Bent not Broken

by Lisa De Jong

  I start moving my cart toward the doorway. He advances rapidly, startling me, and grabbing on to the handle of my cart. “Really, it’s fine,” he says. “We were just leaving. I was just enjoying the show.” He grins, and his eyes lazily run up my body, from my feet to my breasts, and I fidget uncomfortably. I smile awkwardly when his eyes meet mine, and that’s when a woman walks in to the room. She is beautiful, her blond hair perfectly coiffed, her makeup flawless, and I feel immediately self-conscious. I nod my head in her direction and begin moving toward the door. “I’ll come back,” I murmur, but both of them are moving toward the door as well and as they do, the woman says, “Really, we’re just leaving. Stay and finish up.” She offers me a look of disdain as she shrugs on her jacket, and says, “And make sure you empty the trash. The last girl who was in here forgot to do that.” The man smiles toward her and pats her on the ass as she’s scooting out the door, and she lets out a giggle.

  I stand motionless for a minute after the door has shut behind them, trying to recoup the careless attitude I had before they interrupted me. But the mood has suddenly shifted and I feel melancholy in a way I don’t really want to think about.

  I finish up my shift, and as I clock out, my friend Nicole rushes up behind me and swipes her time card.

  “Damn slobs on the twelfth floor,” she rants. “I swear, you’d think some of the people who stay here were raised in a barn. It took me two hours to clean three rooms on that floor. Disgusting. Don’t even ask. Now I’m late to pick up Kaylee. Walk with me to the bus stop? My car is in the shop.” She grabs for her coat as she’s talking.

  I grin at her and shrug on my own coat as we walk toward the door. “Maybe we could make up a ‘for the consideration of your housecleaning crew’ list to hand out at check in?” I offer sarcastically.

  “Yes! Number one, please for the love of God, wrap your used condoms in toilet paper and deposit them in the trash. It is beyond my job description to scrape your dried… stuff off of the carpet after you toss the thing under the bed.”

  I fake a vomiting noise but I’m laughing as we hurry toward the bus stop. “Okay,” I continue. “Number two, please don’t clip your toenails in bed. I prefer not to get a clippings shower when I shake out your comforter and then have to go around on my hands and knees attempting to collect them all off the floor.”

  “Oh God! Truly? Animals!” But she’s laughing too.

  Her bus is just pulling up to her stop so I give her a quick hug goodbye saying, “See you Wednesday night!” as I start walking across the street to my stop going in the other direction.

  Nicole never ceases to make me smile with her carefree attitude and funny sense of humor. She’s married to a really great guy named Mike and they have a four year old daughter, Kaylee. Mike is an electrician and makes good money but Nicole works housekeeping a couple days a week to bring in a little extra and she’d tell you, to enhance her shoe budget. She’s got a thing for shoes, the higher the better. I don’t know how she walks in some of those things.

  Nicole and I hit it off quickly when I met her at work three years ago. She and Mike have me over for dinner at least once a week. I love spending time with them and Kaylee, soaking in the joy and comfort that is a loving family, doing nothing more special than having a meal together and sharing their evening. What they don’t fully get is that, to me, a loving family dinner isn’t just special, it’s everything. Everything I never had.

  Nicole and Mike know that I grew up in foster care but not too much beyond that. They’re kind, hardworking people who live in a cute little two bedroom house in a decent neighborhood, and I don’t want to bring stories of drug abuse, pimps, and molestation into their world. Not that they’re naïve about the fact that all of that stuff goes on, but in a lot of ways, they’re my bubble, my safe place away from that world, and I want to keep it that way.

  I pull out my novel and start reading as the bus begins its journey across town to my apartment. I’m so engrossed I almost miss my stop, jumping up just in time to make it through the closing door. I walk the five blocks to my apartment and let myself in through the front door, shaking my head at the broken, again, lock. Okay, so security isn’t exactly high but it’s decently clean, and it has a sunny balcony off the back where I can grow a few fruit trees in containers and several pots of flowers. Sometimes I sit out there in the evenings with a good book, feeling content. And it’s enough.

  I’m slightly disappointed that my stalker is obviously off duty this evening. It is not lost on me that this is not the healthiest of thoughts. I smile anyway.

  I take a shower, standing under the spray longer than I know I should. Hot water doesn’t come for free. But I allow myself this little luxury today as I shed the tears I knew would come for Willow. “Rest in peace, princess,” I whisper as the warm spray washes over me, mixing with my tears. After not too long, I get out and towel off.

  I pull on a pair of black yoga pants, a purple tank top and a big dark gray sweatshirt that falls off my shoulders and trudge into the kitchen to make myself some dinner. I heat up some of the homemade vegetable soup I made a couple days ago, and toast some bread. There is enough soup left to put in a small Tupperware container so I ladle it in and then walk down the hall to Mrs. Jenner’s apartment, knocking lightly. When she answers, I smile and say, “Have you eaten yet? I have some homemade veggie soup if you haven’t.”

  She smiles big and says, “Oh dear, you’re always so sweet. Thank you so much.”

  I smile back, saying, “You’re welcome. Night, Mrs. Jenner.”

  Back in my kitchen, I put my own dinner on a tray and take it back into the only other small room. I sit on the floor and lean against my loveseat as I eat. A studio apartment doesn’t allow for a lot of furniture, but that’s okay because it’s not like I entertain. I put The Shawshank Redemption, one of my favorite movies, into the dvd player and push play. I don’t spend the extra money on cable, so I rely on the dvd’s I’ve picked up at garage sales, but I’d usually rather read anyway, so it’s fine by me.

  After I clean up my dishes, I end up falling asleep in front of the movie and when I finally drag myself into bed, it’s after midnight.

  My alarm goes off at seven, and I pull myself out of bed and put on my running gear. It’s a chilly morning and so I pull on earmuffs and a fleece jacket. I take a minute or two to stretch outside my apartment, my breath coming out in white puffs in front of me as I take off down the street. I tighten my fist around the door key I have in my pocket, like the self-defense instructor taught us to do in the course I took at the community college. It gives me comfort. I hold onto it until I jog into the semi populated running track of the park, and then I zip my pocket closed with the key inside and take out my ear buds and push play on my iPod. I run my usual three miles and return home, feeling strong and energized.

  I take a quick shower, drying my long, dark hair and putting it up into a ponytail and pulling on a pair of worn jeans and an oversized gray sweater. It’s my day off, and I’m going to do nothing more than putter around, make a trip to the library and spend the rest of the day on my balcony under a blanket, with a good book and a cup of tea. I wonder briefly if this plan might qualify me for early social security benefits. While other twenty-two year olds are sleeping in so they’re well rested for the club later tonight, I’m taking stock of my tea collection. Yup.

  Thirty minutes later, after making my bed and doing a quick pick up of my studio, I’m just beginning the walk down the street to the local neighborhood library, when I spot a dark silver BMW parked about a block up the street from my apartment. I don’t know anything about cars, but I note the model on the back, M6. I smile slightly to myself. On duty today, I see.

  I make it to the library and spend about an hour there, picking out a new stack of books for the upcoming week. I have four novels, a budget friendly cookbook, and a book about The Second World War. I may not have the money right now to go to college, but knowledge is only a library ca
rd away, and I pick up a new subject each week.

  As I make my way back to my apartment, I clock tall, dark-ish and handsome about a block behind me, walking leisurely and pretending to talk on his cell phone.

  I make a decision. I pass my own apartment, and I pick up my pace a little, and as I turn the corner, I break into a run and turn into the small alley in the middle of the block. I run down the alley, hoping to double around and come up behind him.

  I’m out of breath as I turn the corner on my own street again and walk very swiftly to the end of the block and peek around the corner. Sure enough, he’s standing in the middle of the block, clearly confused and not knowing where I disappeared. I walk quietly up behind him and say loudly, “It’s impolite to stalk strangers!”

  He whirls around and jumps back slightly, as he sucks a loud breath in through his slightly parted mouth. His eyes are wide. “Jesus! You scared the shit out of me!”

  “I scared you?” I say incredulously, glaring at him. “You’re the one following me like a creeper.” I cock my head to the side. “By the way, pointer, if you’re going to stalk someone, you should try to be a little less obvious about it. For instance,” I sweep my hand in his direction, “standing in the street gawking at your victim tends to be a giveaway.” I narrow my eyes.

  He remains silent, staring at me intently, his lips slightly parted. His lips! They’re really nice lips! Don’t be distracted, Evie! He could still be a serial killer! At the very least, a serious weirdo.

  I put my hands on my hips. “Don’t despair though. I’m sure with some study, you could get better. There might be an instructional video or something you could pick up… maybe a book on the subject? Creepy Stalker for Dummies?” I raise one eyebrow.

  He stands still, continuing to stare at me without saying a word for several seconds, and then he bursts out laughing. “Well, holy hell, you really are something, aren’t you?” But there’s appreciation in his voice. And his laugh. Wow, his laugh is really nice.

  I study him for a minute. Good God, I thought he was good-looking before. But up close, this man is devastating, all square jaw, straight nose and deep brown eyes. If there is any imperfection to him at all, it’s that he’s a little too perfect, if that’s possible. He’s tall and broad and very masculine with a shadow of stubble on his jaw that looks more purposeful than unkempt. And when he laughs like that, I swear a piece of my soul, the part of me that keeps secrets even from myself, tries to lunge toward him, like his happiness is an invisible pull to my own heart. It’s crazy. I don’t even know this guy.

  “Okay,” I say. “Well, the gig is up. Why are you following me?” I narrow my eyes at him again. But truthfully, I’m not nervous. There are absolutely no danger vibes coming off of this guy at all. And I’ve contended with just about all brands of human fuckery. You could say I’m an expert in human fuckery.

  Then he does something to knock me off balance completely. He runs his hand through his thick, caramel brown hair, drops his head so he’s looking up at me, and raises his eyebrows in a gesture that looks shy and doubtful, yet sexy as hell. And I almost swoon. That, right there, that’s his deal sealer. I bet that look has girls all over the city dropping their panties right on the spot.

  But then he speaks and I snap out of it. “I’ve been that obvious, huh?” And he has the grace to look embarrassed. He takes a step toward me. I take a step back. He stops. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, sounding like my distrust of him is truly hurtful. I mean, really? Need I remind him again that he’s a creepy stalker? And truly, I’m not afraid of him, but I don’t know him either, and a healthy distance from strangers is never a bad idea.

  “Yes, you’ve been THAT obvious. Enough games. I want to know why you’re following me.”

  He seems to consider whether to answer me or not. Then he looks me in the eye and says softly, “I knew Leo. He asked me to check on you.”

  CHAPTER 4

  My world comes to a screeching halt, and I freeze, my mouth falling open. “What?” I croak out. With one name, he’s left me a trembling, reeling mess. I steel myself though. This stranger doesn’t need to know that. I straighten up and ask in a stronger voice, “What do you mean you knew Leo?” I don’t let on that I’m afraid of what that past tense means.

  Of course, I’ve wondered a thousand times if something happened to Leo, convincing myself that something had to have happened to Leo for him not to have contacted me all these years, and especially for him to break his promise to me about writing as soon as he arrived in San Diego. My mind came up with a million scenarios over those first few months about why my beautiful boy disappeared from my world… a car wreck on the way from the airport to their new home… surprising a robber in their house as they arrived...

  When I was sixteen, I went to the library and sorted through California newspapers from the week he moved, in search of any news stories about the untimely demise of a mom, dad and their teenage son. Each fruitless search brought both relief and frustration.

  I even created a fake account on Facebook once and looked up his name but came up with nothing. I didn’t keep an account of my own. There were too many people from my past who might attempt to contact me and that I did not need.

  The problem was, I had precious little information about Leo’s family to go on, except for the fact that his adoptive father worked in a hospital. I didn’t know if that meant he was a doctor or an administrator or what, but that piece of information, the city they were moving to, and Leo’s name and age is all I ever had to work with.

  Of course, my resources were small, a library computer and old newspaper microfiche, so it’s no wonder I never got far.

  After my unsuccessful attempts at finding any information on him, I made a vow to myself that I would stop wondering all the time. It was too painful. And so on my eighteenth birthday, the day he had promised to come for me, I closed my eyes and pictured him smiling at me on a roof under a winter sky, and that’s where I left him in my mind.

  I look up to see that the man is studying me closely, a small frown on his face, but he doesn’t move closer now or attempt to touch me in any way. I turn around and walk to some porch steps a few feet behind me and sit down and take a deep breath. My legs feel shaky. I repeat my question, “What do you mean, you knew Leo?”

  He moves slowly toward me and gestures to the other side of the step I’m sitting on, asking silently for permission to sit. I nod. He sits on the other side of the stairs, one step down, turned slightly toward me and then leans forward, resting his elbows on his muscular thighs. I catch a whiff of his cologne, something clean and woodsy and delicious. He sighs and says, “Leo died in a car accident last year. We were friends, teammates in school. We all thought he might make it for a couple days, but he didn’t. We visited him together, and he pulled me aside and told me a little about you. He made me promise to check on you to make sure that you were okay, that you were in a good place, happy. He knew I was moving here to work for my dad’s company, and that it would be easy for me to check up on you in person.” His brow is furrowed and he’s talking slowly, as if he’s making sure to deliver the information he’s giving me in just the right way. He’s also leaving something out. I don’t know exactly how I know this, I just do.

  I feel numb and confused and I’m silent for several minutes. “I see. What exactly did Leo tell you about me?” I finally ask, glancing down at the man. He’s watching me intently.

  “Just that he knew you in foster care and you were special to him. He said you lost touch but he’d always wondered about how your life turned out. That’s really all.”

  I don’t say anything and so he continues. “I moved here in June, but it took me a couple months to settle in. Then I finally had the time to dedicate to being the creepster I had promised to be.” He smiles at me, looking up through long caramel lashes. But it’s a sad smile now. Unsure.

  I offer a small smile in return. I will not let on how much his words about Leo hurt
. We lost touch? And all those years he was alive and well and living in San Diego and never once wrote to me or called or tried in any way to get in touch with me? Why? I don’t even know how to process the fact that I’ve just learned that he died. I need to go home and curl up in a ball for a couple of hours. I need to process this. I stand shakily, and the man jumps to his feet beside me. I wipe my clammy hands on the front of my jeans.

  “I’m sorry to hear about Leo,” I finally say. “It doesn’t sound like you know a lot about our history, but Leo is someone who… broke a promise to me. It happened a long time ago, and I don’t think about him anymore. There was no reason for him to send you to check on me. If he wanted to know how my life turned out, he should have contacted me himself before… well, before.

  “All the same, it was nice of you to keep your word to your friend. And now you’ve done your job. Here I am, fine and dandy. Mission accomplished. Dying wish fulfilled.” I force a weak smile, but I’m pretty sure it comes across more as a grimace. He doesn’t smile back. He looks worried.

  “By the way, who do I have the pleasure of calling my own personal, creepy stalker?”

  He does smile then, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Jake Madsen,” he says, still watching my face closely.

  “Well, Jake Madsen, a.k.a. creepy stalker, obviously you already know that I’m Evelyn Cruise. And you already know to call me Evie.” I reach my hand out to shake his and when he grips mine back, it’s like tiny sparks pass between our skin, and suddenly all I am is my hand. All the other parts of my body, not being touched by Jake Madsen, have ceased to exist. It’s the strangest thing, and I wonder if he feels it too. Judging by the way he’s staring intently at our hands, a small smile lifting one side of his lips, he does. Okay, so I guess I have chemistry with this man. Big surprise. Who wouldn’t have chemistry with a man who looks like he does? He’s probably laughing inside and thinking, Another one? Really? I’m sure women melt in the streets at his feet daily. And the fact that I’m thinking about melting in the street for a man after I’ve just heard that the love of my life is no longer of this world has me really, really confused and not just a little bit weirded out. I need to leave.