by C. L. Stone
15
Recognized
Cai carried an aluminum pan into the kitchen, setting it next to Nora who was diligently scraping the last one he’d brought her. She blew a curl out of her face, then pushed it away with her shoulder, but it fell back into her eyes.
This girl. He rinsed his hands off before tucking the curl away. His heart filled with something in that moment. A physical pain leaving him scared and lucky all the same time. The way she looked at him, like she saw him, the real him, flaws and all, and she liked him.
“These nonstick bake pan makers are liars. Dried on spaghetti sauce is the worst!” She scraped forcefully, dislodging the curl again. She turned sad puppy-dog eyes on him. “Help.”
He laughed, and pulled all her hair away from her face. It was so thick and curly he was able to make a knot with it, tucking the ends under so it stayed in place.
“Why Mr. Josephs, I think you have a future as a hair dresser.” She faked a horrible southern accent.
“That accent is the worst,” he groaned.
Her pink tongue flashed at him before she went back to scraping. He rubbed his hand against his chest, above the ache. Being in the moment wasn't natural to him; it wasn't how he was built. He was raised to expect the apocalypse, and it was a hard belief to break. Even if the endings he anticipated were smaller now: Nora leaving him, this untried relationship failing; they were just as cataclysmic.
And it wasn’t because she was perfect and he didn’t believe she could possibly love someone like him. In fact, he loved the way she stumbled through explanations. He loved how her shirt was covered in splashes of water and she muttered angrily at a pan of baked ziti. He loved the way she tried to hide her vulnerability with sarcasm or playfulness. Yet when she realized she put herself out there, she lifted her chin. She let her statements hang in the air, like he could accept them or not, but she wasn’t backing down.
He loved it all.
But for all this new love, the ache in his chest reminded him not to hope too hard. It also reminded him no matter how far he’d come, he hadn’t managed to escape the beliefs his family had drilled into him for sixteen years.
Now he knew what the ache was. It was the fucked-up rot left over from his father, and it was currently creeping its way from his heart into his throat.
His past was a minefield. When the questions had slipped from her lips, she hadn’t meant to delve into his past, and thankfully, she didn’t demand answers. Whether or not he chose to answer, she’d understood him. The bit of her past she shared proved it.
With her, he didn’t have to hide. He could have a real relationship.
Mentally snorting, he headed back into the dining hall to start taking down tables and stacking chairs. What did he know about a real relationship? How ironic that after watching the nightmare of his family, he’d choose a relationship as strange and complicated as the one he grew up with.
And yet it felt right.
This must have been what my father believed. He must have. There was no one more certain, more firmly set in his beliefs than his father.
Inflexibility dominated his childhood. The way was the way, and to question the way wasn't tolerated. Now, he gloried in questioning, but the result was second-guessing his instincts.
However, he trusted Nora. She wasn’t perfect, and she didn’t pretend to be. If anything, she believed herself much more broken then she really was.
He liked that about her, as fucked up as it sounded. It made him feel like he was worth something. Like it was up to him to show her she was strong. Like no one could show her the way he could. And he’d make her believe it. Deep down.
There weren’t many people left in the church. A few women in the kitchen, including Nora. Pastor Marge. And one teenager, stacking chairs into a closet. A huge crash came from the kitchen as he lifted one of the tables onto its dolly.
“Who do you think you are?” The raised voice was followed by a familiar low voice. The table he’d been balancing clattered to the floor as he sprinted to the kitchen, pushing through the door.
“Libby, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Do you know who this is, Marge? How could you let her come here? Don’t you know what she’s done?”
He slipped on a wet spot as he skidded into the kitchen, involuntarily crying out as as he took in the scene: Nora pinned against the sink, a woman holding a knife, Marge nearby, hands outstretched as she spoke in a low, rushed voice to the woman. “Libby. Take a breath. Breathe with me.”
He eased his way to Nora, his eyes glued on the knife in the woman’s hand.
“Breathe in, Libby.” Marge took a breath, demonstrating what she wanted the woman to do.
Nora’s eyes flashed sideways, catching his movement. She shook her head as if she wanted Cai to stay away.
Tough. He edged closer and closer, not looking away from the knife.
The pieces of the scene began to come together. The woman. The teenager in the dining hall. She, her husband, and son were regular volunteers here, though he hadn’t seen her husband as of late. Suddenly, it all snapped into place. Her husband was a teacher at the high school. And he hadn’t been to the church since the shooting.
“Mom?”
The woman’s eyes cut to the boy who entered the kitchen, and she immediately dropped the knife. Cai rushed forward just as Nora’s knees gave out. He caught her before she hit the floor.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, looking at Marge.
Nora fisted his shirt, her hand scrabbling at the material, trying to latch on to him.
“Marge.” He met the pastor’s sad gaze, and she shook her head at him. This isn’t the time.
No way. This had to stop. “She saved people’s lives.” His voice shook.
“Cai,” she whispered.
“No,” he said to both Nora and Marge. “You didn’t do anything, Nora. You were shot. You almost died saving those kids. People need to know that.”
“It was her brother,” the woman countered.
“She had nothing to do with it,” he restated. “Nothing.”
From the corner of his eye, the teenager started forward. He’d stood awkwardly, watching the action around him. His face was pale, and his lower lip trembled.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he told the boy.
Tears slipped down his face, and he wiped them away quickly. “We need to go, Mom. The guy’s right.”
Marge put an arm around her shoulders, helping the teenager lead her away. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Mom. Let’s just go home. Okay? I just want to go home.”
A trembling began in Nora’s body, shaking Cai in its intensity. Her teeth chattered, and he pulled her onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her as tight as he could.
“I’m here,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m here.”
Dampness bloomed on his shirt. Tears, though she didn’t make a sound. It tore out his heart.
“No, Honora,” he whispered, rocking her gently. “No, sweet girl.”
“They’ll never forget, Cai. And they shouldn’t. No one will ever forgive me.”
“You had nothing to do with it, Honora,” he said firmly.
“Honora?” She sniffled, letting go of his t-shirt and rubbing her eyes.
Tricky. She was trying to get him off topic. “Honora is a beautiful name. I needed you to hear me. When I was younger—“ He stopped abruptly, realizing he was about to share a moment from his childhood. His pulse picked up, a whooshing sounding in his ears as his heart pounded, but he forced himself to go on. “When I was younger, when I was really in trouble, my mother would call me by my full name. Malachai Samuel. It always got my attention. I thought it might do the same.”
“Am I in trouble?” she asked in a small voice. God, he was messing this up. She’d tried for teasing, but he caught the worry.
“No. I mostly wanted to say it and get your attention. I wanted you to really listen to me. Not ju
st hear me. Listen to what I say.”
Large brown eyes fixed on him. Today, they were honey-brown. “Honora Leslie. You did nothing wrong that day. You saved children’s lives. And there was nothing you could have done to stop your brother. Whatever road he went down, he went down alone.”
“You don’t know.”
“I do.” Something in his tone made her glance at him quickly. His voice. He almost stopped speaking, because for the first time in his life, he heard his father’s tone coming out of his mouth. “I do. Please trust me, when I tell you. You are not responsible for his actions.”
She stared at him a moment.
Believe me. Trust me.
Her eyes roamed his face, and a moment later she let out a deep breath.
“Nora, I am so sorry, sweetheart.” Pastor Marge barreled into the kitchen, carefully lowering her body onto the floor and pulling Nora from Cai, who reluctantly released her.
“Are you okay?”
“I will be.” Her eyes flicked to his before she answered. “Her husband was the teacher who died?”
“Yes."
“I’m sorry.”
“I know, Nora. But you had nothing to do with it. I know what the police said. I know you, and I knew your foster brother. He was a wounded soul, dear.”
It was getting harder to watch Nora keep it together, and worse, he was pissed she was apologizing for something that wasn't her fault. He stood, pulling her up with him.“I’ll come by in the morning to finish with the tables, Pastor.”
Accepting Cai’s hand, Marge hefted herself up. “I have the men’s group coming in for coffee tomorrow. They’ll finish the tables and chairs. You get home. Rest.” She followed them to the back hall, watching him help Nora into her coat.
“I’m sorry, Pastor Marge, Cai. I won’t come back again.”
Unacceptable. His reply wasn’t necessary because Marge puffed up. “Now you listen to me. I told you it wasn’t your fault, and I meant it. I want to see you back here whenever you want to come. And if it’s next Wednesday, that would be wonderful, and if it’s another three years, well then, that’s fine, too.”
He could kiss Marge, laying it out for Nora in way that absolved her of guilt, both for what’d happened here tonight, and for whatever she decided.
“If you don’t mind, then…” She let out a breath. “I’d like to come back. I sort of have a standing date I made for Wednesdays.”
Quickly, he gazed down at the ground, embarrassed by how widely he was smiling.
“Good.” Marge clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed. “Very good.”
16
Reprieve
For some reason, the next days proved so busy neither Nora nor Cai had a chance to tell anyone what happened at the parish hall.
Apollo worked out fanatically, and when he wasn’t working out, he did homework like a man possessed. Ryan was the same way, leaving to go to class or the library right after she awoke. Their obsessive studying made Nora feel guilty, thinking they’d fallen so far behind their grades were suffering.
“It’s not you,” Matisse told her one morning, watching her crack her knuckles after Ryan and Apollo kissed her goodbye. “It’s midterms.”
A weight lifted off her shoulders. Her head dropped to the card table with a dull thud. “Midterms. Duh.”
He yawned, pouring the boiling water from the tea kettle into his french press. “Not you at all, chère. Apollo and Ryan are more organized than anyone you’ll meet. But this is their senior year, and Ryan’s trying to work his way off the waitlist.”
His long form lounged back in the chair, arms folded behind his head. When he closed his eyes, his dark eyelashes rested against his pale skin. Purple shaded circles rimmed his eyes.
Each successive night since the parish hall incident, he’d gone out. When he came in, right after dawn, he was exhausted but strangely pumped.
His eyes opened, catching her stare and he leaned forward, kissing her gently on the mouth. “Nothing for you to worry about, just meeting some old friends who are in town for a short time.”
“When do they leave?” Subtle. Luckily, Matisse laughed. “Sorry.”
Shrugging, he returned to the coffee, pressing the plunger down. He poured himself a cup and sipped it while leaning against the counter. “It’s fine.I should have explained. The guys just know. We’ve been together so long.”
Jealousy pinged a little. She wanted that kind of understanding. To share things. She might as well be the person who started. “A woman threatened me with a knife at the parish hall the other night.” The words tumbled over each other.
He swallowed his coffee and put down the mug. “Cai didn’t say.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you. But… her husband was the teacher who died at the school. I don’t think she even realized she was holding it.”
His long form loped toward her. “What happened?”
“She dropped it. Left. Her son was there. A kid. I didn’t recognize him.”
His dark eyes blazed, making his pale skin look even paler. She saw him take a deep breath and then another before speaking. “Are you okay?”
Yes. She nodded.
“You’ve got to tell the others.”
“I know, but I hate to worry them. I don’t want any of you worrying. Can I tell them later? When are midterms are done?”
He gave her a look. Damn. She was avoiding. Unintentionally, but still…
“Last day is Friday the 30th.” He checked his phone. “Tomorrow. You tell them tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s my birthday.”
“What? It is?” He snagged her, pulling her in close. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Twenty-one. You’re so young.”
Pete, a boy she’d interacted with moments before the shooting began, would never see his twenty-first birthday. And Mr. Hanscomb, the teacher who died, would never see his son’s twenty-first.
“I see where your mind has gone.” He pulled her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “Don’t go there. Be grateful you’re alive.” Gently, he kissed her, tongue touching her lips lightly before withdrawing.
“I am.” Sighing, she opened her eyes. “I am. It just makes me all the more aware of how lucky I am. And I’d honestly forgotten about my birthday. I never celebrate it.”
“Never?”
“Okay.” She thought back. “That’s not entirely true. Usually I spoil myself on my birthday and buy something I don’t absolutely need.”
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to answer, but when she didn’t he prodded. “Such as?”
“A book. Nutella. Fizzy lemonade.”
“Fizzy lemonade?”
Yum. She nodded.
Holding his coffee, he walked to the counter, taking a sip before typing on his phone. “I’m letting everyone know you have something you need to tell us, that tomorrow is your birthday, and we are taking you out for dinner.”
“Oh no. Matisse, don’t. I don’t want people to go to any trouble.”
“What was it you told me once? Fermez la bouche? Do it.” His phone immediately began to chime back at him. “See?” He turned it to face Nora, though she couldn’t make out their replies. “They’re all excited. Apollo even emoji’d.”
She giggled, surprised when she heard footsteps thunder up the stairs from the basement.
“It’s your birthday?” Seok asked almost before the door shut behind him. “Why didn’t you say anything?” He scooped her up, hugging her tight and kissing her anywhere he could reach.“Happy Birthday.”
“I forgot, Seok,” she laughed, turning her face away from his crazy kisses. He responded by kissing whatever side of her face was closest to him, while she pushed him away with both hands against his chest. “I’m sorry. Seok!” she screeched as he gave her a wet, sucking kiss on her neck. “I’m sorry!”
“Have you learned your lesson?”
She pulled her head back, pretending to think about it. “I d
on’t know…”
Immediately, his lips returned to her neck. This time nibbling and she squealed, “I learned! I learned!”
He gave her one more nibble/kiss before pulling away, relaxed and smiling. “So where are we going?”
“I know where,” Matisse supplied. "It even has a table to fit all of us."
"Low, man. That's just low."
Seok had made a beautiful kitchen table for his house, which was ruined when the boys got into a fight after realizing they all had feelings for Nora.
"I know whatever you make will be beautiful. Do you want some help?"
"You want to help?" He studied her face, but she meant it.
"Sure." She nodded. "I can sand, or paint, or nail things." She demonstrated her skill with a hammer.
Chuckling, he hugged her tighter, rubbing his chin back and forth against her hair. "Okay, nae sereang. Come into my lair."
Matisse crossed his arms, watching them. "I think I've seen horror movies begin this way."
She grabbed the door frame, pretending along with Seok. "Matisse!" she fake-cried. "Help! Aidez-moi!"
He gave her a small wave and she stuck out her tongue, clomping down the steps. She breathed in deeply as they walked down. She couldn't identify what it was that smelled good, but she wanted to bottle it and label it, "safety."
Seok chuckled when she didn’t stop. "It's paint, and pine, dust, and glue."
"I like it."
Pausing, he glanced back at her. She wasn't joking.
"I like it, too."
She buried her face in his shirt and breathed in. "I don't smell it on you though."
"Ah," he said awkwardly. "No. I guess you don't."
Whoops. Sniffing was perhaps bad form, and she stepped back, a little awkward. "Sorry."
"It's fine." He kissed her cheek. “Surprised me."
Stepping away, she studied the room. He was organized, like she expected. A tall, red metal toolbox stood next to a waist level worktable that ran the length of one of the basement walls. Spaced along the room were tools she couldn't identify. She peered closer. Except for circular saw. And a jigsaw, that's a thing too, right?
