by S. L. Scott
The waitress is nice when she tips the mugs over and fills each with black coffee. I add cream and sugar and am about to take a sip but ask, “Is this our life?”
His eyes are on the door thirty feet or so ahead of us. “What do you mean?”
“Always trying to outrun the tracker.” Lowering my voice, sadness refusing to hide, I add, “Or a killer? Hiding someplace, trying to find a few minutes of peace before we hop back into the fire that is meant to burn us, and eventually will? This can’t be it.”
The width of his hand spans my thigh, curling around between my legs. It’s not sexual, but protective. Rubbing up and down a few times, his nerves transfer to me. “I don’t know how to answer that, Singer.”
“With the truth.”
“I don’t have the answers.”
“We deserve the fairy tale. It took a year-long detour to get here then . . . now it’s just days full of despair.”
Looking at me through the corners of his eyes, he drops his head and shakes it. “I hope not, but I can’t make any promises.” He rubs his temples, and I miss that hand on my body. “We need to be realistic. You’re in danger because someone wants to get to me. It’s working. They’re getting to me.”
Two plates of eggs, soggy bacon, and pancakes are placed before us, abruptly interrupting us. The waitress refills our mugs. The heaviness of this conversation is bigger than this booth allows. I’m sure she felt the weight of it and quickly leaves us be. I’m not hungry, but I pick off a piece of bacon and try to stomach it while trying to swallow his words to digest them. “What are you saying, Ethan?”
The plate is pushed away and he moves, putting space between us. He spins the Astros cap around on his head, the bill at the back as he holds his forehead in his hands.
I don’t take another bite.
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe while watching him struggle with whatever decisions he’s made on his own. He can’t look in my direction, much less at me.
It’s that bad.
I reach out to touch him, but his body bends away. When my hand returns to my lap, he says, “You know what I’m saying, Singer.”
I do.
I know. I want to cry, but instead, I force him to use the words he’s hiding behind. “I want you to say it.” Trying to put distance between us, the molding of the wood paneled wall digs into my shoulder blades. “Look at me and say it.”
Regret comes in many forms. His comes in the murky shade of moss. The bill of the cap comes back around, and he lowers it to shadow those heartbreaking eyes. “We thought we were clever. I thought I could take you to a charity ball right under the nose of the press and get away with it. Just a night out with you. Don’t you see, they saw through the act? They saw through me because I can’t hide how I feel about you, and worse, I never wanted to. So the moment you walked into my life, you became a target. I don’t know who wants to get to me, but it worked. He found my weakness. I am forever responsible for Melanie’s death and Aaron’s wounds, and I will carry that guilt with me to the grave. Don’t make me carry yours.”
I thought I could hold back the tears, the pain, the anger and fear that have been smothering me since yesterday. I can’t. I’m foolish for thinking that was even a possibility. Sliding my plate away, I take a napkin and wipe away the tears that have fallen down my face. Soon enough, this napkin will be in shreds, just like this chance at love I thought I had. I take a sobering deep breath and say, “Move.”
“No.” Strong, firm, not budging.
“Move or I’ll scream.” My voice is controlled and low, but my crying has caught the attention of other customers. I don’t want people staring at me. I just want to cry in peace, under the darkness of night.
Reluctantly, he slides out and stands, becoming an obstacle in my way. I push past and head for the door as he’s reaching for his wallet. I don’t make it far, just to the other side of the car, under the bright neon diner sign.
Headlights flicker from across the street and my heart stops cold in my chest as I fall to the ground. Strong arms embrace me, that deep melody of a voice I had trusted whispers in my ear, “You’re okay. That’s Lars.”
Turning to look above me, Ethan’s expression is one of strength with that defined jaw and focused eyes in control. He’s not broken like Lars thinks. Helping me up from my knees, those same strong arms that didn’t let me fall now hold me up. The reality that I’m ducking to a gravel lot to save myself sinks in. His strength can’t save me if someone wants me dead. So he’s right. I’ll give him that sad credit while I stand on my own two feet again. “I can’t stay.”
“I’ll take you back to the penthouse,” he says, holding me too tight, his fear of losing me taking over.
It’s too late. “I mean with you. I can’t stay with you.” His silence cuts through the night, louder than the cars driving by. I’m freed from his confines and add, “I’m leaving New York.”
34
Singer
The hospital is quiet this time of night. Without Ethan and Lars, and some guy named Rogers, it’s easy to sneak in and out undetected by the press or any other looky-loos. It’s funny how they felt suffocating when I was in the middle of it, but two days after I walked away, I miss them.
I miss Ethan more, but I’m not allowed to think about him. My hands shake too much, and my heart breaks as if it’s the first time all over again. There wasn’t a goodbye or a final I love you to hold on to. We were just done. He let me walk away. My guess is he finally realized I wasn’t cut out for his world.
Two nights in a hotel were mysteriously paid for, and I didn’t return to argue. I just accepted his generosity of payment, space, and time.
I knock lightly, just in case he’s sleeping. Knowing Aaron, he’s probably wide awake.
“Come in.”
Yep.
Pushing the door open, I tiptoe in. I have no idea why since he’s looking right at me. “Singer. It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you.” Moving bedside, I show him a Snickers and a Mars Bar. “I didn’t know if you were a candy-bar man, but I figured it’s hard to go wrong with chocolate.”
“Thank you. I like both.”
“Then both it shall be.” I set them on the rolling cart next to his cup of water and rest my hands on the rail. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“No surprise there. Why aren’t you resting?”
“All I do is rest. I think that’s what’s making me tired.”
I giggle, not sure if I should, but it feels good. “Can I get you anything? Food or coffee, a magazine or book?”
“Nah. I can’t have much yet, and I have a stack of stuff to read.” He nods toward the nightstand. A pile of magazines is tucked under a bouquet of flowers.
“Those are pretty.”
Maybe it’s the lack of conversation or my inability to hide my feelings, but he finally puts me out of my misery and asks, “What brings you by?”
“I’ve been thinking about you.”
“What did I say about making Ethan jealous?”
It’s good to see him smile, but I’m not in the right frame of mind. “I’m leaving New York.”
I hate that I’m the one to take his smile away, but I had to tell him.
“Where are you going?”
“Home to Boulder. I need time and to save some money, so I’m moving back home. I can’t afford my rent here anyway.” I hate crying in front of him. He’s been shot. Twice. Here I am crying over money, or the lack thereof. I don’t believe the lie I’ve been telling myself, so to him, I confess, “I’m scared. There. I said it.”
“It’s okay to be scared, Singer.” His hand covers mine, giving comfort when I need it most.
My stiff upper lip crumbles like the walls around me. “I miss her. I can’t go back to that apartment.”
“Understandable.” His words don’t come fast; I wish he were willing to fill in the quiet space between us. When he does, I look up into his tea
r-filled eyes. “I was on the phone with Ethan when the bullet shattered the glass and shot me in the arm.”
“You don’t have to tell me—”
“I think you should know.”
I nod and take a tissue from the box nearby, knowing I’m probably going to go through them all. “Okay.” I come around and sit in the chair beside him.
“She was later than expected. I was supposed to pick her up and take her to the penthouse. It was a simple assignment. But she was late. The window shattered, and I was dragged from the car. I kicked and knocked the guy to the ground. Grabbing a piece of glass, I cut his neck, wanting to end him.” He looks away. “Ms. Lazarus’s scream carried down the street. The man in the mask lifted his gun and shot her before I could take him down. The gun went off again and got my leg.” His tone changes, his demeanor one he was trained to put on—to hide his real feelings. I know he’s burying them to protect himself. I’m doing the same. “Wounds are strange. Whether it’s from a knife or gun, where you’re struck makes the difference. I was shot twice. Once in the arm. Once in the leg. I knew I wasn’t going to die. But a tiny half-inch bullet to the stomach with no help in sight . . .” He swallows and stares in the direction of the door.
“I don’t know what to say, Aaron.”
“I don’t either. I just want to know why. Why?” he asks, searching my eyes. “If she’d come home earlier, or maybe much later, would this have happened? Was the shooter waiting and decided to take me out too?”
I drop my chin to my chest. Being strong isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. But hearing him question if he could have saved her, beating himself up—no wonder he’s not resting. Standing, I cover his hand with mine this time. “You did your best. I know you. I know you did, but you could have been killed. As it is, I’m not living and it would be worse if I had your death on my conscience too. I cry, which reminds me I’m human, but sometimes I wiggle my toes or my fingers to see if I can still feel. My heart is here in my chest because it aches. One day I’m going to get used to that feeling, and then what happens? I forget her? I move on like she never existed?”
“You move on and live for the both of you. That’s how you honor her life and her memory.”
How do I continue to live a life she was such a part of? That hole seems too great to fill, my mind struggling to figure how I move on without Melanie by my side.
He takes a good long hard look at me. “You didn’t only come into Ethan’s life; you came into mine too. You came into all of ours and brought sunshine with you. How does one repay the sun for shining?”
I look down in thought. “I don’t know.”
“It’s not your question to answer.”
My eyes flash up to meet his that shine a little brighter than when I first got here. “Don’t stop feeling. Just learn to live again. It may be difficult at times. Wounded hearts take time to heal. The world can be tough, so go gentle on yourself.”
Aaron has become my friend.
Not my driver.
Not Ethan’s employee.
My friend.
He’s the man who tried to save my best friend and was shot in the process. “I owe you so much. I may not be here, but know I’m eternally grateful for what you did for Melanie.”
“She died in my arms.”
“She lived longer because you held her and helped her find peace.”
“She smiled.” He smiles from the memory as tears roll down his cheeks. “She knew she was going to die, but she smiled. She comforted me in her last minutes.”
I don’t care if I’m breaking unwritten rules. I get up and hug him. Gently, but so he knows I care. “Thank you. Thank you for taking care of my friend.” Standing up, I back away, our goodbye too troubling to say. “I have to go.” I wipe my tears and give him the smile he deserves. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure. Anything.”
“Check in on Ethan every now and then. Make sure he’s okay.”
“I promise.” He lowers his bed to rest and says, “I’ll be seeing you, Singer.”
He knows he won’t, but I appreciate that he gives me an easy out.
“I’ll be seeing you.” I look back before I shut the door. He reaches for the Snickers. That makes me smile. He’s a man after my own heart.
I walk outside, adjusting my purse on my shoulder. Stopping under the hospital awning, I see him. It’s not Ethan, but Lars is just as eye-catching. And damn intimidating with his arms crossed and sunglasses on at night. I start to wonder if maybe he’s been hiding in my shadows all along. He comes to me as an SUV is pulled around. “Evening,” I say as if I expected him to be here all along.
“Good evening, Ms. Davis. Can I give you a lift?”
“Thanks.”
The door opens, and I climb in. When he’s seated next to me, the doors lock. “Mr. Everest’s orders are to take you wherever you want to go.”
“Anywhere?”
“Yes. Anywhere.”
I don’t hesitate. It’s time. “Take me to the airport.”
* * *
I’ve always been one to tackle my problems head-on, but when life itself is the problem, I choose to hide in my room . . . in Boulder . . . at my parents’ house . . . in my childhood bedroom where I am once again surrounded by posters of boy bands and rock stars, quotes and my treasured books.
The patchwork quilt my grandmother made me covers my head, the light shining through the small holes of the crocheted blanket. Charlotte’s Web is open. The first book I fell in love with and my first heartbreak over a fictional character. It felt fitting to read it again, searching for meaning. Charlotte’s life had to have meaning, after all, or there was no purpose to the story.
The last few weeks I’ve struggled to think of my own purpose, especially in New York. What if I would have listened to Melanie? She wanted to go home, but she stayed for me. I think of Aaron and all of his whys. The same questions linger in my mind, but the answers won’t bring her back.
She’s gone forever, a sad fact I have to constantly remind myself of.
Rolling onto my back, I close the book and stare through the holes of the blanket. The blades of the fan spin slowly, and the feathers Melanie hung on the chain when we were eleven blow gently, swirling in the air. She won that clip at the school carnival and wore them in her hair every day that school year. On the last day of school, she clipped it to the pull chain and left them there. They just became part of the room, something I never thought about or bothered to take down. Watching them now, I’m glad I left them.
I’ve only visited her parents once. Not after the funeral. Not that weekend at all. I attended, standing in the back near an arrangement from Ethan. That was a knife to my heart though the gesture was kind. I would have preferred to stand next to him. It’s probably better he sent the flowers. Why drag it out like we have a chance? There’s no surviving this for any of us. Too much tragedy to look on the bright side.
I wore a royal-blue dress Melanie would have fought me to wear on a Saturday night. The feathers were proudly clipped in my hair. I’m sure I looked crazy, but Mel would have gotten a big kick out of it. She loved when I stepped onto the wild side, always saying I dressed too conservatively, considering the body I have. My red heels dug into the earth and my knees locked while I stared behind round sunglasses as the casket was lowered into the ground. I couldn’t bear to go to their house afterward, to give condolences when I owed them my life.
Instead, I visit one Wednesday afternoon. I don’t plan it. What started out as a walk to the store ends with me standing on their front porch crying.
There’s something different about this visit compared to the one in New York. I think the something is me. I’m different here than I was there. In the city, I was putting on a brave face for Ethan, Melanie’s parents, Mike, Aaron, his daughter, Chip, and even Lars. Here, I have no one else to comfort. Here, it’s me with my guilt, facing my fears, and finally giving myself a gift that Melanie would have wanted me to have all along
—the ability to grieve.
I cried rivers in New York, but I’ve unleashed oceans in Colorado. I step onto their porch on a random Saturday afternoon, and sit on their swing, pushing off the wooden deck with the toe of my shoe. The gummy bear bag has been ripped open, a good portion already eaten. The cap of the bottle of white wine has been twisted off.
Melanie’s father finds me first. He doesn’t say anything but sits in the Adirondack chair and stares at the kids riding their bikes as parents arrive home from work. Her mother finds us shortly after. I stop swinging, and she sits next to me, takes a drink from the bottle, and eats two gummy bears—red. Those were Melanie’s favorite flavor, too.
That makes me smile.
In sync, we push off and start swinging. It starts with a laugh. Mine. Then we’re all laughing. The good times we had with Melanie far outweigh her tragic ending. We’re so lucky to have had so many years with her, so many good times, and so many great memories to share now. So fortunate.
In celebration of her life, we order pizza and watch the Romance Channel with a glass of wine in one hand and a handful of gummy bears in the other. It’s therapeutic. It’s a reprieve that gives me enough space—and permission—to finally grieve.
When I leave, I sleep through the night for the first time since her death. I haven’t found peace, the hole still existing, acclimating to its new home in my heart. But I’m taking it step-by-step, learning to walk through this life without her and to live. Her life may not be in the present, but our past strengthens me daily. Slowly, I’m starting to put this tragedy to rest. Slowly, I’m learning to live again.
35
Ethan
I stood there and did nothing.
I let her walk away from me.
I let her get in the car with Lars that was parked across the street and leave me. Not just at a diner outside Yonkers, but out of my life. For good.
How could I do that?
Why didn’t I stop her?
She would have hated me if I had made her stay.
Sitting across the table from Dariya, I’m having flashbacks of settling the case with Keith, and so many from the spring day at a party in the Bronx. I’ve been staring through her since we sat down. She’s been staring right back at me. I don’t see her though. She’s nothing to me, nothing but the woman who destroyed my life.
