bone overnight? You just said yourself that I was ‘kneecapped.’”
“Yes,” he replies calmly.
“Okay … I wasn’t aware that I’d boarded a bus to Crazy Town. If you’d be so kind as to drop me off at the nearest hospital, I’ll take it from there. I’m sure I can get someone to pick me up when I’m done. It’s chill of you to help but …” I stop talking when I notice him smiling at me like I’m making a joke.
“Genevieve, you will heal just fine on your own. Trust me,” he says as we drive through town.
“Trust you! Wasn’t it just this morning that you were trying to run me out of town?” I say primly, crossing my arms in front of me and frowning at him.
Reed laughs at my sarcasm. Watching him, I want to reach out and touch him, to give in to the urge I’ve had since getting in the car, to rest my head against his shoulder once again. I have to stay angry so I won’t embarrass myself because I’m beginning to trust him, which is absolutely absurd given our previous set of circumstances.
“Why is it that you think I can heal on my own and in an amazingly short time? Am I a mutant or something?” I ask, no longer so certain that Reed is crazy. Covertly, I glance at my fingertip and am unable to find the mark where I had sliced it open—twice.
Reed doesn’t answer me but pulls onto a long, manicured driveway. A house comes into view—well, I don’t know if house is an accurate enough description of the dwelling. It’s more like an old manor that had been perfectly restored. It has refined elegance and allure, making me think that should a pet lion greet us at the door, I wouldn’t be overly surprised.
“This is your house?” I ask him in awe.
“Yes,” he nods, pulling his car around in front of the cobbled, circular drive; he parks it just in front of the magnificent wooden double doors. I also notice that he hadn’t said that the house belongs to his parents but acknowledged it as his own.
So I ask, “Do you live here alone?” It is such a large estate; maybe he has some roommates from school that live with him.
“I have a cook named Andre and a housekeeper named Greta who live in the guest quarters on the south side of the property, but other than them, I live here alone,” he replies.
He turns off the engine and gets out of the car, walking around to my door. Wordlessly, he reaches in, unbuckling my seatbelt for me. The fluttering in my stomach is out of control, making me almost grateful for the pain in my knee to distract me from it.
“I’m going to have to slip my arm under your thighs so I don’t put pressure on your knee when I pick you up,” Reed says. I nod, feeling my face redden almost immediately. “Put your arm around my shoulder,” he instructs as he leans into the car and lifts me out.
I wince as the movement of my knee sends a shooting pain up my leg. I drop my head on his shoulder like I’d wanted to do the entire car ride. He doesn’t even like you, I scold myself. Angry … you have to stay angry.
My eyes alight on his sports car as he carries me up to his home. “What kind of car is that?” I ask waspishly.
“It’s an Audi R-Eight. Why, don’t you like it?” he counters with humor in his voice.
“I was just wondering why someone who lives in Michigan wouldn’t be driving a car made in Detroit,” I say as if I’m a rep from the UAW.
“Genevieve, that is not a car, that is a work of art that moves. If it makes you feel any better, I own several automobiles that were partially made in Detroit. I can show them to you later, if you would like,” he replies.
“Oh,” I sniff, unable to think of a better reply. “I guess, if there is time later.”
The front door is unlocked, and I take a deep breath as we enter the house. I see immediately that Reed isn’t your typical bachelor with an old sofa taken from his mom and dad’s house and a coffee table with faded rings on it from not using a coaster. Quite the opposite, it looks as if Reed had a designer with an architectural background decorate his home. Everything is modern and high tech, but it lacks the coldness that one often associates with that style.
A formal reception area on the left mirrors a formal dining room on the right. In front of us, the grand, sweeping staircase draws my eyes up to the landing on the second floor. We bypass the stairs, however, taking a long hallway that leads further into his home. Swiftly passing what I think is a bathroom and maybe a billiard room, we turn left and are in a room that cannot be mistaken for anything other than a library.
Reed places me on a leather sofa in the middle of the room, and I shamelessly memorize his profile as he sits on the couch by my knee, examining it again. I try not to cringe as he runs his fingers over it gently. It has swollen to at least twice its normal size and is now an awful looking purplish-blue color.
“It’s healing,” Reed assures me. “It’s much harder than it was before. I want you to straighten your leg but keep it slightly bent, like this.” He positions my leg for me on the couch. “We should elevate it slightly,” he says and pushes one of the soft pillows that adorns the sofa under my foot. “I’ll get some ice to bring down the swelling, but first, you should have something for the pain.”
“Oh great, do you have some morphine or something, because that would be lovely?” I ask kiddingly.
Reed goes over to the back of the room to a bar and selects a glass decanter with a dark liquid in it. He pours some of the liquid into two glasses and moves back to the couch.
“No morphine, but this should take the edge off the pain in your knee,” Reed says.
He hands me a brandy snifter filled with what I assume must be brandy, although I cannot claim to know what brandy looks like, so I have to ask, “Is this brandy?”
“It’s cognac,” he says, watching me.
“Oh, is there a difference?” I ask him curiously.
“Yes,” he says, smiling a little before he says, “just drink it.”
“Do you realize that you’re contributing to the delinquency of a minor by giving me this?” I ask, watching the liquid rain like tears down the insides of the glass.
“Well, I will take my chances with the authorities since I don’t have that morphine handy,” Reed replies with a grin. “Drink it, Genevieve. It will make you feel better.”
“Reed, you made a joke! I really must be dying if you’re humoring me,” I say before I sniff the glass. It smells spicy and sweet at the same time. I take a tentative sip, feeling it burn a path down the back of my throat. I cough a little, but otherwise survive my first taste of cognac.
“Mmm … cognac … my favorite,” I say with a little wheeze in my voice.
Reed shakes his head at me. “I will get some ice for your knee and be right back.”
Without Reed hovering around me, I have a chance to take in my surroundings. This room is something I would dream about designing if I ever had the opportunity. Everywhere I look, there are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves intermittently interrupted by floor-to-ceiling windows. Above me, a second story gallery is gracefully fitted with a wrought-iron railing that spirals elegantly down a staircase in the corner of the room. I want to get off the couch and rifle through every shelf to see what amazing books they contain.
Along one wall, there is a large fireplace with a wide mantle. Several comfortable seating areas are set up around the room to give different vantage points of the space. There is also a refined writing desk. Impeccable artwork is dispersed liberally throughout the room so that, wherever my eye falls, I am treated to rare beauty.
As I gaze around at the lovely rugs and the delicate statuary adorning the tabletops, something becomes clear to me. There aren’t any personal effects in the room—no pictures on the tables that say: “Here’s my
family, I’m so proud of them,” or, “Here I am at the Eiffel Tower; isn’t this sweet?” or, “Can you believe I climbed Mt. Everest with only the assistance of twenty Sherpas?” or, “Here is a picture of my girlfriend. She’s so hot.”
I sip my drink, thinking it is odd because in my small dorm room I have several pictures of Uncle Jim and me, one with my best friend Molly and her brothers, and some of my classmates from high school, with whom I’d been close.
Feeling the fluttering in my stomach increasing, I know that Reed is returning. Calling out to him teasingly, I say, “Ah … my ice has arrived; it’s about time! It’s so hard to find good help these days.”
“Your wish is my command,” Reed says, entering the room and walking to the sofa.
He places a small ice pack gently on my knee. Then, he goes to a chair where a lap blanket is draped over the arm. Picking it up, he brings it to me, spreading it over my legs and lap.
“Thank you,” I say in surprise at his thoughtfulness. “I love this room.”
My eyes follow him as he sits in one of the armchairs near the sofa. He is still dressed in his lacrosse practice uniform. His attire is at odds with the room and also with the fact that he is sipping a cognac out of a delicate glass. The dichotomy distracts me, so it takes me a moment to continue.
“I was just thinking that if I could create a perfect space for myself, it would be something like this. I’m dying to see what you have on your bookshelves; I’ve been wondering if you’re a non-fiction reader, a classical fiction type of person, or maybe you’re sci-fi reader … or poetry?”
“Have you?” Reed asks in an amused tone, his eyebrow arching beautifully on his perfect face. “Well, you’ll be able to find out in just a little while when your knee is better and you can walk over there and see for yourself. I will not spoil the anticipation now by blurting it out.”
I ignore his confidence in the fact that my knee is going to all but fix itself shortly. “Sure, let’s let the tension build.” I mutter, and take another sip of cognac.
“I was surprised to see you tonight at the field house,” Reed says. “I didn’t know you played field hockey.”
“Oh, well, I don’t really … that is, I haven’t played before tonight. A couple of girls from my dorm asked me to come to their practice tonight to see if I’d be interested in joining their team. It sounded kinda fun so I went. I probably should’ve thought to borrow some knee guards along with the uniform, but I didn’t think it was supposed to get NHL out there,” I reply as an explanation.
“Who are your friends, the ones that asked you to join the team?” Reed asks, and then takes a sip of his drink.
“Buns and Brownie. They live on my floor. I think their real names are Christine and Kelly, but no one seems to go by their real names around here,” I smile.
“I’m familiar with Christine and Kelly. I’m just wondering why it is that trouble finds you so quickly,” he says, eyeing me pointedly.
“My knee was a fluke—” I begin, but Reed cuts me off.
“I wasn’t referring to the hockey practice. I’m referring to your friends. They are trouble. I don’t think you could find two more wildly out of control females if you advertised for them,” he states flatly, like he doesn’t approve of my choice of friends at all.
“I know, aren’t they wonderful?” I ask impishly, agreeing with his statement wholeheartedly. “I intend to spend more time with them as soon as possible.”
“Why, didn’t you just hear me tell you they are trouble?” he asks with irritation in his tone.
“Yes, and I got what you meant. But this is ‘set it off’ kind of trouble we’re talking about, not the dangerous kind of trouble. I’m aware of the difference. We’re just going to shake it up a little and see what falls out. I might get a couple of fines, and I say ‘bring it’ because what do I have to lose?” I ask him pointedly, daring him to disagree with me.
“Your scholarship, for one,” he replies calmly. “You could lose that quite easily if you step out of line.”
“Maybe, but you don’t know what I’ve been feeling lately.” I say quietly as I study the liquid in my glass so that I’d have something to look at other than him.
“What do you mean? How have you been feeling?” he asks, leaning forward as if he is truly interested in my answer.
I hesitate. Reed had helped me out tonight at the field, but I’m not sure what that means. Does it mean we have a truce? Could he and I actually have a friendship? Maybe we can begin to understand each other if we have some honesty between us.
With that in mind, I say, “I feel desperate, like I’m running out of time, but it’s even worse than that … it’s more like I’m running out of air. The girls are a great distraction from that, so I’m keeping them,” I say defiantly. “I feel like I’m on the precipice of something huge … something monumental, but I’ve no clue as to what it is, or what it means to me, or what I’m supposed to do. It’s all just this enigma swirling around and around me, and I’m ensnared in it, and there is no way out.” I drop my eyes from his because I feel hollow and raw.
Swirling the liquid around in my glass, I watch the tempest within it slowly lose its momentum and then come to a stop. Looking back up at Reed, I see that he’s watching me. Feeling like a tool for saying too much to him, I try to down the rest of my drink in one swallow.
When I am finished sputtering and gasping for breath from the fire of the alcohol burning my esophagus, I notice that Reed had taken my glass from my hand and replaced it with a glass of water. Taking a quick sip of the water, I try to breathe evenly again.
“All I’m saying is that you might consider making other friends who actually have an interest in getting an education,” says Reed as he sits back down in his chair.
“I do have other friends,” I sigh. “I have Freddie, and I have Russell; at least I have Russell when you’re not controlling him with your voice. Can you stop doing that to him, please? He’s here to play football and go to school. He doesn’t have anything to do with what’s going on between you and me.”
“You think that’s why he is here … to play football?” Reed asks me slowly.
I frown at him while I nod.
“Genevieve, how naive are you? Russell’s here for one reason and one reason only. He’s here because you brought him here,” Reed states emphatically, getting up from his chair and prowling the room agitatedly.
“What are you talking about? I just met Russell on that walk yesterday. He’s been here all summer at football training camp, so how could I have possibly brought him here?” I ask him logically.
“How indeed?” Reed asks sullenly, toying with one of the marble statues that grace a delicate table.
“Reed, what you’re saying doesn’t make any sense. I would have to be an … I don’t know … a magnet for Russell in order for what you’re saying to have any validity …” I begin to reason, but stop when a shattering sound comes from where Reed is standing.
Blinking, I see pieces of the marble crumble from Reed’s hands. Silently, he begins cleaning up the broken shards of what was once an exquisitely designed statue of an angel, but now resembles a chalky mess.
“People aren’t that strong, Reed,” I state, indicating the crushed statue he is gathering into his cupped hand. A stab of fear sweeps through me, warning me to be cautious.
“You are very astute, Genevieve,” Reed says evenly, while walking the remains of the statue over to the small wastepaper basket by the desk and brushing it off his hands.
“Was that very expensive?” I ask him timidly, trying to calm myself a little.
“Probably,” he replies, not looking at me.
“Now it’s dust,” I say significantly. “So …” I begin, while searching for a safe topic of conversation, “do you think it’ll rain tomorrow?”
Looking at me like I have lost my mind, Reed asks, “We are going to talk about the weather now? You have been rather courageous up until this point. Why hi
de now?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Reed,” I say with exasperation. “I was just searching for a safe topic of conversation because I don’t know the protocol to follow when I discover that I’m Little Red Riding Hood and that Granny has freakin’ sharp teeth!” I reply, glaring at him. “You have to admit, you’re sketchy with information. It’s like you’re toying with me …” I can’t go on because the lump in my throat won’t allow me to speak. Taking another sip of water, my throat clears enough for me to add, “And I’m tired, Reed … I’m so tired of being afraid.”
Reed is quiet for a long time and then he says softly, “I will let you in on a little secret: you are not wrapped up in an enigma; you are the enigma.” He comes over to the sofa and sits by my knee; his eyes are on my face. “You see, when we were talking this morning and you called yourself a little fish and indicated that I was a big fish, well, that description was not entirely accurate.”
“It wasn’t?” I ask as the hair on the back of my neck begins to rise.
“No, it wasn’t. A more accurate description for me would be that of a shark,” he says, watching me now.
“I see. How stupid of me,” I reply with a sinking feeling.
My mouth goes dry, so I take a small sip of the water he had given me. I wait for fear to overwhelm me because that is the emotion that any rational person would feel upon finding herself closeted with a predator. But, instead of fear, I feel something very different, and it shocks me with its intensity. I feel utterly and completely betrayed. “So, why all of this?” I ask, indicating myself lying on his sofa with a blanket—his blanket. “Why help me out at all today?”
“You mean why, if I’m a shark, have I not attacked?” he asks, his face unreadable. Pulling back the blanket covering my knee, he takes the ice pack from it.
He doesn’t look up when I ask, “You’ve been trying to decide what to do with me, haven’t you? So what? Have you made some kind of decision? Have you decided that I’m a problem that needs to be eliminated?” He’s touching my knee gently, but I refuse to look, focusing on him instead.
