Pull

by Claire Wallis

  “If you don’t,” he continues, “we fail. I fail. And that can’t happen. Not with you.” I lift my hands, grasp his face, and tilt it upward. His eyes settle on mine once again, and I put my mouth onto his. He sucks the air out of me and tangles his fingers into my hair. He already knows I will do exactly what he says. I think he’s always known I would.

  He pulls his mouth off of mine and holds me against him. “Save me from what?” I ask.

  “From me.”

  Suddenly I’m worried that he is going to leave. That he is going to walk away from me in some heroic gesture of love after doling out some line of bullshit about me being too good for him. About how I deserve better. About how I will be better off without him. If that’s what comes out of his mouth, I’ll be damned if I comply. If he tries to end us, I’m going to tackle him to the ground and knock his fucking teeth straight to the back of his skull. That is the one thing that I will not let happen. I won’t let his revelation ruin us. Fuck that.

  “You’re not running away.” There is a touch of anger edging my voice. “Leaving me is not going to fix things for you, David. And if you think you are saving me from something by pulling the plug on us, I’m calling your bluff. Leaving me won’t save me—or you for that matter—it will turn both of us into a puddle of nothingness.” His head draws back in surprise, and his eyes open wide.

  “I’m not trying to break up with you, Emma. Jesus Christ.” He plunges his face into his hands and wipes at his eyes. When he pulls his hands away, he starts talking again. “I want to fix things, not ruin them.”

  He grabs me by the waist and lifts me up off his lap. Then he is standing next to me. His arms, swathed in their colorful, tattooed birds, rest against his sides. “Come with me,” he says softly. He is looking at me, and I can see some unknown emotion dredging through him. The expression on his face is telling me how important it is for me to just do what he says. Don’t make any more assumptions. Don’t ask any more questions. Don’t fuck this up.

  David grabs my hand and turns to walk back up the trail. I stumble along behind him, trying to keep my eyes on the circle of light cast by his wavering flashlight. When we get to the parking lot, he opens my door and I sit down. He drops to his haunches just outside the car and puts his head in my lap. I stroke his hair gently and rub my hands against his upper back. My motions are motherly, and they cause a deep pain to well up in the center of my chest. Pain for this man’s shattered childhood. Pain for all the losses he has suffered. Pain for his perceived inability to love. I feel sorry for him. Pity. But in my heart, I know that my pity is not what he wants.

  His head sits heavily in my lap for countless minutes. I run my fingers through his hair again and again. I circle my palm against his back over and over. I am waiting for him to move. I am waiting for him to tell me what to do.

  Then suddenly, he lifts his head from my lap and looks up at me. “I need to make a phone call,” he says quietly. He stands up, closes my door, and walks over to the other side of the parking lot. I turn my head to the side and watch him pressing his finger against his phone. Whoever he is calling must have answered quickly, even at this ungodly hour, because I see his lips say hey. And then his back is to me, and his phone is to his ear, and he stands like that for several minutes talking to whoever is on the other end of that phone.

  Chapter 3

  Matt—Present Day

  Jennifer Lawrence’s tongue is in my mouth, and I’m dancing around with her like I’m Bradley-fucking-Cooper in Silver Linings Playbook. I’ve got a raging hard-on because she keeps rubbing her hips against me. She’s about to drop to her knees, and I am in a state of complete ecstasy. I can’t believe this is happening. Her lips separate from mine, and she lowers her body, looking into my eyes and burning right through me. I know what she’s going do next, and it’s making my heart jump out of my chest. She’s about to unzip my jeans when P.O.D. begins screaming the lyrics to “Lost in Forever” right in my ear.

  I shake my head and look down at her, trying to push that song out of my mind. But it’s there, pulsing in my ear and making Jennifer Lawrence disappear. Crap. She’s gone, and I open my eyes. I am lying in my bed alone with “Lost in Forever” blaring out of my cell phone. Why is that son of a bitch calling me in the middle of the night? I want to throw my phone against the wall, but instead I roll to my side and pick it up. I need to figure out what the hell David wants at three o’clock in the morning. I press the answer icon.

  “What the hell, Calgaro? It’s the middle of the night. What do you want?” I grumble into the phone, running my other hand across my forehead.

  “Hey,” David says with a surprising amount of exhaustion in his voice. He pauses for a second and inhales a deep breath. “I need your help.”

  “What? What happened?” I sit up in bed and swing my legs off to the side. This ought to be good.

  “I can’t stop myself from doing something, and I need you to make sure Emma doesn’t get hurt.” His voice is quiet.

  I sigh loudly into the phone, thinking about how interesting life has become since Emma started working with me at the engineering firm. “Shit, man. Don’t cheat on her, okay? She’s got it so bad for you. Don’t be a heartless bastard, David. Break up with her before you screw someone else.” I say it with more arrogance than I intend, but Emma is pretty great, and I don’t want to see either of them get hurt just because David can’t keep his johnson to himself. When he doesn’t answer, I start to doubt my assumption. “Is that what you’re about to do? Are you calling me hoping that I’ll talk you off of whatever skank you’re about to screw? Knock some sense into you?”

  “No.” His voice sounds even more tired now, maybe even a little sad. “I’m not going to cheat on her, you asshole. I’m gonna ask her to do something for me, and I just want you to make sure she’s safe if I can’t do it myself.”

  Maybe my mind is still groggy from Jennifer’s abrupt departure, but I’m not understanding him.

  “What are you talking about? Are you high again? Jesus. I thought you were done with all that ape-shit-crazy stuff. It’s three o’clock in the morning. Just sleep it off, man, and call me in the morning.”

  “No,” he says again, but this time his voice is loud and sharp. “I’m not high. And I’m not taking no for an answer. Just do what I fucking tell you to do. If you want Emma to show up for work tomorrow, you’ll get your ass in the car and drive to the gravel lot at the end of 10th Street as soon as we hang up. You’ll watch the bridge, and you won’t take your eyes off of it for a single fucking second.” He takes a breath and exhales it harshly before he talks again. “If you only see one person, count to ten and then go get her. But if you see both of us, count to thirty instead.” His words are clipped and commanding, and I can tell he isn’t kidding around. “I need you to be there, Matt. Please. Promise me. Promise me right now that you’ll be in that lot in less than thirty minutes.” There is panic in his voice now, and it’s something I’ve not heard from him before. Calm, collected David has lost his cool because of a girl. He’s about to do something extremely stupid, and because of it, I can’t go back to Jennifer Lawrence. I have to be a part of whatever dramatic moment of bullshit he’s concocting on the 9th Street Bridge.

  “Fine,” I sputter. “I’ll be there. I’ll watch for you guys, and I won’t let her get hurt. Whatever the hell that means. But you owe me, David. You owe me big time.”

  “You have no idea.” And then there is nothing but silence in my ear. He’s gone now, too, and I stand up to put my pants on and kiss Jennifer Lawrence goodbye.

  ------------------------------------------------------------------

  It’s nearly 3:25 by the time I pull into the lot. There aren’t any other cars here, just an empty picnic table and the sound of the water lapping against the cement retaining wall, but I get out of my Honda anyway to look up and down the shore for some sign of David. When I don’t see him, I lean against the hood of the car and take a cigarette out of my p
ocket. If that jackass left before I got here, or if this is some kind of joke, I’m going to lose my shit. The only thing that’s stopping me from getting back into the car and heading straight for his apartment is the panic I heard in his voice. It’s the reason I got into the car in the first place, and it’s the reason I’ll wait here for twenty minutes before I head back home to sulk about falling for his stupid joke.

  He told me to watch the bridge. For what, I don’t know, but I light my cigarette and alternate between watching the stars and the bridge. I wonder what the hell that man has up his sleeve.

  Then, just as I’m lifting my cigarette up to take another drag, I see Emma up there. She’s small and far away, but I know it’s her because the streetlights are making her red hair glow like a beacon. She has a green dress on, and she’s standing stock still right at the edge of the bridge. I hop up onto the roof of my car to have a better look, tossing my cigarette into the gravel as my foot hits the bumper. When I get to the roof, I turn back to face the bridge, and I see someone falling. Shit. I think it’s Emma. No…I know it’s Emma, and there is something on her feet. What the hell? Where is David? Is he already in the water? Did I miss it? My hand flies up to my mouth and mashes across the front of my lips. My heart sinks into my gut, and I start to count.

  I bend down, frantically pull off my shoes, and toss them down from the car. And then I see David. He steps forward toward the edge and watches Emma hit the water.

  “Jump in after her, you motherfucker! Jump!” I whisper. David doesn’t jump, though. Instead he drops to his haunches on the bridge deck and sinks his face into his hands. As my mind reaches the number five, I hear David scream. It’s primal and pained, and it pulls the breath right out of my chest. I reach the number nine and jump down off the hood of my car. As I run to the edge of the retaining wall like a goddamned madman, I look up to see David standing. In a split second he is off the bridge, and I watch him fall into the water. I keep counting in my head while my toes curl over the edge of the wall, and my fingers race to take off my shirt. I can’t see either of them, only the ripples in the water.

  Fear rises in my throat, and I pick up the pace of my count. I’m not waiting until I reach thirty. They are two hundred yards away, and I’m not watching this from a distance anymore. I toss my shirt onto the gravel, dive off the retaining wall, and swim into the darkness.

  As I approach the spot where I think they entered the water, my brain kicks into overdrive. What is happening? This isn’t David’s usual ape-shit-crazy stuff. This is messed up. What the hell did he talk her into? David can swim like a fish; I know he can. I’ve seen him swim across the river after a night of poker and a dare from Carl’s cigar-laden mouth. But I don’t know if Emma can swim. And what was on her feet?

  I stop swimming only long enough to look for them and call out their names. When I get no response, I put my face back into the water and keep swimming.

  The next time I draw my head up out of the water, I see something. I see the back of someone’s head only twenty feet from where I am. It’s David. His dark hair is wet and tight against his scalp, but I know it’s him.

  “David!” I shout, as loudly and clearly as I can muster. I swim toward him until I am nearly at arm’s distance. “Where is she? Where’s Emma?”

  He turns his head to face me. It’s dark, but the bridge lights allow me to see his face. His expression is of sheer and utter dread. He’s terrified out of his mind. His eyes are wide and his nostrils are flaring. His mouth is in a grim line, opening and closing rhythmically, just enough to manage a few gasping breaths.

  “She’s here,” he says at last. “I’ve got her. She’s right here.” And then I see Emma floating in the water in front of him. She’s face-up, and he has a viselike grip on her upper arms. Her eyes are closed, and her lips are parted. Christ almighty. She looks dead.

  I swim around David and tell him to let go of her right arm so we can tow her to the shore together.

  “No,” he says quietly. “I’ve got her. Just make sure her face stays up out of the water.”

  “You sure?” I ask, disbelief and anger surging through my voice. “You sure you’ve got her?”

  “I’m sure,” he says, looking straight at me.

  He swims backward toward the streetlights hanging over the retaining wall with Emma’s outstretched body dragging across the top of his. I swim beside them, occasionally reminding David to lift her high enough to keep her nose and mouth above the water line. Every time I speak, his head snaps toward me and his eyes open wide, almost as if he’s angry at me for being here.

  By the time we get close enough to see the retaining wall, my arms are nearly numb. I feel weary, and I’m seriously doubting my own strength. I hope David can manage to get Emma up over the wall, because I don’t think I’ll be much of a help. The concrete sticks out of the water by a good four or five feet, and when we reach it, David tells me to hold onto Emma while he pushes himself up out of the water and tries to catch his fingers on the lip of the wall. After three or four jumps, he finally connects with the edge. He hangs there from one arm for a few seconds before he swings his other arm up and over the top. A surge of adrenaline must be working through him because he pulls his entire body up and out of the water in half a heartbeat. I am struggling to keep a grip on Emma, and my legs are turning to stone.

  “Don’t let her go,” he shouts, lying on his stomach with his upper body hanging down over the wall’s edge. “See if you can lift her arm up so I can get a grip on her hand.”

  I move closer to the wall and shift our bodies so we are parallel to the concrete blocks. David’s arms dangle over the edge; his fingers are spread wide and his face is still wearing a look of unmistakable terror. I lift Emma’s arm as high as I can while my bare feet struggle to get some kind of a grip on the slimy concrete beneath the water. I leverage my body against the wall in hopes of lifting her arm high enough for him to be able to reach it. A moment later, I feel them connect. Emma’s weight rises up out of the water, and David lets out a small groan. I’m not sure if it’s out of exertion or relief.

  He pulls her out of the water, and for a minute, they are both out of my sight. I’m tired, and I know there is no way I can get out of the river without his help. But before I can shout out to him, I see his arm drop down over the edge and reach for me. I stretch upward, and when our hands touch, relief bites into me and my body goes slack.

  Chapter 4

  David—Present Day

  Fuck.

  Jesus, Emma. Breathe.

  Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Take a breath. Please.

  Please.

  My hands are on her face, rubbing her cheeks. Softly shaking her head from side to side. Wake up¸ Emma. Breathe. Please breathe.

  I need help. I look over at Matt. He is splayed out on his stomach with his upper body hanging over the edge of the wall. I can hear him puking into the water. I can hear his insides splattering out of his body and hitting the river. The sound is both horrid and divine. I wish it were coming from Emma.

  A phone. I need a phone. I jump up and run to Matt’s car, hoping it’s unlocked and his phone is inside. It’s there. On the front seat. I reach in through the open window and dial.

  Less than a minute later, I am kneeling beside Emma with my free hand against her neck. The woman on the phone is shouting orders at me. I think she said her name was Laticia. Feel Emma’s neck for a pulse, Laticia says. Tip her head back. Put my mouth over hers. Push the air out of my own lungs and straight into hers. I do everything Laticia says. When she tells me to press my overlapping palms into Emma’s chest, I put the phone down next to me and do it.

  Please breathe, Emma. Please.

  It is then that I realize I’m still counting. I’ve been counting since the moment Emma hit the water. I’m up to 296 now, but I have to stop. I have to stop because Laticia says I have to count my compressions. I have to count my breaths. 296 seconds. That’s almost five minutes. Five minutes without her. Fi
ve minutes without Emma.

  Mother of God. Five fucking minutes.

  Chapter 5

  Emma—Present Day

  I wake to bursts of watery vomit spewing from my body. My chest is heavy and I can’t inhale. I can’t breathe. I can only hurl out this wretched water and cough and spit and heave. Someone rolls me onto my side, and my cheek presses against the pavement. The contents of my stomach are splattered there, and as my face slides into the warm liquid, my gut heaves again and water shoots out of my nostrils. I’m coughing now, and I feel a gulp of precious air surge into my lungs. It is deep and filling, and my body tingles with relief.

  I hear sirens and then a single word.

  It’s David’s voice. And the word it says is please. Please.

  Then I feel him touching me. His hand is on my cheek. It is soft and sweet. He says my name. I open my eyes and blink at the glare of the streetlights above me. David is kneeling next to me. He brushes my wet hair off of my face, his thumb thoughtfully skimming the crest of my cheek. He is smiling down at me, a ring of light behind his head. He looks happy. Content. Relieved.

  My greedy chest sucks in another gulp of air. He pulls his hand away from my face just as a look of hurt flashes across his own. He flips open his Leatherman and presses its blade under the remaining pieces of rope wrapped around each of my wrists. His eyes leave mine to watch his own hands as they work, and when the rope is cut free, he gathers the pieces into his hands, stands up, and tosses them into the bushes.

  As I watch him, I remember how his face looked under the water. His eyes wide, his mouth pressed closed, his brow wrinkled with fear. His hands held my wrists then, too. They were shaky and unsure. Just as they are now. If he had dropped the Leatherman then—under the water—things would be different.

  The sirens are getting closer, and I think about closing my eyes. But then I hear something else. It’s David’s voice again.