Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2)

by L. B. Simmons

  “You do that,” I remark, soothing Spencer’s hair as I speak. “And make it good.”

  Grady smiles. “It’ll be fucking phenomenal.”

  And with that crooked grin that so often renders me breathless, he leaves me to console my friend, thinking we had both finally found our happily ever after.

  Turns out, much more of my story would need to be written first.

  “CASS, WAKE UP, SWEETHEART.”

  Grady’s soothing voice rouses me. Slowly, my lids flutter open to find his warm gaze. I smile sleepily back at him, then look over his shoulder to see Spencer sleeping next to Dalton in his hospital bed. She no longer looks worried, but peaceful as she lies next to him, her hand on his chest, his curled over hers. I watch their joined hands rise and fall with his deep breaths, both finding the comfort they need in the presence of each other. A truly beautiful sight.

  Bringing my arms above my head, I stretch silently then look back to Grady.

  My whispering voice is still laced with sleep when I inquire, “What time is it?”

  “Around eight in the morning.” He lifts his hand, stroking my cheek lightly with his knuckles. “Wanted to wake you, in case you needed to get to work. Plus, that chair can’t be too comfortable.”

  “It’s not,” I concur, then stretch my neck from side to side. My brain clicks on, recalling Grady’s reasoning for waking me up. I narrow my eyes, but my mouth contradicts my glare as it quirks upward at the corners. “You know I never schedule appointments before eleven.”

  Grady releases a breath of laughter. “I do. I also know I missed your mouth.”

  “Ew, Grady, no.” My nose crinkles and I shake my head. “I need to brush my teeth first.”

  “You have a toothbrush here I don’t know about?”

  “No,” I admit with a huff.

  Grady gives a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Damn, that’s too bad.”

  He grins, then rises off his haunches, extending a helpful hand in my direction. As soon as my palm hits his, I’m hauled out of the chair and into his arms. His muscled chest brushes against mine as he angles his head, lightly touching his mouth to mine.

  I grin against his lips, feeling his voice vibrate in his chest as he states, “I guess that’ll have to do, for now.”

  He winks, then releases me before relaying, “I have to run to the station, but I won’t be long. Meet me at the apartment. I’ll cook breakfast.”

  My eyes widen with pure elation, and I grin back at him. My smile falls when he adds, “Then we can talk, finally.”

  I force the corners of my mouth to rise and nod as though this is the best idea ever. Anxiety roots itself in my gut, but I maintain my façade by leaning into him and placing my lips against the scruff on his cheek. “Meet ya there.”

  He considers my words, but I say nothing else. I just toss him an adorable smile—a measly attempt to distract him—then turn on my heel, whisking my purse off the table. I look back over my shoulder to where Spencer and Dalton lie, and joy fills my heart that they will indeed be given their happily ever after. My mouth curves into a relieved grin before I turn toward the door and make my exit before Grady can say anything else.

  Weeks ago, I promised Grady I would share my secrets, but we’ve yet made time to discuss them. It’s not entirely my fault though. I just didn’t bring it up.

  Out time together lately has been extremely sporadic, with Grady often popping in and out when he can. I didn’t want the precious moments we could spend together to be anything other than that. I didn’t want to taint them with my past, or relive parts of my life filled with sickening memories. I wanted that time to be purely about us.

  In light of recent events, I’m sure the heightened activity of his schedule was due to increased interest in Silas and his whereabouts. But seeing as though Silas is now dead, I’m pretty sure Grady’s schedule is wide open, for a while at least.

  And now he’s ready to talk.

  Me? Not so much.

  Just thinking about it makes me want to hurl as I exit the hospital.

  Cool morning air hits my face, the sensation a welcome relief. I inhale deeply, willing the breath to calm my racing heart.

  I can do this.

  I need to do this.

  I want to do this.

  Silent variations of the mantra repeat as I make my way to my car. Just as I reach for the handle of my door, my cell rings. I dig into the bag and blindly attempt to locate it. Once it’s in my grasp, I pull it out and glance at the screen.

  My mother?

  Trying to remember the last time she called me, I draw a blank. It’s been months.

  Leisurely, I drag my finger across the screen then bring the phone to my ear. “Mother.”

  “Cassie?”

  My eyes roll into the back of my head, my tolerance for her already waning with one word spoken. “Uh, yeah? Who else would it be?”

  She releases a long, exasperated breath, a clear demonstration that her patience is as thin as mine. Sounds of rustling followed by muffled voices fill my ear, and I clear my throat loudly, irritation probably kicking up my blood pressure.

  “I’m on with her now,” I hear before she finally returns her attention to me. “Cassie, I need to talk to you.”

  I snort into the phone. “I gathered as much, seeing as though you called me.”

  “Can you please cool it with the attitude for one second?”

  “One,” I fire back, laughter building in my chest.

  A grin breaks free as I grab my keys, and open my door.

  “Damn it, Cassie. This is serious. I need to tell you something. It’s about . . .” she stalls, then blurts, “Uncle Alan.”

  With the mention of a name that has so long remained unspoken, my heart explodes beneath my chest and my fingers splay with the impact. My keys fall to the pavement below me, their clatter barely audible over the thrumming between my ears. Everything around me slows. My entire body begins to tremble and my knees threaten to buckle. With the phone somehow still glued to my ear, I lift my eyes, watching an ambulance pass the emergency room entrance from which I just left. The sirens probably wail, but I don’t hear them. There is only the sound of pure terror as it overwhelms my entire system.

  My mother’s voice is a mere murmur in my ear as my stare locks on the lights on top of the van. They circle, going round and round and round, their reflection dancing off the white of the vehicle.

  I try to speak, but there is no voice.

  I try to breathe, but there is no air.

  There is nothing.

  Just those fucking lights.

  Fear worms its way through my body as they continue to endlessly revolve, and I finally lose my grip on the phone, barely registering when it falls to the ground. I try to break my stare, but I’m unable.

  You’re not strong enough, child.

  We will never let you go.

  I’m too weak.

  The lights reel me in, refusing to let go, clearing my barriers with each turn so the suppressed recollections of my childhood can take root. My memories are furious, clawing as they etch themselves prominently in my mind again, my refusal to acknowledge their existence driving their anger. No longer will they remain unseen.

  I try to fight them, but I can’t.

  I’m just so weak.

  So eventually, I just give up.

  Tears fill my eyes as I succumb and allow them to pull me straight into their darkness. They easily overpower me, upheaving any semblance of strength I thought I could ever possess.

  Be a good little girl.

  Don’t make a sound.

  That’s my beautiful Cassandra.

  Their snickers echo as they delightedly take hold, drawing me downward and releasing me only when they’ve delivered me into nothingness.

  Except I’m not alone.

  I’m never alone.

  Because he’s always there.

  Past—Eight Years Old

  MY SHEETS ARE WARM and clean, fre
sh from the dryer. I turn my head and breathe deeply, smiling into my pillow because I love the smell when Mommy washes them. I feel loved. I feel happy.

  My long brown hair falls into my eyes when I rest my cheek on my pillow, and I giggle because it tickles. I quietly watch the lights from the box turning on my nightstand move slowly across my white wall. I imagine them as little fairies sent here to protect me while I sleep. Sometimes I have bad dreams about the monsters from Sesame Street and Mommy says my fairies are there to protect me when I feel scared. I love my fairies. My mouth curves into another happy smile, and as I watch my fairies dance all around me, my eyelids slowly begin to shut.

  Sometime during the night, I hear my door opening.

  Did Mommy want to give me another kiss goodnight?

  I love her kisses.

  I open my eyes, but the box on my table is no longer spinning, and my fairies are no longer dancing. I squint when a tiny bit of light enters my room, then disappears just as quickly. I can see nothing but darkness as I listen to the sound of footsteps crossing my room.

  “Mommy?” I ask. My voice sounds rough as I rub my eyes and start to sit up.

  A hand softly touches my shoulder before it presses me back down. My eyebrows dip down, confused when fingertips brush lightly down my cheek, then across my lips. I open my mouth to ask again but stop when I hear him whisper, “Shh, Cassandra.”

  Uncle Alan.

  I love my Uncle Alan. He makes me laugh when he makes the girly voices for my stuffed animals.

  Uncle Alan doesn’t say anything. He kisses my forehead, then slowly tugs down my sheets, leaving my legs cold because my nightgown isn’t long enough to cover them. I begin to pull them back up, but he takes hold of both my wrists with his much bigger hand. His other one is clammy, shaking as it touches the skin of my neck. It lowers to my chest then runs down my stomach. I keep hoping he’ll stop there, but he keeps going. His fingers touch me lightly through my nightgown, tracing over my panties. I bite my lip, trying not to scream, and begin to cry softly to myself. Then suddenly, I turn cold and begin to shake when he lifts my gown.

  I’m so scared.

  What do I do?

  What am I supposed to do?

  The tips of his fingers feel like ice on the inside of my leg. I open my mouth to speak, but Uncle Alan leans in closer, whispering, “Shh, Cassandra. It’s our little secret. You trust me, don’t you?”

  I think so?

  I don’t know.

  I know I don’t like this.

  I feel scared.

  But I do as I’m told. I say nothing.

  I say nothing as warm tears fall down my cheek.

  I say nothing as I look helplessly to the walls for my dancing fairies and their protection.

  I say nothing when he tells me he’s sorry and that he loves me, then asks me not to cry.

  And I say nothing when he’s finally through and leaves me alone in the darkness.

  I keep our secret. I have no choice because he tells me good little girls do what they’re told, and if I tell our secret, that means I’m bad. And if I’m bad, Mommy and Daddy won’t love me anymore.

  He tells me the same thing the next time.

  And the next time.

  And the next.

  And each time, I’m a good girl . . .

  Because I never say a word.

  HONESTLY, I DON’T REMEMBER much of what happened after my mother’s call. I don’t remember grabbing my keys or my phone off the ground. I don’t remember climbing into my Jeep and driving away. I don’t even remember in which direction I traveled, how long I drove, or how I actually ended up at my apartment, bypassing Grady’s completely.

  I do, however, remember what my mother said just before I dropped the phone.

  Uncle Alan is dead.

  Found dead from a drug overdose, his body has been brought back to Fuller to be buried with the remainder of his deceased family and the funeral is tomorrow. I’ve been ordered home to attend and instructed to be on my best behavior as I am to greet various family members who have come to pay their condolences.

  I inhale at length. I guess I should feel some sort of relief with the news of his death, the ability for him to hurt me further no longer a possibility. Physically, anyway.

  But the emotional pain and scarring will always be there. Just like him.

  It’s a sad reality, I admit. I will never be rid of him or his revolting existence. Disgust will forever remain, hollowing me from the inside out. His presence will always loom, a blackened, overbearing figure of cold and darkness whose strength will forever surpass my own.

  So no, I don’t feel any respite or reprieve.

  I feel nothing, because I am nothing.

  That’s right, Cassie.

  You are nothing.

  You were a stupid girl to think you would ever escape us.

  You will never be free.

  The voices are right. I will forever remain his prisoner.

  From the first night he entered my bedroom, Uncle Alan stole everything. He took my innocence, suffocated my spirit, and drained me of every ounce of strength that had once so vigorously flowed through my veins. I was no longer the same Cassie after Uncle Alan’s brief stay. I was forever changed, weak and pitiful, drifting through life with absolutely no direction or goal other than numbing the constant pain.

  It’s who I am. What I do.

  I was a fool to believe otherwise.

  I was stupid.

  A naïve creature to allow Grady Bennett anywhere near me, with his promises of love and happily ever afters. His ridiculous beliefs that I ever possessed any strength or resolve. His false sparks of hope and courage, since replaced with the coldness accompanying my surrender.

  Because once Grady Bennett placed me on that extremely high, undeserving pedestal, it was inevitable I would eventually face my reality and be thrown off. To fall. I know now it was completely unavoidable that he would break his promise, and not in the way I thought.

  Because now I’m falling.

  Really falling.

  And when I land, all I have done to protect myself, every single one of my walls and barriers that I foolishly gave up to be with him, will be long gone.

  I will shatter.

  And it is exactly what I deserve.

  My phone rings. Grady.

  I don’t answer. I can’t bring myself to. I’m too exhausted to pretend, and honestly, I can’t have anything to do with him anymore.

  How could I?

  His voice, his eyes, his smile—all serve as reminders of what will never be.

  I can no longer live in a fabricated, fairy-tale world, where love blossoms and hope heals. Those things don’t exist in my realm. In my reality.

  I decline the call, then my fingers fire off a responding text, letting him know that I had a family emergency. And when he asks if I need him, I tell him no, then advise I’ll be out of contact for a while.

  With that done, I also text Spencer, apologizing for my departure and letting her know I’ll call her in a couple days. Her worry is evident with her response, but as with Grady, I decline the invitation for help, telling her to focus on Dalton and repeating that I will call her soon.

  Would I?

  Spencer was finally living her happily ever after. Our paths are going in different directions.

  She doesn’t need my darkness.

  I stare at my phone when I’m done, sadness clawing my throat. Because I always knew the fork in our road would come, and although it has in a way and she has started traveling down her own path, I had no idea I would be the one to forever sever the conduit between the two.

  Tears begin to form but I quickly toss my phone onto my bed, cementing my decision. Turning away, I approach my closet and grab an overnight bag. After stuffing some clothes into it, I peruse my wardrobe, picking out the perfect outfit to attend the funeral. I throw in a pair of heels, then head to the bathroom to grab my necessities. Once I’m packed, I grab the bag and turn t
o give a long glance at my room. I don’t know why really. It feels as though I’m saying goodbye, but how can I be, because I was never really here.

  A cold, foreboding sensation washes over me as I flick off the light, then exit my apartment. With my mind detached, I head to my car, fling the bag inside, and wearily slide into the driver’s seat, suddenly so tired. Defeated. Numb.

  On my way, I make a quick call to have my appointments rescheduled for the next few days, briefly explaining there was a death in the family, before assuring them I would be back next week. The rest of the drive to my parents’ house is a blur and my arrival on their doorstep awkward as usual.

  “Cassie.” My mother’s tone is stern. Her hair, the same shade of brown as mine, is perfectly coiffed on top of her head, and her style is much the same as I remember. Conservative trouser slacks with a perfectly pressed light-blue poplin tucked in at the waist. Her blue eyes narrow on my appearance, still dressed in what I wore to the hospital.

  I lift my brows, challenging her to say something. When she says nothing, I mutter my hello, my tone just as unforgiving as hers. “Mother.”

  My father trudges behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. His face has aged since I’ve last seen him. His brown eyes are no longer warm, but tired as he offers me a small smile. “Your room is as we left it.”

  I snicker. “Right. And fully armed, I assume.”

  Both bodies stiffen at the mention of the alarm, but they say nothing. I brush past them without another word, heading down the hall until I find my room. My fingers graze the knob, sudden unease and anxiety overwhelming me. Twenty-three years old, and I’m still scared to death to sleep in this room.

  Whirling on my heel, I dash into the living room and rummage through my father’s liquor cabinet. I spy a bottle of Scotch, Uncle Alan’s favorite. The smell of it filled my room the nights he would visit me. To this day, I cannot smell its stench without feeling as though I’m going to vomit. Just thinking about it makes me ill. My gag reflex kicks in, and my eyes water in response. I blink rapidly, clearing the tears before I find what I’m looking for. An unopened bottle of Patron hidden in the back, screaming my name.