Dodging Trains

by Sunniva Dee

  Keyon bobs his head. Apparently, Markeston isn’t telling him anything new. “That’s the goal, and I’m not tapping out until I reach it. Vegas and EFC, baby.” No smile accompanies Keyon’s statement. Steely dedication and hard work is what’s going to get him there.

  “Good. Now here’s the deal. On Monday, I’m getting the paperwork drawn up to become Alliance Cage Warriors’ main sponsor. My name will be associated with every fight, and when it comes to you, Keyon, I’m getting you a publicist. I’ll be hiring the biggest name in the biz, and that’s the guy that’ll be booking your fights from now on.”

  Keyon freezes next to me. Then he sets the squid handroll down on his plate and stares at Markeston. “I don’t understand. You’re not thinking about getting…?”

  “Morton Arudson. Yes, that’s who. He doesn’t know it yet.”

  “No way. He’ll never take on someone like me. He’s got his hands full with—”

  “Bah. You buy publicists. It’s easy. I want to be a part of making you, I want your talent up there on the boards, and Morton Arudson’s going to help us.” He shrugs and tilts more sake into my cup.

  Keyon tongue-tied is beautiful. I shift sideways in my seat. My attention should be on Markeston since what’s occurring is courtesy of him, but the joy surging in Keyon’s features entrances me.

  “It’s simple. As I said, I’ve wanted to play with MMA for a while now. I’m an entrepreneur, a builder, and what I do is find projects worth investing in. I’ve got mad talent, they say”—he chuckles, pleased with himself—“and have yet to put money on the wrong horse.”

  The knock of a hoof against the glass wall makes me jerk around. A more tangible horsey is busy ripping plants out of the flowerbed that circles the pavilion. I give her a stern look and knock on the window between us, but she confirms my experience thus far, that people are air to toy horsies.

  “I’ll be pouring decadent amounts of funds into the Cage Warriors over the next few years to get them to yield. And you”—he points merrily at Keyon—“are off to the EFC first. That’s going to elevate the camp big time. Next up are a couple of the others. Dawson knows his talent, and you know what? I already trust that guy.”

  “This is a lot to take in. I’m speechless.” Keyon’s voice is gruff. I watch his big hands hiding the tiny glass of plum wine completely. Are there—? Wow, there’s moisture in Keyon’s eyes. “But yes, I’ve never known a more trustworthy man.”

  My own eyes are gathering moisture. “Markeston, you are godsend. This is crazy.”

  Keyon’s hands shake, and I think of all the years he has been working for this. He started with martial arts as a fifteen-year-old, and since then, he’s been stepping up his workout regime, becoming more and more serious about his goals. Over the last years, it’s all he’s been doing—working out, watching his diet and his sleep schedule, in addition to fighting, fighting, fighting.

  “Cool. Aaanyways. That’s about it.” Markeston shrugs and takes a good pull from his own plum wine. “Oh and the first match I’m going to is your Mexico City one. I need to see you demolish ‘El Machete,’ all right? And Paislee here, should come with.”

  I’m still beneath the sleep mask and a little self-conscious. This isn’t a night flight, but I saw others taking naps around me, so I remain hidden behind it with my thoughts.

  Me, Paislee Marie Cain, going to Mexico? I never thought I’d leave the United States. Over the last years, I’ve let myself dream of Italy, of Murano where the first glassblowers lived and worked. It’s far away, but it felt close because of the mirror-making industry. I would love to go there and see it all.

  But Markeston has reminded me that there are other places to dream of, so many places I’ve never seen. The world is giant and chock-full of them, because I, I have been nowhere.

  Mexico. This exotic place where they speak a different language and dance different dances. It would be amazing to go, but I don’t even have a passport.

  “Bah, that’s an easy fix,” Keyon brushed me off when I mentioned it. “Get on it as soon as you get back to Rigita. You’ve got five weeks. Those things take a few weeks, max.”

  “But I don’t even know if Old-Man will let me. I’ve been gone once already.”

  “Listen, Paislee: order the passport and check with your boss. Without a passport, you’ll never go anywhere, and whether it’s in a month or later, you’re gonna want to use it.”

  With the absence of Keyon big inside me, I decide, right there on the plane, that I’m getting the passport.

  I fumble for another film clip, one that’s sadder but beautiful all the same.

  Keyon’s bed isn’t big. It fits the two of us because I’m small and drape over him in sleep. I fit perfectly to him, a thigh between his thick ones, and his heavy arm keeping me safe along his body.

  It’s still dark outside, a single star twinkling through an opening in the blinds. I’m not sure what woke me up until it happens again.

  A small tremor runs through Keyon’s chest. His stomach muscles contract and release, and I skim my stare up to his face. Small twitches run over his features. A furrow of pain has settled in between his brows.

  That mouth, usually so generous, has tightened into a sad groan. He looks like a small boy, one that’s on the verge of crying, and I lift my hand, afraid to wake him up. I caress the soft stubble along his jawline in a barely-there effort to soothe his dreams.

  He flinches at my touch, and I jump too, startling him more. He doesn’t coil away, but the pain in his gaze doesn’t recede.

  “A dream?” I say. He nods from the pillow. Closing his eyes and keeping them shut.

  “You want to share?”

  “Just… the same. What we’ve been talking about lately. The creep on the train, only in the dream I was fighting him in Mexico.”

  “Your brain has some unfinished business.”

  “I guess. Although I feel like all I do is think about it lately. Not sure what else my damn brain wants from me.” He smiles, reassuring while he says it, but I see wetness at a far corner of an eye.

  “You’ll figure it out.” I lie down on his arm again, and he loops me in close.

  “It’s good to have you here,” he mumbles against my hair. “It’s the best way to wake up.”

  “Gasping from a nightmare?”

  The ridges of his stomach contract in amusement under me. “No, with your concern for me.”

  As the descent to Rigita begins, I think about the trip Keyon and I made after visiting Markeston on the last day. I construct the film clip. It wasn’t already assembled in my mind.

  “I’m not sure about this,” I say to Keyon, who’s driving. He puts a hand on my knee as we brave the last traffic light out of Tampa.

  “It’s going to be okay. If you’re supposed to find him like this, completely unprepared, then you will. If not, there’s always a next time.”

  I shake my head, having regrets and second thoughts. Last night, we talked about Cugs and how I hadn’t seen him since my dad took him away. He’s a senior in a high school three hours north of Tampa, and that was all the information Keyon needed. He got the high school on the phone. Made sure it was a school day. Then he rang Dawson and let him know he’d take the day off.

  Straight roads lead us through a wilderness that’s startlingly different to Rigita’s. When I’m not nibbling on cuticles and readjusting my opening line for Cugs, I let my head rest on Keyon’s shoulder and gaze out the window.

  I’m anxious. I don’t know how my brother feels about me. But Keyon’s embrace holds shelter, and his arm around my shoulders keeps me composed. Without his insistence, I would not have done this.

  The swamps have long since receded to some hybrid of desert and jungle. The palm trees seem shabby and short for what’s a momentous place for me.

  There it is, a speck on the map in the middle of nowhere, the building where my brother spends most of his day. How can it be just a one-story slab of concrete? The high school me
ssage board spells out: Home of the Caimans, and even the font is unassuming.

  My heart pumps fast in my chest.

  “Keyon, I want to turn around.”

  “No, you don’t. Cugs is yards away from you right now, and you’re not chickening out. How long has it been since you saw him last?” He adds his question in a sweeter tone, and we both know we’ve just talked about this.

  Grief is a strange thing. Slowly, time snows it in and lets you live like there’s no hole in your heart. But then it flares up, disease-like, melts through the ice, and in that moment, it’s as if no time has passed at all.

  I hiccup with worry and grief and missing. “I haven’t seen him since before you left Rigita. He was so little and scared of moving away.” My chin trembles, so I lift a finger to stop it. “Either way, they won’t just let strangers into the building, Keyon. We might as well—”

  “You’re not a stranger to Cugs, and I’m coming with you. Let’s go.”

  He manages, eventually, to coax me out of the car. He’s at my door, holding my hand and half-lifting me out like I am someone fragile.

  It’s two thirty. I don’t know when school is out, but my guess is it’s soon.

  “Isn’t it late?” I say. “They probably don’t have any breaks left for the day. I mean, I can’t just barge in there and say, ‘Hey, I’m Cugs’ long-lost sister, so please excuse him for the rest of the day.’”

  “Hmm, that’s not a bad idea. The ladies in the front office would probably love a sibling reunion.”

  Aghast, I tip my head up to study him. Of course Keyon’s eyes flicker with humor. He bites into his lip. “Can you imagine the gossip? If it’s anything like Rigita, the town would be buzzing with it.” He’s trying to make me laugh, but my nerves are breeding and trickle up my spine.

  “Crap, this was the worst idea. I should have done more research. And friended him on Facebook or something instead of stalking his profile.”

  “Why didn’t you? Not that I’m holding it against you, babe, but just wondering.”

  A flash of anger runs through me. “You don’t think I had enough to think about before I left? Okay, so: one, I was about to board my first flight ever and go to a place I’ve never been to before—I’m not exactly a globetrotter; two, Old-Man Win completely trusted me to make these measurements and haul in the contract for Markeston’s project; and then three, there was you.”

  “Love the count-up,” he praises lazily, and I don’t understand how he’s playful in such a moment. “What about me?” he adds, mirth glowing from him.

  “I wanted to see you, but I was—I don’t know—unsure. We hadn’t chatted in a while.”

  “Baby,” he mumbles, hooking an arm around my neck and pulling me in so he can kiss me. “I’m glad you came. Thanks for that crazy text message. And plus you saved me from a night out with Zeke and Jaden.”

  I smile, wanting to think they’re “special,” that Keyon isn’t as “special” as them when I’m not around.

  “Ready?” he cuts through my thoughts.

  “No…”

  Slowly, we approach the main entrance.

  Supposedly, you can send people messages even if you’re not friends with them on Facebook. I could have done that to Cugs, I think, when we’d decided to come here. Why didn’t I? I love my little brother so much. Who knows what Dad has said to him to keep him from us.

  The office lady is willing enough when we enter. She tells us to wait on a bench in the front room while she intercoms Cugs’ class.

  “Charles McConnely to the front office, please. His sister is here to pick him up.”

  No, no. That’s trauma-abrupt!

  We wait for five minutes. Ten. When we ask, the lady assures us he’s attending class today. She assures us she doesn’t understand why he’s not coming. She assures us she’ll check personally, and I panic when she leaves the office, a finger raised in an I’ll-be-right-back while my heart thumps so hard it rattles its cage.

  I’m afraid he won’t come. I’m scared of how I’ll feel once I learn that he’s decided to not see his sister.

  Rejection is a beast.

  Keyon’s arm tightens around me. “He’ll be here. Shhh, don’t worry.”

  I try to swallow something that’s lodged in my throat. “Cugs never responded when Mom and I reached out to him. I bet it’s Dad. He must have made up stories about Mom and me.”

  We both stand when the office lady returns with small, fast steps and no Cugs through the glass door.

  “He walked out of the classroom as soon as the teacher gave him permission. We don’t know where he is,” she says. “We even had a classmate check the nearest restrooms, but nothing. I’m so sorry,” she finishes, moving her hands like she’d like to wring them.

  “It’s okay, no problem,” I say, voice so bright I marvel at my own acting skills. “I’ll catch him later.”

  We exit my brother’s school hand in hand, Keyon and I. We’re both quiet, staring at the ground in front of us until we’re close enough to the car for Keyon to beep it open. I jump in, wordless. He jumps in, wordless too. We look at each other, and then, right then, is when I start to bawl.

  I bawl like I haven’t in years. Like I’m motherless, fatherless, brotherless, like I’m alone in the world and all I have left is intangible clips of film. My face is a slate with a single purpose. It showcases tears, takes them when they flood, because Cugs used to adore me as I adored him.

  What happened to us?

  A weak buzzing sounds as Keyon lowers his seat and drags me in over him. He holds me so tight, I should feel trapped, but there’s compassion and love in his embrace, what I don’t get anywhere else.

  My father happened.

  Not a Christmas card or a birthday greeting—not once—the heartless dick doesn’t care about me. All those years ago, he ripped me from their midst and never made room for me again. What did I do?

  My sobs turn to moans against Keyon’s throat, and he doesn’t stop whispering, “So sorry, so sorry, so sorry.”

  His hands shift up to my face and tucks me in deeper to him. He kisses the top of my head on a long, inward sigh and whispers, “I’ll chase down that asshole father of yours and ram my fist up his nose.”

  I hiccup at his anger. He hears me and pulls back to find my eyes. “You’re so amazing, Paislee. I think I’m falling in love with you, and I’m not letting ignorant fools destroy your last day in Florida.”

  We go to a pie restaurant on the way home. They have “the world’s best cherry pie,” and we start with a slice of it each before we share a generous piece of pecan pie. I’m sick to my stomach, from pie and heartache, by the time we slide back into the car.

  “I should have messaged him,” I say.

  “Just friend him on Facebook. You’ve done nothing wrong—he has no reason to be upset with you. I bet he just chickened out. Guys are afraid of feelings, ya know.” I shoot him a glance to see if he’s joking, and he rewards me with a wink.

  Keyon cranks what he calls “girl rock” in the car. He finds bands my mom listened to, like Spice Girls, the Bangles, even Hole on his phone and regulates the volume of the songs according to my mood. When I smile, he jacks it up. When I zone out and my eyes drop closed, Keyon lowers the volume.

  I fall asleep in the end, with the light shake of Keyon’s shoulder under my ear as we shortcut across dirt roads. It’s dark when we park outside his duplex. Simon greets us at the door, tail majestically high and with meows loose in his throat. I bend down and pet him. Feel that I’m smiling again when Keyon grumbles about Simon being the biggest flirt with me.

  “He’s trying to steal my girl. I’m just his sugar daddy,” he fibs, and by the time we lay our heads on the pillow on my last night in Sun Country, my heart is more at rest. After all, nothing happened. Nothing I shouldn’t have expected.

  With the exception of Keyon’s words about love.

  PAISLEE

  I should have anticipated how hard it would be t
o return to Rigita. After five days with highs and lows in Paradise, it’s almost unbearable to be back here.

  The first thing I do is request Cugs’ friendship on Facebook. I try not to check too often if he’s accepted; it’s a sliver of heartache every time there’s no change.

  Markeston has accepted Old-Man’s bid for his mirror room. Old-Man isn’t stressing over the large order, because our client is in no hurry. I’m thinking that’s because he’s busy with Alliance Cage Warriors.

  Old-Man is smart and has put in a buffer of a few months so we can braid Markeston’s order in between our smaller ones. He hums under his breath while he works these days, something he doesn’t often do.

  Keyon and I speak almost daily. He tells me he’s on the Cage Warriors’ back room couch when he calls me on breaks between training. My heart does a skip at the gif-sized film clip I tend to run then, of the two of us together. And Keyon tells me about his stepped-up, brutal routines, of Zeke’s latest conquests at Stripes, and the hazing Jaden performed on a new fighter. It apparently landed the poor guy in the ER with a crushed cheekbone.

  “Geez, is he all right?”

  Keyon husks a sexy chuckle on the other end. “T’was just a small bone, but man, newbie takes punishment like a pro!”

  “Which he is, right?”

  “Well yeah.”

  Mack is being an asshole. I don’t tell Keyon, of course. After all, we haven’t discussed wishes and futures, and Keyon hasn’t mentioned Mexico City again either. My passport arrived in the mail this morning. It made me jittery with possibilities, but I won’t tell him about it unless he asks.

  Since I came home, I’ve dodged most phone calls other than Keyon’s, and I’ve overlooked my text messages. My friends need me for what they’ve always needed me for, and I can’t—don’t want them—where Keyon was last.

  It’s strange. I haven’t felt this way before. It’s pain in a new gamma of colors. I’m a sexual person; I need what I need, and since I discovered what makes me feel good, I’ve had no reason to reject those needs. Now I do. Keyon’s kisses, his fingerprints on my body, they shouldn’t be erased by someone else.