by Ginger Scott
When my last class lets out in the late afternoon, I pass the library and pause at the steps, letting my backpack fall to my feet so I can lean forward on the railway and scan the expanse of windows. It’s the same every day. The same people every day. And it’s never him.
I usually come back later, but it’s Valentine’s Day, and I have a date with nobody—wouldn’t want to be late for that. I make my daily trip early. I won’t stay long. An hour. Maybe less. But if I don’t come, I’ll feel like I’ve missed him. It doesn’t matter that he was probably never here.
Slinging my bag over my arm, I throw my shoulders back and enter the library the same way I have the last four days—like I’m fine, like everything is fine. My heels are harsh on the concrete floors, and I notice a few girls look up from their books and scowling while I walk by. Lowering my eyes at them, I stare back, putting a little more force into each step.
Get over it; they’re shoes—and they make noise when I walk. Fuck, I’ll be on the carpet in a second.
I round the corner and move to the back, to the window desk I’ve now claimed as my own. As I come closer, I notice there’s something on the desk. It’s a book, and there’s a sticky note on it. I stop and look behind me, then peer down an aisle to see if someone is around. The desk really isn’t mine, but seriously, who would sit here on purpose if they didn’t have some crazy-ass ulterior motive like I did?
Nobody is around, and after I wait for a few seconds, I decide it must just be a book someone forgot to reshelf. It’s not like I need the desktop to study. I couldn’t possibly review another note. So I pull the seat back, then push the book to the edge of the desk, stopping when the words on the Post-It note catch my attention.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Princess.
I turn my head, my heart racing in my stomach. My throat is instantly dry. Leaving my bag at the foot of the desk, I pace up and down a few of the aisles in my lonely corner—again, my search coming up empty. I’m alone.
Nobody is here.
But he was here. Houston was here. The book he pulled is Grimm’s Fairytales. It’s one of the older copies from the lit section of the library. I flip through a few of the pages, noting the violent illustrations; the bleak look for every story—the way these fairytales were intended. Then, a spark of color in the middle catches my eye. It’s another note, with a lot more writing on it, taped to the opening page of Rapunzel.
This is the only one I know of that has a tower. I’m pretty sure I didn’t get this quite right, but you tell a better story than I do anyhow. Rapunzel…or let’s call her Princess P…is locked away in her tower, waiting for her prince to save her.
Tired of waiting, she learns to fight on her own.
When the evil witch comes to give her dinner one night, the princess has become so ripped she throws the witch out the window. The witch lands on the prince, who is really too late in coming to her rescue at this point, and seeing him as such a failure has completely turned Princess P off anyhow.
Having worked out so hard—and taken so many natural-growth hormones, which of course the bluebirds flew to her through her window—Princess P finds her hair has now grown long enough to reach the ground outside her window. She conveniently finds scissors in her tower room, cuts her hair, and braids it into a kick-ass ladder, upon which she climbs down, stepping on the bodies of the witch and the failed prince as she passes.
The end.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s nothing like the version you told. But the point is I miss you, and no one should go without feeling loved on Valentine’s Day; so consider this me loving you still. And if this isn’t who I think it is, the person I’ve seen here, by the window, every night this week, then feel free to pretend this was meant for you, because now I feel really bad telling you it’s not.
Sincerely,
The failed prince
I’m laughing. Out loud. There’s no one near me that would ever hear, so I let myself laugh, and maybe cry a little. I peel the sticky notes from the book and fold them to go along with my crooked heart in my wallet. I flip through a few more pages of the book and chuckle at the real, very sad ending of Rapunzel, which results in basically everyone’s death, then put the book on the return cart parked nearby along the wall.
Knowing there is no longer a reason for me to be here, I lift my bag and leave the library, my heart pulled in two directions—between selfish and selfless. For the first time, I have something I can talk to Rowe about, and I really think she might be the only one who will understand.
When I get back to our room, everyone is inside, so I look at my phone to check the time. It’s not quite five, and I know they weren’t planning on going out until late. But I am glad Rowe is here now. Maybe she’ll have some time to talk.
I walk in behind her, ready to tap her shoulder, but glance at our small television, which seems to have everyone completely captivated.
“What’s going on?” I ask, letting my hand fall to my side. Cass turns to me, her eyes wide and her lips caught in a shocked-type of smile.
“They just arrested Martin Campbell,” she says. My face mimics the look of surprise on my sister’s, but only because I need something to mimic, something that won’t show the concern consuming me inside that this news…it’s bad news for Leah and Houston.
“Why?” I ask, turning my attention to the TV, trying to read the information scrolling along the bottom so fast it feels like it’s on fast-forward.
“Something about paying off cops, hiding a homicide,” Nate says. I keep my eyes glued to the TV, catching the last few words spoken before the story flips to something else—a fire at a warehouse in Oklahoma City.
“Manslaughter,” Rowe says after, her voice lost in a trance for a moment.
“Huh?” Nate asks, turning to look at her.
She shakes her head after a second, like she’s coming out of something in her past, and I realize she probably doesn’t watch the news a lot, not since there was a shooting at her school.
“It was a vehicle accident, a family member driving under the influence. They killed someone. They said the case is maybe four years old. He covered it up,” she says, her face showing genuine remorse for people she doesn’t know.
My breath is gone.
“Fuck, I bet it was Chandra,” Ty says, his remark so nonchalant.
It’s like that moment when a sand artist is running his hands through grains and all of a sudden a picture reveals itself. Everyone else has moved on—already talking about where they want to go for dinner, before the bar. The television remote is tossed on Rowe’s bed after someone shuts it off. Cass is laughing at something Ty said. And I’m on the outside, still stuck in the time bomb that just went off.
When they aren’t looking, I leave the room, kicking off my shoes and carrying them in my hands so I can walk faster, walk to Houston’s house. Because that picture—I see it now. And if he hasn’t seen it yet, I want to protect him from it.
The sidewalks are empty, and the sun is setting, an orangey hue cast along the trees, homes, and cars. The color makes everything feel hotter, and my heartbeat makes everything feel more urgent. My feet are slapping the concrete, running until I’m close enough to see Houston’s house.
There are two cars out front, undercover squad cars. I can tell. The undercover isn’t very good. The door is closed, and the closer I get, the quieter everything seems. Maybe they’ve already talked. Or maybe they’re just sitting down, Joyce bringing them coffee—Houston wondering what this visit could be about. Someone is in there delivering news. Someone is telling Houston and Joyce news that will open up a scar so big I’m not sure how the wound ever healed in the first place.
I’m not sure cuts that deep ever really do heal.
I don’t know what to do out here. The pull I feel to go to the door, to invite myself inside, is so strong. My phone chirps with a message. It’s from Cass, asking where I went.
Forgot something at the library. Just go on without me.
I’m good at lying.
Okay, we’ll see you after dinner.
I stand two houses away, under a giant tree just starting to grow new buds for leaves, and wait. Every time I talk myself into taking a step closer to his house, I take one back. I’m about to give in to the other urge—the one to run—when the door opens, and a flash of pink bursts through the door. It’s Leah, and she’s holding a bottle full of bubbles. Houston’s hand is on her back, guiding her to the front porch. My feet step closer, the pull of him now enough to win the war.
“Do not leave from the driveway, okay?” he’s saying. His face is ghost white. He knows.
I walk faster; fast enough to catch his sightline, then let my pace slow almost completely. His eyes are empty when he looks at me.
“I’ll stay out front with her,” I say, the words sliding from my mouth in a panicked rush as I shuffle closer. His eyes fall to my hands, which are still clutching my shoes, then to my feet, which are bare and dirty from running here.
“I ran here,” I say. His eyes remain on my feet, his jaw working, and his teeth chewing at the inside of his cheek. He stays perfectly still for several seconds, until his mouth falls open, letting out what’s left of a strained breath. When he looks up again, everything behind his eyes is broken.
“Thank you,” his voice barely makes a sound as he turns to walk inside, slowly shutting the door.
He never looks back.
* * *
For two hours, I wait in the driveway with Leah. We spend the first several minutes blowing bubbles, each taking turns, soap dripping down both of our arms. We do this until the soap runs out.
The next hour is spent on hopscotch, each of us taking turns jumping through a course of squares I draw on the driveway with a rock from her yard. She’s giggling through each hop, and when she looks at me, I smile. I’m careful to make sure she’s no longer looking when I let my happiness fade back into the worry consuming me.
She hops through another series, taking several small hops on her right leg to turn around at the end and come back toward me. When she reaches me, she collapses against my body, her arms wrapping around my legs, her small voice humming.
“What’s that for?” I ask, allowing myself to hug her back, my hands patting her shoulders.
“I missed you,” she says, breaking my heart for everything she doesn’t know. “I’m so glad you came to visit me.”
“I’ll always come visit you,” I say, the words falling out before I can really think about what they mean.
Before I can say anything more, the door opens. Two men and a woman with badges and boring, black jackets step through. Turning to shake Houston’s hand, the last one hands him a card. I smile at them as they pass, my hand still on Leah’s shoulder, her head still resting against my thigh. She’s pulling at her lip, watching these strangers leave her house. I bet she was an infant when they were here the first time.
We all wait as the cars back onto the road, the messengers of nightmares and ghosts driving away. When they reach the end of the street, I look back to Houston. His eyes are dark—haunted—but they are waiting for me.
“Thank you,” he says, the same words he uttered before he went inside, his voice just as lost.
“You’re welcome,” I say, rubbing once on Leah’s back and gently urging her to move toward her father. She takes a few steps in his direction, then turns back to hug me once more before running inside, sliding under his arm as it props open the door.
“Houston, I…” My mouth hung open, I let out a short breath and close it again quickly.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, his eyes drifting back down to my bare feet. I follow his gaze, then step into his front yard to pick up my shoes. “Do you…you need a ride?” he asks.
“No, I’m okay,” I say. All I want to do is hug him, to let him drive me home, or better yet, pass my dorm, and just keep driving. He should stay here, though. He’s needed…here. “How’s your mom?” I ask.
His eyes shut slowly, and he gives a small shake of his head, no words necessary.
The distance between us is mere steps, but neither of us is willing to take one. Now is not the time—with worlds waiting for each of us in opposite directions. After nearly a minute of standing under the hold of his gaze, something catches Houston’s attention behind him, snapping us both out of our trance. When his body is turned to the inside of the house, I take a few steps backward down his driveway.
“I…” he starts as he turns to look at me again, his voice catching when he sees I’ve already begun to leave. “I’m sorry. I have to go inside.” For a moment, there’s a smile on his face. For a moment, there’s peace. It leaves just as quickly as it comes, the light gone again from his eyes.
“I understand. Tell Joyce that I’m so sorry. Unless…unless that’s not the right thing to say right now. I don’t even know,” I say. Sorry. I keep saying sorry, and he keeps thanking me. Those words seem too meager for this moment. We let them do the job though, too weak to try harder.
Holding a hand up, I back away, then turn so I can’t see him close the door again. I can’t watch that—not again. Especially not this time.
Houston
My mom hasn’t moved from the chair she sat in when the detectives delivered the news. I can’t ask her to. I’m not sure how I’m moving.
Leah runs down the stairs, skipping through the kitchen, her hands pitter-pattering on the countertop under the cabinet where the water glasses are. She does this sometimes—instead of asking, she drums her hands on something until someone helps her.
“Leah!” I snap. I catch myself, then look to my mom, who still hasn’t moved. Leah’s clueless about the last two hours. In many ways, she’s clueless about the last four and a half years. “I’m sorry,” I say to her, seeing her lips quiver, afraid she’s in trouble. I force my mouth into a smile. Leah hasn’t done anything wrong, and she doesn’t need to feel what my mother and I are feeling right now. “You want water?” I ask, opening the cabinet.
“Uh huh,” she nods. I pull one of the big cups down, the ones that have lids, and fill the glass up for her, securing the lid and straw on top.
“Why don’t you take your drink upstairs, maybe get some of your things ready for bath time?” I suggest. I’ve never been more grateful for routine. If only this one didn’t end at eight thirty.
Leah carries her giant cup with two hands, taking each step one at a time. It’s rare that we let her take drinks to her room, so she’s being extra cautious. She thinks this is special. That’s all I want her to think about tonight.
Her door closes, and the sound echoes through the complete stillness of the house. I stand in the small space between the kitchen and the living room, looking at the back of my mother’s head, listening to the regular ticking sound of the clock that still sits on our mantel. My father’s clock; it still beats with life.
“I let her into my house,” my mom seethes, finally breaking more than an hour of silence. I swallow and step into the room with her, looking down at her as I walk past the chair. Her eyes are fixed on the clock, too.
“We didn’t know,” I say, as if that makes anything we’re feeling any better—any more or less justified.
My mom is lost on the clock, and as I watch her, I count the ticks in my head, reaching forty-seven before she finally blinks. I do it again, and the space between each shutter of her eyes grows a second or two every time. I can’t dwell like this. If I do, I’ll only get angrier. And I need my head clear; I need to consider the various paths I can choose—not for me, but for Leah.
“I’m going to go sit with Leah while she takes a bath,” I say, standing and watching her eyes for a few seconds. She doesn’t respond, so I leave the room and move upstairs.
“You want me to fill your bath? Maybe add some bubbles?” I ask at Leah’s door. She’s standing at the foot of her bed in Paige’s shoes. She’s been wearing them a lot around the house. She has to take them off when she walks, but
she always puts them back on, even if it’s only for a ride in the car. My mom’s been bringing them to the church for her, too.
“Yes, please,” Leah says about the bubbles.
I step into the bathroom and draw her bath, then when she comes in with her folded towel and pajamas, I move to the hallway and sit with my back against the opposite wall and try to focus on only the sounds of the song my daughter’s making up as she goes.
“Mermaids swim and so do I. I’m a mermaid, yes I am,” she’s singing, no real pattern or tone for anything. Random words strung together about mermaids, because mermaids make her happy. It’s so perfect. I let it draw a smile on my face, and close my eyes. Her sound works to drown everything else out for a few minutes, but eventually, the reality of what I now know shadows it.
When the doorbell rang this afternoon, my heart leapt. I was so sure I would open that door and find Paige there. I left the book for her early this morning, before I went to work. Detective Hornsby greeted me before I had a chance to register what I was really seeing. I hadn’t seen him since the day he came to my door more than four years ago and told me both my wife and my father were dead.
I was seventeen. Married with my parents’ consent, widowed by a careless act of selfish behavior.
My mom had just gotten home, and she was changing upstairs when I let the three officers into our house today. The second she saw them as she came down the stairs, her legs gave out, and she slipped four or five steps down. Her ankle swelled immediately, but that pain was nothing compared to the slashing sensation happening to her heart from seeing the familiar faces in our house. That pain only grew with their visit, with every minute they were here, and each piece of information they shared, until my mother couldn’t listen any more.
Chandra Campbell, Cee Cee Campbell, was driving the car that killed Beth and my father. And Martin Campbell covered it up. The only reason it’s out is because Detective Hornsby’s partner, Detective Christo, was caught—nearly a million dollars in bribes hidden in accounts overseas. A tenacious reporter, the same one who took the tip from Paige, had been digging at the department for years.
