Run Away with Me

by Mila Gray

  I lean back in my chair and blink at her. “How do you know?” I ask, my voice sounding remote and faraway.

  “He wrote me a note. A letter. He said in it that he couldn’t live with the guilt of what he’d done to you.”

  The room spins. He admitted it.

  “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I should have come forward then. I planned to. But my mother was in a very bad state after he died. She’d already had a couple of strokes, and I was scared if she found out the truth, it would be the end for her.” Tears fall down her cheeks and she starts to sob.

  Does she have any idea of what I went through? I don’t know what I’m supposed to say because I have no idea what I’m feeling right now: a mix of anger, shock, upset, and, weirdly, happiness.

  She buries her head in her hands. “Em, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We can do it now. I’ll speak up. I’ll go to the police. Whatever you need.”

  Whatever I need? It’s too late to speak up. It’s too late to go to the police. It’s too late. You can’t rewind the clock, I want to scream. You can’t undo what was done to me. But then I pause. There’s a freedom to what she’s offering me. If people were to hear the truth, it would be some kind of recompense, wouldn’t it? At long last to be vindicated? What would Jake say?

  “Does Jake know?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head. “I’m going to tell him when he wakes up. He always knew he was guilty. I should have listened to him.”

  I stroke Jake’s hand.

  “He confronted him; did he tell you?”

  What? I look up.

  “Jake confronted him at Thanksgiving a few years ago. I thought perhaps it was time to all get together again as a family. He’d stayed away—Ben had—but he came to my parents one year. They invited him. Jake . . . well, Jake refused to stay in the house or speak to him, and when Ben tried to talk to him, Jake punched him. Broke his nose.” She shakes her head. “He was always so calm and gentle as a little boy, but then he suddenly had all this anger raging in him with nowhere for it to go. He started getting into scraps. One time his school called us in because he’d gotten into a fight. Turned out that the boy he’d hit was two years older and had fought back. Jake ended up in the hospital with a fractured wrist.”

  I shake my head, confused. Aside from Jake’s run-in with Rob, I hadn’t seen that angry side to him.

  “You want to know why he got in a fight?”

  I nod.

  “Some kid in his class was being bullied and called names by this older boy. Jake told him to stop. He didn’t. So Jake hit him.”

  I frown. The scene sounds familiar.

  “He was angry. All the time. I think he was so frustrated, and I think deep down he thought he was delivering some sort of justice.” She chews on her lip. “He should never have hit Rob, though.”

  “No,” I say glumly.

  “But I’m glad he was standing up for you. I’m proud of him for that.” She smiles fondly at him, and I can’t help but do the same.

  “He sounded different when he called me,” she goes on, “over the summer. He was happy, back to being the old Jake. He was laughing again. I thought maybe he’d sorted things out with you, but also . . . I thought maybe he’d finally managed to deal with some of that anger and frustration.”

  Wow. I’d been so focused on me that I never stopped to think much about how Jake was affected too. Both of us felt angry and unheard. Only, my anger was buried so much deeper it couldn’t ever erupt. I couldn’t even give it voice until Jake encouraged me to start writing.

  I begin to probe, gently at first. Is it still there? Usually, when thinking about Coach Lee, I get a clawing panic in my chest, a choking pressure inside my throat. My skin crawls. But now I notice the absence of any panic, of any pressure. I press harder on the memory, but it’s as if a deep, ugly bruise has finally healed.

  “Jake told me it was awful for you—after we left.”

  I turn back to Jake’s mom, slowly, a little stunned. “Yes,” I say, nodding. “It was bad.”

  Her expression is so pained, it makes me feel bad for her.

  “I’m going to call your mom.”

  “I think,” I say, after a pause, “she’d like that.”

  * * *

  I stand at the window and look out. The lake sparkles in the far distance. I close my eyes, listening to the beeping of the heart monitor behind me, trying to summon images of Jake and me as kids: there’s Jake smiling, running, skating, riding his bike. More recent memories force their way in: him spinning me on the ice, taking my face in his hands and kissing me, firelight flickering across bare skin, the touch of his hands, silk on skin on silk.

  I open my eyes. The lake’s still glinting in the distance, like a fragment of mirror someone’s using to signal to me. I rest my head against the cool glass of the window and sigh. And then I hear a voice behind me.

  “Hi.”

  I spin around. Jake’s eyes are open. He’s smiling at me—a broken, unsure smile.

  “Hi,” I say back, fighting the impulse I have to throw myself on top of him. Something holds me back—the same uncertainty I can see in his smile.

  “How’s the other guy look?” Jake asks.

  I burst out laughing. “A lot better than you.”

  Jake laughs and then winces and groans. “How long have I been in the hospital?”

  “Four days,” I tell him.

  His eyes widen. He looks around and sees the camp bed laid out on the floor and the sofa piled with blankets and cushions.

  “Your parents are here. They’ve just gone to take a shower.”

  “You’ve been here the whole time? Sleeping here?” he asks.

  I nod.

  He frowns. “Why?”

  “Because I love you, Jake McCallister, and nothing, not Reid Walsh, not Koskela, not fear of what might happen in the future, is ever going to keep me away from you again.”

  Jake smiles wide.

  My feet unglue, and I rush toward him. No more push-pull, no more contradiction. The magnet inside me has finally figured out its charge.

  Jake

  My parents are sitting right behind me. So are Em, her mom, and Shay. Every time I turn around, they all smile at me reassuringly, but behind the smiles I see the anxiety they’re struggling to hide. Em squeezes my shoulder.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Rob and Reid Walsh. Rob looks my way and shoots me a victorious smile like he already knows I’m going down. Reid doesn’t make eye contact at all.

  The doctors signed me off as I’m almost fully mended. I’m even back on the ice, though not playing hockey yet, as Sarge is paranoid and thinks I’m made of glass. I try not to think about that, though—about hockey or college or anything—because after today it might all be taken away from me.

  The judge clears his throat and shuffles his papers.

  Mrs. Donovan grimaced when she saw which judge we’d pulled. Judge Penrose is a close friend of Chief Walsh. I’ve been told this isn’t “the best news.” Basically, Mrs. Donovan is trying to warn me that I’m doomed and wants to prepare me for the worst, which will likely be a jail term as they’re pushing for an aggravated assault charge.

  Beneath the starched collar of my shirt, I can feel the sweat start to prickle. I tug at my tie, which is trying to strangle me.

  “The prosecution would like to call Robert Walsh to the stand.”

  I grip hold of the defense table and watch as Rob crosses to the witness box.

  He sits down, darting a glance in Em’s direction and giving her a smug smile. Tension ripples like a tidal wave through the courtroom. Even the incessant scratching of Jo Furness’s pen ceases.

  Rob puts his hand on the Bible and swears to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I suppress the snort. The guy wouldn’t know truth if it sucker punched him in the face.

  Em told me how Rob blackmailed her to break up with me. My first reaction was that I wanted to kill him. But I’m working on
my anger issues, particularly where they concern the Walsh brothers. My mom thinks it all boils down to my fourteen-year-old self’s rage at what happened to Em and frustration at not being able to defend her.

  Mrs. Donovan stands up and walks toward the witness box. He runs Rob through a series of questions about the lead-up to the fight. Rob answers politely, doing his best to appear like the wounded victim who did nothing to incite violence against him.

  “And then he just walked over and punched me in the face.”

  “And you had done nothing to provoke the attack?” the lawyer presses.

  Rob looks directly at me. “No,” he says. “Nothing. He’s just a total psycho.”

  There’s a collective intake of breath. Every eye in the courtroom turns on me. I’m fried beneath the judge’s eagle gaze.

  “You neither said nor did anything to cause the accused to lash out and hit you?” the prosecutor asks.

  Rob shakes his head vehemently. “No. I was just sitting there, minding my own business. And then he hit my brother, Reid, and knocked him out.”

  “Objection!” my lawyer shouts, leaping her feet.

  I want to leap to my feet too and yell at Rob for being a perjuring asshole, but Em puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes, reminding me to stay calm. The judge stares at me over the rim of his glasses. He scribbles something on a piece of paper. I’ve lost. I know it. Everyone believes Rob. I won’t let Em take the stand in my defense because Shay’s mom told me that they’ll bring up what happened to her with my uncle and use it to discredit her as a witness. I’d rather go to jail. My mom has taken my uncle’s suicide note to the cops, and the truth is finally out, which has made a huge difference to Em—I can see it in the new way she holds herself—head high—but I can’t risk undoing the gains by having her credibility questioned in front of the entire town again by an antagonistic lawyer.

  This is it, though. Any hope I had of winning this flies out the window. I’m going to have to come to terms with the fact I won’t ever have a career as a professional hockey player, and how will I get a job or finish my degree with a criminal record?

  Aware that there’s a commotion going on behind me, I turn to look.

  Reid is on his feet. Em is staring at him wide-eyed, mouth open, as are all the people around him.

  The judge bangs his gavel down hard. “Order. Order. Please take a seat until you are called to the stand.”

  Reid doesn’t sit back down. He glances at Em and then across at his brother. “It didn’t happen like he’s saying.”

  “Excuse me?” the judge barks.

  Reid’s face reddens. “Um . . .” He looks at the judge, then at Em again. “It didn’t happen like he says it did.” He jerks his head at his brother, Rob.

  I lean forward in my seat, hearing Em gasp behind me. The courtroom starts to buzz as if a hornet’s nest has been kicked.

  Reid lifts his arm and points at Rob. “He’s lying.”

  There’s a mass intake of air. People start to whisper, and the whispers grow quickly deafening. The judge slams his gavel down on the block and roars for silence. The whispers recede.

  “Go on, Mr Walsh,” the judge orders Rob.

  Reid takes a deep breath. “Jake didn’t threaten to kill him. And he was provoked. The truth is Rob deserved that punch.” He looks at Em, then at the judge. “And I tripped and hit my head on the table. He didn’t lay a finger on me. It was an accident.”

  The judge swivels to Rob. “You understand you are under oath, Mr. Walsh? And that the statement you gave to police was also given under oath?”

  Rob nods, shooting his brother a death stare that makes him flinch.

  “And you understand that by lying under oath you are guilty of perjury, which carries a prison sentence?”

  Rob starts to stammer and looks to his lawyer. Reid’s father is conferring in a panic with him.

  “We move to dismiss the case!” my lawyer shouts over the noise.

  The judge calls for order again, slamming his gavel down repeatedly until a shocked silence falls.

  “In the light of this new witness statement,” the judge growls, “I am dismissing this case. If the prosecution wishes to lodge an appeal, I suggest they think twice. I will be asking the district attorney to open up a separate case investigating Mr. Reid for perjury and contempt of court. The witness is to pay all the defendant’s costs.”

  And with that, he sweeps from the room.

  Rob stays sitting in the witness box like a rabbit in a lab who can see the scientist coming toward him with a gigantic needle. His eyes skitter among us all in terror.

  The courtroom is a chaos of noise and movement. I turn around, dazed. Em is already on her feet. She’s grinning at me. I pick her up and lift her over the barrier, ignoring my mom’s pleas for me to watch my back. Em wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me. I kiss her right back, hugging her tight. I was worried that I’d kissed her for the last time, so I make the most of the opportunity.

  Over Em’s shoulder, I catch sight of Rob Walsh’s father angrily confronting him and Reid darting for the door. He looks back briefly and catches my eye. I nod at him. He nods back, then disappears.

  Em wraps her arms around my neck and I kiss her again. I kiss her so hard that everyone around us cheers, and when Jo Furness sticks a camera in our faces, I don’t even notice.

  Em

  The doorbell rings.

  My heart yo-yos. Is he here? I glance at the clock. He’s early. Jake’s back today from Boston. We haven’t seen each other in two months, and I’m so excited about seeing him again that it feels as if I have firecrackers going off in my bloodstream. I can’t sit still.

  Jumping up from my dressing table, I am halfway to my bedroom door before I remember that I’m only half-dressed and have no makeup on. Damn.

  “Em?” my mom shouts from downstairs. “Someone’s here to see you.”

  Oh God. I grab a T-shirt from the pile on the floor where I flung the contents of my closet earlier and race to the door. The makeup doesn’t matter. I need to see him.

  I fly down the stairs, barely noticing my mother’s wide-eyed warning expression and certainly not registering it. I’m smiling, giddy, ready to bounce into Jake’s arms, when I realize it’s not him and pull up short.

  “Reid.”

  The smile is wiped off my face. He’s standing awkwardly on the doorstep, looking like he’s tied to a post standing in front of a firing squad.

  “What are you doing here?” I glance at my mom to see if she’s somehow in on this, but she looks as confused as me. She backs away, though, and heads into the front room, probably to tell my dad what’s going on. She leaves the door ajar—probably so she can listen in.

  “Hi,” Reid says.

  “What are you doing here?” I answer, standing in the doorway, making no move to invite him in.

  “I, er . . . ,” he stammers, looking at the ground. His face takes on that eggplant hue. I notice, though, that the acne has cleared up, and he doesn’t seem quite so Popeye. His neck is no longer the same width as his head. “How’s things?” he asks.

  It’s my turn to stammer. “F-fine,” I say, wondering what on earth is going on. It’s not like we’ve had a conversation or even seen each other since the trial.

  “Good,” he says, nodding eagerly.

  Okay. This is weird. I think about shutting the door on him, but before I can, he says:

  “How’s your dad?”

  I open my mouth, ready to throw a snide answer back his way, before stopping myself. Maybe it’s his tone or his stooped demeanor reminding me of a dog that’s afraid he’s about to be kicked. “He’s okay,” I find myself answering.

  Reid nods again. “That’s good. Great.”

  I frown. He’s being nice. Why is Reid Walsh being nice? And more to the point, why is he even here?

  He clears his throat, darts a nervous look at me. “Um, you might have heard about Rob.”

  I shake my head slowly
.

  “He got kicked out of the academy.”

  “Oh” is all I can manage. Is that why Reid’s here? Is he trying to get me to feel bad? “Well, maybe he shouldn’t have committed perjury,” I say with a shrug. “I guess the police academy has standards.”

  Reid breaks into a smile. “Yeah. I just thought, you know, you might want to know.”

  “Right. Okay. Thanks.” This conversation is so weird and awkward, and now I’m also hyperaware that time is ticking and Jake should be here any moment. I need to get ready and also I don’t really want Reid standing there watching when Jake and I are reunited. “Well,” I say, making to close the door, “I should probably go.”

  “Wait,” Reid says.

  I hesitate.

  He looks at me with a hangdog expression. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  I bite my lip. Yeah, he should. For a moment, I consider letting loose on all the things I’ve thought about him and his brother and wanted to say to them, but then I realize I’m no longer angry about it. The past is in the past now. I’m too excited about the present and the future to be thinking or worrying about what happened. So instead, I take a deep breath and say; “Thanks. I appreciate the apology.”

  A look of absolute relief crosses Reid’s face. He lets out a huge sigh and smiles. “There’s another reason I’m here.” He puts his hand into his pocket and pulls out a piece of crumpled paper, yellow and tinted with age.

  My heart starts smashing into my rib cage, but it’s no longer a yo-yo, rather a medieval mace.

  I take the piece of paper with a shaking hand and open it.

  Dear Em,

  Meet me at the tree house.

  Let’s run away together.

  Jake x

  PS: I believe you.

  I draw in a breath sharper than needles and look up.

  “It’s the note I should have given you all those years ago,” Reid says by way of explanation.

  My chest convulses as I try to swallow a sob. I draw in another breath and hold it. Can’t seem to let it out. Jake never told me what was in the letter.

  “I’m sorry I never gave it to you.”