Crazy Madly Deeply

by Lily White

  “That’s not fair,” I whispered.

  “Nobody ever said life was fair. You have to purchase fair. And if you don’t have the cash, well...”

  “What are we going to do, Holden?”

  He twisted to glance at me from over his shoulder. “There’s no ‘we’ in this. As for what I’m going to do, I’m going to make arrangements for my sister and try to earn as much money as I can for her before the police come knocking on my door. You are going to stay here until they come. The last thing I need is for you to go running off and telling everybody what happened before I have a chance to do what I can for Deli.”

  Blinking in his direction, I couldn’t find my voice to respond.

  Holden pushed away from the counter and moved to stand next to me - above me - his size so much more apparent when he was standing practically on top of you and looking down. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I think you owe me at least some cooperation when considering the circumstances and the part you played.”

  Grabbing my arm, Holden hauled me up from my seat and walked me to his bedroom to sit me on his bed. He didn’t say another word before stalking out and shutting me inside to think about everything he’d said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Holden

  I wasn’t lying when I told Michaela that life isn’t fair. Not for me, not for anyone, really. Maybe that’s where my statement had been dishonest, in the moment I’d applied the phrase only to those unlucky enough to be born into poverty.

  In truth, fair doesn’t exist no matter the size of your bank account, the size of your heart, or the amount of years you’d lived fighting to do everything right despite your circumstances. Fair is an ideal, a utopian distinction, a theory that can only exist in vacuums where bad things can’t happen to good people.

  Fair hadn’t happened to my family, not to my parents, not to Deli. Perhaps I deserved what was coming to me, and I could even argue that my parents had done something in their lives to deserve the fate that destroyed them, but Deli? Deli was a perfect angel. She’d never hurt a fly in her entire life. Yet she still pulled the short straw, and now her life would be ruined again because of it.

  Sadly, I was the short straw, and every time Deli relied on me, she was let down.

  Even this morning, I’d let her down. So exhausted from a night piling felonies one on top of the other, I’d fallen asleep on her floor watching her get ready. I’d curled up on the soft, fluffy, pink rug I always thought was ridiculous, but she loved, and I’d slept through the moment she took her first step back into the world - into a life beyond me, beyond tragedy, beyond all the horrible consequences of my actions that day in the cafeteria.

  I wanted to see that step, wanted to paint a picture of it in my mind that I could dedicate to canvas, recording it and memorializing it because it was a vision of strength in a woman so tiny you would never think her body could contain a soul as fierce as hers. But I’d slept through it. I hadn’t been standing there beside her as she faced a nightmare from which she may never wake. And Deli, my sweet, kind, innocent sister, had taken that step regardless. Maybe she’d tried to wake me, or maybe she’d let me sleep, had accepted the burden onto herself, even while knowing I would do anything, be anything she needed, just so she wouldn’t be left to fight alone.

  I didn’t know what would happen to her when she learned that coming home was as futile an option for her as it had always been for our parents. With that thought in mind, I’d picked up the phone several times to call Scott, to beg him to make sure she was safe when I was gone, but I’d hung up each and every time because I was too afraid he’d tell her what was going on, ruining the first real Christmas she had since returning from the hospital.

  Promising myself to call later, once everything was arranged and I had some answers to give, I scrubbed my palms over my face, pushed up from the dining room chair and paced the living room just to ease the frustration crashing through me with the force of a tornado.

  All I could do was wait at that point. There was nothing more to arrange than finding Deli a place to stay, and leaving what money we had and the deed to the house where Deli and Scott could find it. It’s all we had left in this world - a few hundred dollars and a house that sat on the wrong side of the tracks, worthless.

  Pacing wasn’t helping to bleed the tension from inside me. Storming in the direction of my studio - of my parents’ old bedroom that I’d emptied and converted three weeks after they’d been lowered in the ground - I let myself inside and breathed deeply. The smell of paint always soothed me, the canvases sitting on their easels waiting for me to finish whatever image had been assigned to them. It was a mix of subjects, but mostly people. Some were random strangers that had caught my eye, while others were of Deli and my parents. The landscapes and still objects were always easy to complete, but the people, the souls filled with memory, tragedy, victory, and remorse, those were always the ones that took the longest.

  Even now, I had seven canvases lined up side by side, the empty eyes staring at me from empty faces, begging to be brought to life. One was the face of an angel glancing to the side, a blonde girl with pigtails in her hair looking toward a future that wouldn’t be there. Another was of a silver haired woman, her arms crossed over her large chest, her mouth opened as she scolded an employee for slacking off, the hint of amusement gleaming behind her eyes. The one next to that was of a father and son, the father’s arms in the air ready to catch the child who laughed above him. There was a random drug user after that, a vagrant that wandered the neighborhood. A vibrant woman who was tough as nails came after, her expression caught at the moment she laughed the loudest. Canvas after canvas after canvas just waiting for me to fill them.

  I was safe here, among memories, among slices of time frozen in place, never advancing to the day that I lost everything.

  Drop cloths were a sea of paint-dabbed white, color splashed and smeared across virgin snow, the floors protected from the moments I became so lost in what I was creating that cleanliness was a second thought. Crossing the room, I selected a CD of my favorite songs, a playlist I’d made years ago that represented these images, their lives and losses, the lyrics flowing through me as I brought brush to canvas, the tempo and beat pulsing beneath my skin as I transformed the photographs in my mind into a picture that others could see as well.

  Each picture is a message, a lesson, a viewpoint that delves into the heart of what life is all about. They reveal truth, illustrating clearly how when I look at the world through my tired eyes, I see it unmasked, unpolluted, a monochromatic collage of epics and stories that have paint smeared throughout to highlight the parts I found the most beautiful and intriguing. Nobody sees the world like me. And where my words fail to convey what I’m seeing, my paintbrush becomes the vehicle for my voice.

  Hours passed as the music played, as I got caught in a trance of chaos and pain, every drop of it bleeding out through the colors I pulled across canvas. With the CD on repeat, I found myself revolving, a shadow beneath the eye drawing my attention before the music picked up pace and I was painting a sky. I was lost, you see, hypnotized, hiding. And the frustration and tension and gradual decay poured from my body to be absorbed by the paint-dabbed floor.

  Eventually, just like every manic moment when truth explodes out onto the faces and snapshots I’d frozen in time, my energy waned leaving me exhausted, in need of my guitar.

  I hit a button to stop the music’s endless loop, grabbed a towel to wipe as much paint from my fingers as I could. It was never gone completely, always a stain, just like the lead dust from when I put pencil to paper.

  Leaving the studio, I shuffled across the house, my bones weary, my muscles exhausted, but my mind was quiet, so quiet in fact that I didn’t mind filling the silence with the strum of a guitar string, the complicated intros and flowing melodies that brought a song to life.

  Opening my bedroom door, however, brought all the tension roaring back to the surface, a sleeping woman wit
h hands bound, her mahogany hair like silk where it splayed across my blanket. Click. A snapshot frozen. Click. A slice of time that will forever exist within the confines of an abnormal mind.

  If I had to give Michaela credit for one thing, it was that a word as simple as beautiful could never reveal all there was to see in her when she dropped the pretenses of her shallow life, and left herself exposed.

  Michaela was never a shallow child, but then youth doesn’t feel the need to pretend. It wasn’t until she was eleven or twelve that she hid her true self from the world, disguising herself beneath fake smiles and pretty clothes. Though, her truth comes out when she dances. I only knew that because I’d taken Delilah to a practice, my eyes climbing from whatever picture I was sketching to watch Michaela spin.

  She’d mesmerized me in those moments, and I’d be lying to claim I didn’t have snapshots of her I wanted to paint.

  Green eyes opened to stare back at me, the haze of sleep still clouding the color. Full lips opening on a small yawn, those eyes rounded wider when she remembered her hands were bound.

  “Hey,” she whispered, her voice gritty and tired. Attempting to push herself up, she fell over, exhaustion still weighing on her, thick and heavy.

  Staggered by the sight of her, I’d stood frozen by the door, but moved when it became apparent she needed help to sit. Leaves and twigs were still stuck in her hair from the woods where Jack hit her, dirt still smudged along her jawline where she hadn’t been able to completely wash it away. Guilt rode me for the first time that I was treating her poorly, that I’d stripped her of the ability to see to her needs all because I was afraid she’d take off and go to the police.

  I couldn’t hold all of Jack’s actions against her, she wasn’t the person prodding him along. But what I could hold against her was the weakness that had kept her from being honest about what happened in the past, that kept her next to a man that treated me as horribly as he treated her. Her weakness wasn’t deserving of being made to live as less than a human, wasn’t deserving of having her basic needs denied.

  “You need a shower,” I commented softly, my finger tracing over the rope that bound her wrists. Kneeling in front of her, I lifted my gaze to see concern etched across her features.

  “Do I stink?” she whispered back.

  Her question tugged at the corner of my lip, the grin small, her eyes tracking the movement of my mouth to trace the shape.

  “No. Not yet anyway, but you look like you’ve been rolling around in the woods.”

  Holding up her bound hands between us, she pointed out the obvious. “It’s kind of hard to take care of my hair like this.”

  “I’m sorry,” I breathed out.

  “For what?” Genuine confusion flashed through her expression.

  Chuckling, I answered, “For kidnapping you.”

  Working at the knot, I felt another sting of regret when she winced at the pain. “Sorry,” I muttered again.

  Leaning close, the floral scent of her perfume wafted beneath my nose. I liked the scent. It bothered me that I liked it. “It’s fine. Stop apologizing.”

  The knot came loose, the skin beneath scraped raw. “Damn. I’m going to need to bandage these.”

  “Maybe I should take a shower first.”

  Suspicion flooded me. Peeking up at her, I realized how close her face was to mine, so close that I could see the brown and gold flecks in her eyes. “There are no windows in the bathroom, if you’re hoping to escape.”

  “Actually,” she replied, straightening her posture so that our lips weren’t noticeably close, her breath colliding with mine. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “About escaping?” Brows drawn together, I was about to commend her on her honesty, but she laughed, cutting off my thoughts.

  “No. Not about escaping. About staying.”

  “Okay,” I said, stretching the word out longer than it should be. “What are you talking about?”

  “After we talked this morning, after what you told me about Delilah and everything you’ve gone through because of Jack, I feel guilty. I’m sure you could have received a lot more money if the truth had come out about the auto accident. Enough to help more with the medical bills and daily expenses, or whatever. Part of what you and Delilah have gone through was my fault.”

  “Michaela-“

  “No, listen to me.” Spilling out the words harshly and with no patience at all, she looked pained and surprised both, as if she’d never asserted herself before. “Nobody ever listens to me. It’s always me doing or saying whatever they want. But I need to say this, and I’d really appreciate it if you would just listen.”

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Say what you need to say.”

  The poor girl was flustered, completely out of her realm to have the main floor in a conversation, and it made me wonder about her life, wonder if there wasn’t more to her than I realized.

  “I think I owe it to you to stay here as long as you need me to. For the past, for what happened last night.” She shrugged. “For everything, I guess, even high school.”

  Standing, I backed away from her, leaned against a wall and crossed my arms over my chest. She wanted to stay? Was she insane? I killed her boyfriend and abducted her. I tied her up and shoved her in a room. What could possibly be going on inside her head to even suggest voluntarily staying?

  She was nuts. She had to be. There was no other explanation.

  “Micheala-“

  Holding up a hand to silence me, she argued, “No, just listen. I know you need to make money, and, honestly, I think if we combine our heads on this, we might be able to get you out of it. We just need time, maybe? A few days to think and then we can come up with a plan to make sure you don’t go to jail. You don’t deserve it, Holden, and I’m not willing to just sit by and watch your life be ruined because of Jack.”

  Her expression tightened, her eyes narrowing, but not on me. “I hate Jack. I HATE him.”

  Michaela’s words, I realized quickly, weren’t spoken to convince me of her hatred, they were spoken to convince herself of their truth. Remaining silent, I simply listened like she’d asked, but I already knew my response would disappoint her. This wasn’t just about Jack’s death anymore. I’d added way too many crimes to the pile for there to be any hope I wasn’t going to prison. But she was working something out inside herself, something that needed to be exorcised. My silence would allow her to do so.

  “I think if we go to the police together and explain, if I can get to them and give my statement before my parents or Jack’s family step in to intervene, then it’ll be too late. They’ll have the truth and nothing anybody says or does will be able to change it. I want to stand up for someone else for once. I’m tired of always doing what everybody else demands of me. I want to do what’s right for a change.”

  Her gaze met mine, her stare hopeful. “What do you think?”

  Maybe the kids at Tranquil Falls High had been right after all. Maybe I was crazy, because I found myself feeling sorry for a woman who was a symbol of everything that was wrong in my world. I should hate her. I should lock her away and not give a damn what happens while I set as much as I can to right. Yet, there I was, staring at her, wondering what had been done to her in life that made her so timid and tame.

  Careful with my response only because I didn’t want to be that tiny gust of wind that knocked her off this newfound course, I answered softly. “I think it’s a nice idea on your part, a hell of a lot better than what you’ve done in the past. But I also know it’s hopeless.”

  “It’s not hopeless, Holden. Nothing is hopeless.”

  “This is.”

  Giving her no wiggle room with my impassive tone, I continued, “Had we gone to the police straight from the woods and told them, then maybe I would have had a chance. But that’s not what happened. I panicked. I took you. I got rid of his car-“

  “You got rid of his car?” H
er eyes rounded. “How?”

  “That’s not important, what’s important is that it has been eighteen hours since I killed a man. I also hid the body. I hid his car. And I kidnapped his girlfriend. This is looking really bad for me. I made some extremely stupid decisions. But this is where we are. You can still tell the police anything you want when they finally find me, but don’t get your hopes up that justice will prevail. I’m going to prison.”

  I’ve seen a million surprising sights in my life, moments where I’d underestimated some danger, or a friend reacted in a way I would never expect to a joke or some other thing I said. I’d seen miracles happen, and tragedies. I’d witnessed comical events and depressing ones. But nothing surprised me more than the tears running down Michaela’s cheeks. Either this woman was an accomplished actress, or she was truly upset that I was going to jail. “Why are you crying?”

  “Because it’s not fair.”

  We were back to that word again.

  Michaela needed some comfort in this, she needed someone who would lie to her and say everything would be okay. But I couldn’t be the person to provide her that comfort. She was still a symbol of my destruction, and I wasn’t a liar.

  “Maybe you should get that shower. Then we can bandage your wrists.”

  Nodding, Michaela pushed up from her bed and walked to the bathroom. Reaching out, I stopped her just before she could move through the door. She didn’t look at me.