by M. Leighton
And I will. But this time, I’m not sure the pieces will be big enough to put back together again.
Thankfully, they board the plane within minutes of me walking away from Rogan. I don’t look back until I’m seated in coach, staring out across the tarmac, waiting for takeoff. Only then do I give in, albeit reluctantly, to the urge to sneak one last glance behind me, at where I’ve been. I don’t expect to find Rogan. I figured he’d have already left. But he hasn’t. And I have no trouble spotting him.
There, standing tall and strong in front of the enormous wall of windows that faces me, is the love of my life. The betrayer of my last bit of trust.
Although his eyes are fixed in my general direction, I know he can’t see me. Maybe he never did. If he had, he’d know why we can never be together. Not after this.
Tiny droplets begin to pepper the thick, oval glass between us. For a few seconds, I can’t tell the difference between the water in my eyes and the water falling from the sky. But then it starts to rain harder. According to the forecast, there was no chance of rain, but they were as deluded as I’ve been. There’s always a chance of rain, no matter how small.
After a few minutes, my window is nothing more than a highway of rivulets that turn Rogan from real and solid into a wavy hallucination. Soon I can barely see the terminal at all.
Kiefer “The Rain” Rogan. Yes, he brought the rain. And if I’m not careful, I might well drown in it.
THIRTY-FOUR
Rogan
My legs feel tired. As I walk back through the airport, I’m aware of every muscle, every tendon, every ligament, and they all just feel . . . tired. Like I fought the best, most important fight of my life, and I lost. And, even though I won, I really did lose. I lost everything.
The ride back to the hotel is uneventful. When I try to think about past the now, it seems that everything feels the same way—uneventful. The night, the morning, next week, next year—all uneventful. It’s like everything I had to look forward to got somehow twisted around and wrapped up in a shy wisp of a girl. And without her, there’s just . . . nothing.
Uneventful nothingness.
At the hotel, I’m pissed to find Kurt in my room. “How the hell did you get in here?”
“Being your brother has some perks. Being handicapped just helps my case.”
I don’t reply. I don’t take the bait. I’m just not interested in Kurt right now. Actually, I’m not interested in much of anything except sleep. I just want to sleep.
Ignoring him, I walk into the bedroom to get some clean lounge pants, and I head for the bathroom. I cut on the shower and turn to find Kurt parked in the doorway. “What?” I snap.
“Did you find her?”
“Yeah.”
A pause. “And?”
“And what? She’s gone.”
“You’re the dumbest asshole I’ve ever met. Why would you let a woman like that go?”
“It’s what she wanted.”
“Well, I gotta give her credit for making the smart choice, but I’m surprised. I thought she was pretty into you.”
“Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t. Doesn’t matter now. It can’t work.”
“What kind of a defeatist attitude is that? Did it ever occur to you that you might actually have to try with some people?”
I clench my fists to keep from sending him back into the bedroom on his ass. “I tried, you shitdick. There are just some things that I can’t change, things that she can’t live with. That’s it. If I could fix it, I would, but I can’t.”
“Why? What’s so bad that it can’t be fixed?”
If you only knew, I think harshly. But I don’t tell him that. As I’ve done for years, I protect my brother. Mostly from himself.
“Just forget it, man. Back up,” I say, walking toward him to force him out of the doorway. “I need to shower.”
I close the door in Kurt’s face as soon as his lifeless feet are clear of the jamb.
“You’re making a big mistake, dude,” he says from outside. Unless I’m mistaken, there’s actually a note of regret in his voice. But not nearly as much regret as what’s in me. Nowhere close.
THIRTY-FIVE
Katie
I couldn’t face Monday. I called in sick and stayed in bed all day. Mona called at least six times, but I let them all go to voice mail. I knew I’d have to tell her eventually.
Today, Tuesday, is “eventually.”
As was her custom when Rogan was my first client of the day, Mona is in my “office” waiting for me when I arrive. Her face wreathed with a smile that’s so brilliant it rivals that of the sun. Until she sees me, that is. I watch it fall into an expression of concern.
“Kitty! You look terrible! What happened?”
She rushes across the room to take me in her thin arms. I resist the urge to literally cry on her shoulder. That’s not my style. Or at least it wasn’t until recently. For the last thirty-some hours, I feel like I’m no longer in control of my tear ducts. They’ve been overtaken by evil spirits or something. They don’t even care whether I’m asleep or awake. Each time I’ve fallen asleep, my own sobs have awakened me.
Somehow I manage to keep it together until Mona releases me. I give her a tight, polite smile and plead, “Do you mind if we just not talk about it?”
I can tell that’s tantamount to asking her to bite off her own tongue and swallow it, but still she nods in compliance. I walk past her to slide my purse into the drawer where it lives during the day. “Just know that when you’re ready, I’m here.”
I don’t turn to face her. I just nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.
THIRTY-SIX
Rogan
I have a lot of reasons to be angry. I had an abusive father who never once tried to hold his temper with me. I enlisted in the Army and got to see, up close and personal, the evil that men are capable of. My team has been betrayed by someone we trusted. We just haven’t found out by whom yet. I’ve been on the receiving end of hundreds of punches and kicks from various opponents, both professional and otherwise. I’ve been burned, cut, whipped, thrown, slammed and insulted more than I care to remember, but never, not once in my life, have I ever wanted to hurt someone as badly as I do right now.
As badly as I have since I found out who he is.
Calvin Sims. Katie’s ex. The man who tried to burn her alive.
Every time I think of Katie, I think of him. And that happens almost as often as I breathe.
He doesn’t deserve to live. Lots of people don’t, I’m sure, but I’ve never really wanted to take a life. Not even when it was part of my job in Delta Five.
Until now.
But I want to take his. He stole everything from Katie and then he stole her from me. He stole our future. He stole any chance we might have. I can’t blame her for drawing the line. Unfortunately it’s a line I can do nothing about. So I’m angry. No, I’m furious. Livid. Irate. All the time. And it’s eating away at me like cancer, gnawing at my guts. Always gnawing.
I’ve been in front of a speed bag, a punching bag or a sparring partner three or four times a day since the morning after she left. I beat on them like I want to beat Sims. Only I can’t. Because my hands are tied. And no matter how many other people or objects I take out all my aggression on, it never makes me feel any better.
I just feel worse.
More trapped.
More hopeless.
Less alive.
Every day I wonder how much longer I can let this go. Not that I’m letting it go. I’m holding on to it. Tight. With a death grip that feels like it’s only killing me. Slowly. Day by day.
At least I tell myself that’s what it is. But deep down, I know that it’s really not what’s killing me. Grief is. I die a little bit more every day. Every day without Katie.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Katie
Days creep by. The week is punctuated only by the arrival of my belongings on Friday afternoon. Everything I left in New York, packed neatly in
to my bag, brought by messenger to my door. No note. No Rogan. No hope. Just a suitcase full of stuff that I couldn’t care less about.
I’ve never hated Friday more.
Slowly, the days turn into a week. One week into two. Two into three. And then a month has elapsed. I’m firmly back in my shell, hiding from everyone except Mona. It seems everyone is hiding from me as well. I’ve become a bit of a pariah, from what I can tell.
Two days after returning to Enchantment, the disastrous post-fight interview aired on Sports Central. I didn’t immediately know, of course, since I have ovaries and therefore do not live and breathe sports. It didn’t take too long for me to figure it out, though. The men who saw it asked the women they knew about it. Then the women talked among themselves over lunches and drinks and workplace water coolers. Eventually, word got out and the video made its way around the studio.
I wasn’t surprised by the strange looks that followed the circulation of the video. I’m the resident freak show, after all. I’d been living right here under their beautiful, flawless noses all this time, unbeknownst to them. But even so, that doesn’t mean I’m not hurt by them. Hurt and humiliated.
The Ew, what happened to her? and Gross! What’s wrong with her skin? looks were both hurtful and humiliating, but not nearly as much as the ones that showed pity. Those are the ones I have little tolerance for. They’re the ones that hurt the most. They say I’m the pathetic girl who fell for a guy way outside her league. They say I was a fool to ever think he could really be interested in me. A freak. A scarred, backward, freak who used to be somebody but then basically died in a fire. Only a few human parts remain and they fled the moment I left Rogan at the airport.
Rogan.
Even now, after a month, it hurts. I thought it would get easier, but it hasn’t. It seems that the gaping hole in my chest is ever-widening. I’ve had these recurring nightmares where I’m sucked into oblivion by the vacuum that exists within me. Only sometimes, it’s a dream rather than a nightmare. In a way, I’d welcome an end to this misery.
Victoria has kept her distance. She didn’t come out of that video looking like a very nice person. She did the smart thing and just hung her head like she was ashamed. Now she’s laying low until it blows over. As for me, I hope I never have to see her again. Despite the fact that this is a small studio and an even smaller town, I’ve gotten really good at avoiding. Life, people, the outside world, I avoid it all. I go to work, I come home. Sometimes I go to the store. Sometimes I take Dozer to the park. Other than that, I eat (sometimes), I sleep (sometimes) and I work. That’s it. Even Mona has become accustomed to eating in my “office” with me rather than venturing out to the diner.
All in all, it seems that Kathryn Rydale has died yet again. That’s twice now, twice that I’ve suffered the death of who I am in some way or another. Kat died in a fire, and only a tiny part of her was resurrected in Katie. And most of Katie died in New York after a mixed martial arts charity fight. She still lives in the same house and works at the same job, but all the pieces of her that were living are mostly dead now. I can’t even seem to find happiness in the few trivial things that I’d managed to enjoy as Katie. There’s just nothing left for me. Just . . . nothing.
I foresee me living out my life as a walking, talking corpse. A zombie. Someone who used to have a heartbeat, but is now just going through the motions.
• • •
The phone is ringing when I unlock my door. My landline rings so seldom that I forget that I even have one most of the time. I give Dozer a quick scratch and head for the kitchen to grab it before it stops ringing. I can’t even imagine who might be calling me on it. Probably a telemarketer.
“Hello?”
The pause is so long that I’m getting ready to hang up when I hear the baritone voice that I’ll likely never forget.
“Hello, Kat.”
Chills break out on both arms and my skin feels both cool and hot at the same time.
“What do you want, Senator Sims?”
“You used to be such a pleasant girl,” he remarks.
“You’ll have to excuse me if I can’t find any pleasure in hearing your voice.”
He ignores that.
“I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“I’m not interested.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you have to say. The answer is no.”
“Even if it could save your friend?”
There’s a hitch in my pulse. It feels like my heart almost stops for a second. “My friend?”
“Yes. Kiefer Rogan. He is your friend, isn’t he?”
Air freezes in my chest like wedges of thin ice. “And what does he need saving from?”
“Not what. Whom.”
I’m quickly becoming irritated with his vagueness. “Why don’t you just tell me what it is that you want, Mr. Sims,” I say, emphasizing a title he will feel is disrespectful.
If it needles him, however, he hides it well. When he resumes speaking, it’s as though he’s embroiled in polite conversation with an old friend. “Kiefer Rogan is a man of secrets, secrets I’d be willing to bet he’s never shared with you.”
If he’s hoping to hurt me, it’s working.
“Everyone’s entitled to their secrets.”
“In any case, they’re not really entirely his secrets to share.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did Rogan ever tell you how his father died?”
A lump of dread forms in the back of my throat, making me feel for a few seconds like I can’t breathe. I focus on drawing air in and out of my lungs slowly. Steadily. “No, but I think you already know that.”
“I do, but there’s no reason I can’t enjoy this.” His tone is smug and it sets my teeth on edge. But he’s got my attention, so I hold my tongue until he continues. “There was an unfortunate accident involving his younger brother. He had enlisted in the Army just before graduation. His father found out and tried to cripple him with a crowbar. Kurt hit him in the head with a baseball bat. Killed him instantly. Kiefer wasn’t willing to trust his brother’s future to the fickle legal system in this country, but he trusted his coach enough to tell him what had happened, to ask his advice. His coach came to me. He knew I could help, that I could make things . . . go away.”
My stomach feels like a ball of lead is sitting in the bottom of it. I know just how adept he is at making things go away. At letting criminals go free. “Why should I believe you? Why should I believe any of this?”
“Because that’s why Kiefer will do as I ask, no matter what. When I wanted him on a Special Forces team that my senate committee oversaw, he enlisted in the Army. When his brother was injured and discharged, Kiefer came home and went back into the ring to fight for me. He’s smart enough to know that I hold the keys to his brother’s past. And his future.”
This is too much information, too fast. “Wait, what? Rogan was in the Special Forces?” He’d mentioned the Army, but not Special Forces.
“He didn’t tell you that either?” He’s smiling. I can hear it. He’s enjoying torturing the girl who dared dump his son. He probably blames me for Calvin setting me on fire, like it’s somehow my fault his son is psychotic.
Obviously the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“No. He didn’t mention that.”
“Don’t feel too poorly. There’s not a lot he would even be permitted to tell you about, but pillow talk can be quite an effective . . . relaxant. If the partner is good enough.”
Another knock at me, as if to say that I wasn’t good enough in bed to worm all of Rogan’s secrets out of him. To hear this man, this disgusting monster of a man, degrade the beauty of what we shared makes me crazy.
“Why don’t you just get to the point?” I snap. “And why is it, exactly, that you think I’d care about helping Rogan?”
“It’s obvious you have strong feelings for
him and he for you. Since you’re the problem, I knew you could be the solution as well. You see, if he continues moping around and postponing his fights, if he continues putting all his time and resources into investigating my son on your behalf, he’s liable to run into some very . . . significant and unexpected health problems. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
A threat. A viable threat. I of all people know how dangerous dealing with the Sims family can be.
“Yes, I understand.” My voice is cool. Hard even.
“Then you understand that if Rogan isn’t able to fight, he won’t be a benefit to me at all. I need a hearty-and-hale Rogan. Otherwise he and his brother will no longer be any of my concern. Nor will they be under my protection.”
My stomach lurches at the thought of what kind of atrocities this man is capable of.
“What do you expect me to do about any of this?”
“Well, if you care about Rogan, you’ll help me to get him back on track.”
“And how do you propose that I do that?”
“By removing yourself, and the hope of you, from his life.”
“I’m already removed from his life.”
“Not as much as you could be.”
I don’t know how I could be any farther from him, physically or emotionally. I feel the loss of him, the absence of him every day. I’m definitely removed from him. And he from me.
“How do I go about that, then? How do I remove the hope of me from his life?”
“You get back together with my son.”
This time, I think my heart really does skip a few beats. I have the sudden urge to wrap my arms around myself and hold on tight to keep myself together. To keep myself from falling into a thousand tiny pieces.
“What? Have you lost your mind?”
“No, it’s quite genius actually. And this will be only a public reconciliation, not a private one. I just want to give Rogan reason to move on, maybe even fight harder. In addition, this will provide my son with some . . . insurance, if you will. Just to make sure you can never try to bring your . . . unfortunate accident to a place that could hurt him. And neither could Rogan. No one would believe you if you decided to make an issue of what happened. Not after you’re seen dating again. I mean, what kind of sick individual would date a man who set her on fire?”
