Copyright
He + She
Copyright © 2014 by Michelle Preast, Michelle Warren
ISBN: 978-0-9846621-4-2
All Rights Reserved
Editing and Formatting by:
Pam Berehulke
www.BulletproofEditing.com
Cover and Book Design by:
Michelle Preast
www.facebook.com/indiebookcovers
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Some terms may be trademarked or registered trademarks. This book does not endorse or imply any association with their respective owners.
Chapter 1
He
Step Nine: Make direct amends with the people I’ve hurt.
That’s part of AA’s recovery plan, but it’s easier said than done. At least, it is if the prick staring at me from the front door of his farmhouse has anything to do with it. I grip the handle and pull, releasing the Jeep’s door. It creaks open as I step out into the night with determination. Before I’m five paces into the yard, the dickhead meets me chest to chest with the usual look on his face—like he wants to kill me. And the truth is, he has every right to feel that way.
“I told you she doesn’t want see you,” he spits out.
“I know you did.” I meet his gaze, puffing up my chest like some rooster in a cockfight. I set my jaw. “But I need her to know I’m sorr—”
He presses his large hands into my shoulders and shoves me away. I fall backward and slam into my car, making a futile grab at the side mirror before I hit the ground. Sollie Winters is standing over me so fast, all I have time to do is brace myself for the impact of his steely fist before it makes contact with my nose.
I don’t fight back, since I’m desperately trying not to be a fighting person. Instead, I don’t defend myself, I just lie still, allowing him to purge his anger. He owes me every strike to the jaw, every punch to the gut, every spurt of blood, and so much more. Though I didn’t come here for a confrontation, I expected the less-than-warm-and-fuzzy welcome. It mirrors the two previous times I’ve tried to apologize to her since I learned she came home. But I needed to finish this, to finally say I’m sorry so I can get the hell out of town and move on with my life. There’s nothing for me here after what I’ve done. I’ve ruined everything.
These are the words that run through my head as he pummels me one last time. He twists his fingers into my shirt, lifting my wobbling body to my feet, and shoves me back through my open car door.
“If you’re not gone in five fucking seconds, I’m calling the police!” Sollie’s slight Southern twang is more pronounced when he’s pissed. He kicks the door shut and I sprawl across the front seat, a bruised and bloody mess. In the yellow haze of the front porch light, I see his wife run to his side, and though a frail thing, she forcefully ushers him back into the house, where their dogs are barking wildly. She looks over at me, giving me the same apologetic look she’s given me before as they disappear into the house. That’s when I notice a silhouette standing inside the lit window of an upstairs room.
Ignoring his warning, I sit up in the driver’s seat, grip the steering wheel, and lean forward, looking closer. She could be at that window. Right there, watching me get my head split open, painting the front yard red. If she’s looking out, it might make her happy to see me this way. If I were her, I wouldn’t be happy until I was dead.
When the silhouette moves across the room and disappears, I contemplate one more go of it, despite the fact that my face resembles a rotting pumpkin smashed in the road. I take a second to consider and think of my counselor, who urged me not to return for a third time for a third beating. “You’ve done all you can,” Mrs. Mankin drilled into me at our last session. It’s true, I have, everything just short of stalking the girl, but I won’t allow myself to do that. I don’t need more problems than I already have.
I slam my palm to the dashboard, fumble for my keys, shove one in the ignition and turn on my car, revving the engine. Slamming the stick shift into reverse, I peel out of the dusty driveway, swerving as I back out, barely missing the rusted mailbox before I speed away. If I don’t get out of here soon, I know that dickhead will have the cops all over my ass.
Chapter 2
She
Today was supposed to be one of the best days of my life; a day I would never forget.
Come to think of it, that last part’s true. I’ll never forget it for all the reasons that make you ache inside, the reasons that make you want to give up completely, the reasons that make you want to fold in on yourself like origami paper, folding in and over, making the shape smaller and smaller until you disappear into an infinitesimal dot. And because of this there’s only one thing I’m completely sure of in my soul—I must leave. Right now.
The glass doors glide open and I stomp through, legs weak and stomach hollow from crying my eyes out in the back of a taxicab. I make my way to the end of a winding line of people. Cheery faces turn when they see my big white dress and absurdly long lace train out of the corner of their eyes, but just as fast as their gaze settles in my direction, ready to greet me with well wishes, it slides away with an obvious pinch of uncomfortable guilt. And honestly, I can’t blame them.
“You can go ahead of me.” An older man’s voice wavers as he gestures nervously. With his shifting posture, I can tell he’s trying not to look too closely, but with black mascara dripping down my cheeks, mixing with my face powder, red lipstick, and peach blush, it’s clear that I’m a hot mess.
I make my way to the counter as each person in line shoos me forward in quick succession.
“May I help you?” The airline agent greets me with an unsure smile.
“I really hope so.” I place my handbag on the counter, unzip it, and riffle through the contents as I continue to talk. “I need a ticket for the first plane out of here.”
From the edge of my vision, I see that there’s a moment of pause on her end, no typing, and no rushing to help, so I look up. The woman purses her lips as if she doesn’t believe me.
“Seriously, not kidding.” My raccoon eyes widen with an attitude.
The agent nods with a heavy sigh, and after a moment of assessing me, her long fluorescent nails tap the keyboard. “Looks like the first flight that you can make if you hurry is San Francisco.”
“Sounds great,” I say but frown. The irony of this location being the first option is a slap in the face. I try not to think about the pain and present my credit card and ID.
“It’s $627 with taxes and fees,” she adds, as though this will make a difference. A few years ago, it probably would have, but not on this god-awful day.
I shove the card closer. She reluctantly takes it, looking at me from over the rim of her glasses, the way she probably does when her kids give her lip.
“Any baggage?” Her gaze scans the floor behind me.
At this question, I laugh loudly and too obnoxiously, because I’m practically manic and sleep-deprived. I have so much baggage, and all I want to do is desperately leave it behind.
“I’ll take that as a no.” She raises a graying eyebrow and continues typing.
I think I’m almost done, free of Maryland, until she pops up on her tiptoes and peers over the wide counter that separate
s us. “But with the size of that dress, dear, you’ll need two seats.”
“Come on!” I slam the counter with my palm in a moment of frustration because I can see she’s serious, but for the love of God, I hope she’s not.
“Sorry, you’ll never fit into one seat in that thing.” She waves her arm through the air. “Unless you have something else to change into?”
“No,” I say grimly. “I don’t.” I look down at my beautiful wedding dress. It doesn’t mean what it should; it hasn’t since the moment I shimmied into the lace and silk earlier today. Instead, the stupid white cupcake represents everything I’ll never have; at least, not with the person it was meant to be with.
I glower at the thought of what I must do and take a pen from my bag. Using it as a makeshift knife, I punch the ballpoint through the outer layer of the fancy fabric, creating a hole large enough to stick my finger through. When I find the perfect grip, I rip off the length of the dress, shredding the hell out of it with all the resentment and sadness that’s boiling over inside. I grit my teeth, holding back more tears. If I break down now, again, they may not let me board the plane.
Around me, people gasp and chatter in reaction. “What’s she doing? That dress must have cost a fortune,” they say. In the commotion, a security guard saunters over. He stands nearby, but as far as I know, it’s not illegal for a crazy girl to trash her own wedding dress in an airport.
By the time I’m done, the skirt looks more like a long, uneven tutu than anything appropriate enough to wear while walking down the aisle. Vera Wang would be horrified. I step out of the extra fabric and kick it aside with my boots. I’m happy that I had the good sense to wear them instead of those stupid heels that Bren’s mom picked out for me.
“Bren.” I say his name under my breath and bite my lip. The vision of his beautiful Crest smile dances behind my eyes. I used to live for that smile.
Somehow, in the wake of my obnoxious behavior, the agent stops giving me crap about the second seat and finishes printing my ticket. She hands it to me along with my ID and credit card. “Your gate’s B62. You better make a run for it.”
Chapter 3
He
She walks into the cramped plane cabin with a huge release of breath and face red from running. I mean, I can only guess she’s been running. And by the look of the mascara tracks that have dried over her rosy cheeks and her mangled wedding dress, she’s running away from an important day. She doesn’t look at my face when she squeezes by my seat and down the aisle, she only zones out, stepping slowly in pace with the person in front of her like a zombie.
“Poor thing,” The older woman next to me leans over. She places a hand on my arm, as if she’s getting ready to share gossip in a hushed tone. “She made quite a scene at the security line when they pulled her aside, but I can see how her appearance could cause concern. Looks like someone really pissed her off.”
I laugh at the word pissed coming from this little old lady.
She gives my bruised face a once-over. “By the sight of you, you could have been the groom!” She pats me on the arm, as if she just solved the puzzle.
“No, I’m afraid not.” I rub my jaw, still raw from Sollie Winters’s beating last week. “If I was lucky enough to have a girl like that,” I nod in the bride’s direction, “I wouldn’t let her run away from our wedding day.”
Underneath the ruined makeup, it’s easy to see that the girl is beautiful. Thick hair, pouty peach lips, and the gentle curve of her body, a fullness that suggests she’s still young, probably early twenties. Unable to look away, I watch as she makes her way to the last row. She ends up sitting in the center seat between two hefty men. With her petite frame, she’s lost in a cavern between them, but as she sits she does something unexpected. Despite her obviously shittastic day, she looks to each neighbor with a genuine smile.
I’m immediately in awe of this. I wish I were that optimistic on my bad days. There have been so many of them. And just because the moment is so pure, I wish I had my Canon to take a photograph of the authentic smile from the train-wreck bride. I’m half-tempted to jump up and retrieve it from the overhead bin, but when I look back to her, the simple moment is lost. She’s resting her head back with her eyes shut.
I turn forward, trying to return my thoughts to what they should focus on: my upcoming interview. A new job in San Francisco could be my new beginning. And if I’m not nervous enough, in my head I continually reel through answers to possible questions that they may ask. I can’t help myself; I’ve never wanted a job so badly in my life. Never wanted to escape so much. Maybe the bride and I have that in common.
When the plane takes off, the lady next to me settles into a crossword puzzle. I think she finishes exactly two questions before she falls asleep, head drifting to my shoulder, and then proceeds to snore lightly in my ear for the duration of the flight. I allow it, but only because she reminds me of my late grandmother.
Now, that woman was a saint. At least I know she would have forgiven me when my parents and sisters couldn’t. Sure, she would have bashed me upside the head, made me recite Hail Marys until my tongue fell out, and forced me into rehab before I completely ruined my life, but even with her tough love, she would have never disowned me. As horrible as everything turned out, she would have never held me responsible for Beth’s death. If only Grandma were still here, things might be different. If only Beth were here, things would be different. But neither is, which breaks my heart, so I’m leaving everyone I love behind.
• • •
Five hours later, the plane lands. I make my way through the airport, retrieve my bag, and then head to the people mover, which transports me to the car rentals. Moving with the large crowd, I walk inside and stand in the Reliable Car Rental line.
That’s when I see the train-wreck bride again. She’s in front of me. Somehow she’s beaten me here, despite being in the back of the plane, and then I notice a possible answer to how. She has no luggage, just a purse strapped across her chest. The tutu of her dress is uneven and cut shorter in the back, showing her shapely legs. As I’m admiring them, she moves ahead as soon as the clerk waves her forward.
Their conversation starts and I try not to listen, but it’s nearly impossible with the girl’s voice rising slightly with each new sentence. I lift my gaze from browsing my annoying Facebook feed of friends’ babies dressed like sunflowers, pets with handwritten signs proclaiming, “I pooped in Daddy’s shoe,” and lots of food pics—especially bacon. When I do, I see her leaning all the way over the counter to pull a silvery bendable microphone away from the clerk and to her mouth. She taps the head three times before speaking and it buzzes loudly.
“Attention, attention, all rental car businesses.” The sweet impish voice carries through the large room over the intercom, and every traveler or car rental employee stops speaking, their heads turning in her direction.
“Great, thanks,” she continues awkwardly. “Anyone here have something cooler to rent me than a mommy sedan or kidnap minivan? Maybe something vintage and cute?” She looks around, waiting for an answer.
I quirk a smile. She’s insanely adorable or insanely insane; I’m not sure which. Either way I’m intrigued and unable to look away.
To my surprise—and probably everyone else’s—a man at the end of the room waves for her attention. I squint to see the sign above him that reads, CLASSIC AUTO RENTALS.
“Awesome. Thanks, everyone.” When she pushes the mic back over the counter toward the clerk, it screeches. She turns to leave the line as if she’d just done something normal, completely oblivious to the fact that everyone in the room is still staring at her.
When she passes me, our eyes meet for a millisecond. They’re emerald green and sparkling with determination. Her full lips smile again like she did on the plane, sans dripping makeup, but this time her smile is special because it’s solely for me—it’s gleaming, punctuated with a deep-set scar shaped like a long hook on the line of her jaw.
&n
bsp; The girl struts away, tutu and hair bouncing with each step, reminding me of a well-worn porcelain baby doll with spidering cracks over her face and legs. Someone loved her too much, or worse, perhaps abused her.
For her sake, I hope it was the former.
Chapter 4
She
When I slide into the driver’s seat of the restored Italian Fiat convertible, I smile. One hand grips the steering wheel while the other slides the key in the ignition. I turn the car on and realize it’s been far too long since I was alone and driving myself anywhere. Feeling the car rumble beneath me is my second victory. The first was having the courage to leave.
I look over each shoulder and back out of the parking spot. When I put the car in drive and jam my foot down on the accelerator, I promise myself one thing: This is my new beginning and I won’t look into my past with hate any longer, only try to remember the happiness I found there, so I can find it again. It’s a stretch of optimism, but in this new place I’m feeling hopeful.
Recklessly, I merge onto Interstate 101, driving north with the convertible top down. After twenty minutes, the boxy skyline of San Francisco appears from the undulating hills that make the city famous. It’s as beautiful as I’ve dreamed about, and as lovely as every photo I’ve ever seen.
In a last-minute decision met with honking horns and swerving cars, I dart off the highway exit and merge into the chaos of downtown. I didn’t expect to want to find a place in the city; I was thinking a road trip was in order. But now that I’m here, I can’t resist the idea of seeing San Francisco up close. I cruise and cross many city streets before I see an orange-and-yellow retro neon sign for a hotel opposite the Chinatown Gate, and I quickly maneuver through heavy traffic to pull into the valet lane.
A boy opens my door and says, “Welcome to the Briton Hotel.” Despite my appearance, when I halfway expect him to ask me to leave, he hands me a valet ticket instead.
He + She Page 1
