A lone doctor paces my direction with his head held down. His fingers fidget against each other.
I shake my head.
A palm falls onto my shoulder.
I shake my head.
The doctor moves his mouth to speak, but I hear nothing. Nothing pierces my hollow existence.
I shake my head.
My legs give way to devastation. My knees pop against the tiled floor. My arms float against my side, surrendering to the power of gravity. I’ve lost control, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back.
Noah stands helpless, lost in his own inner battle. And Luke is nowhere to be found. I’ve only known the Eastwoods a few years—just long enough to call them my parents—but they were Luke’s from the start.
* * *
PRESENT
Under the yellow streetlights, I watch the buildings fly by. Snowflakes melt against the warm window that my head rests against. When I was gone, living in Florida, there weren’t too many things I missed about Ohio—certainly not the snow.
Noah’s been silent since we left the club. I think we’re both surprised by the lack of words with each one of us having so much to say. But we won’t say anything at all because this isn’t the arena for truth, and it’s certainly not the right time.
The only thing on my mind is finding Luke.
7
There are many things in life that you expect to see. You expect to see the sun rise in the morning and you expect it to fall out of the sky in the evening. You expect to see a line of cars crawling like snails in the early morning as everyone heads to work. But I never expected this.
A few years ago, I dated a man that would sing to me when he’d fuck me. He was great in bed, but he was a lousy singer. But he wasn’t the worst boyfriend I ever had. No, that would be Noah Parker—who sits beside me at The Bootstrap sipping on a glass of whiskey.
A preacher in a bar—drinking.
The same bartender from last night pushes a Jack and Coke my way. “Thanks,” I smile, but it’s forced. I’m uneasy being here with Noah, afraid that the night will turn into a montage of sermons. But again, he’s drinking, and in my limited experience with the church, I’m not exactly sure that’s kosher.
Decade-old country music flows from the speakers above us, softly intertwining crooning melodies in the thick, heated air. Just before I catch myself swaying somberly to the music, the sound comes to a slicing halt.
I pivot my head to see a spotlight shining onto a young woman, who sits in a chair along the ends of the bar. She holds a guitar in her arms, and the vibration of the first chord shakes me.
I spin back around and take a drink.
A song begins, and it only takes a few strokes of her guitar before I realize what she’s playing—my favorite song since I was a child. The woman in the back belts out Wild Horses with the power of a Kelly Clarkson clone. The way she twists with the melody is haunting, a complete display of emotional battery. With her words, she beats the fuck out of my fragile soul, leaving wounds and bruises so dark, so blue, that anyone can see.
Noah sees. He sees right through me and the space between us shatters. Our walls come down and he stares into my eyes. I catch a glimpse of who we used to be before the world set out on its campaign to destroy us.
His palm grazes over my shoulder before landing on my back. “Come dance with me.”
I don’t say anything, but respond by sliding off my stool and landing on my feet. I let him take the lead as he slowly draws me out to the center of the dance floor. The floor is vacant with nothing standing between us and the songbird—and she soars to new heights, further damaging my fragile emotional state.
Noah takes my left hand into his right and wraps his left hand around my hip. We begin to circle each other, our feet directing where we go. “I’ve missed you, Faith.”
I want to lie to him and say that I don’t feel the same way because things are a whole lot easier that way. But I can’t lie, not right now. Not when he’s holding me like this. “I missed you, too.”
“I’m sorry for earlier.” He runs his face over his shoulder. “I know I can come off bitter and angry.”
“You think?” I ask deadpan.
“I know.”
I lean my head against his shoulder, and it’s a much-needed rest. I could fall asleep like this, all the while my feet continuing to dance in a circle. “Do you ever wish we could go back and change things?”
“Every second of every day.”
I let out a light chuckle that is muffled against the fabric of his shirt. “Our past defines us, Noah. Everyone says it shouldn’t,” I say somberly, “but it does, and I’m running on empty here…”
He removes his hand from my waist and places it against the back of my head, pulling me closer to him. “Let’s not worry about any of that right now.” He plants a soft kiss against the top of my head. “Just keep dancing.”
“Why won’t you tell me where Luke is?”
His hand unwraps from around my head and my hands and he takes a step back. “Because I’m worried about you.”
“Worried about what?”
“How you’ll react or what you’ll do. Sometimes the truth leads you down the rabbit hole and I don’t want that for you.”
“That’s not for you to decide,” I say as I take a frustrated step back.
“All my life, from the time we were merely two young kids, complete strangers to each other in foster care, I’ve wanted to protect you. I haven’t always succeeded.” He bites into his lip. “But I’ve always tried.”
“I’m begging you—just tell me where he is.” I wait for an answer, but a creeping feeling settles in my gut that I’m not going to get what I crave. “Is he back on drugs?”
“If you’ll let this go, I’ll take you to see him tomorrow.”
“Take me to see him?” I sigh. “Is he in jail again?”
“Tomorrow.”
* * *
FIVE YEARS AGO
There’s a stack of bills and papers close to a foot high that sits on the dinner table between Luke and I. It was just two weeks ago that we were forced to bury whom I could only refer to as my parents.
It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen Noah, but I’ve pushed him to the back of my mind. I’ll go crazy if I’m stuck worrying about him, so I’ve told myself that’s he perfectly fine. He’s probably on a beach somewhere finding serenity in the crashing of the waves—just like we always dreamed about.
And I’m stuck here in hell.
“Good news,” Luke says from the other side of the stack of papers. “I think we’ll be able to keep the house.”
“And?” I question, knowing there’s always a catch.
“Everything else is gone. There’s a few thousand in savings, that’ll buy us a few months tops.”
My feet tap against the floor, nervously striking the hardwood to a synchronized beat. “We’ll figure it out one day at a time.”
“They were my world, Faith. I… We don’t have any other family. No grandparents. No aunts or uncles. No cousins. Nobody. It’s us against the world and I think we’re fucked.” His voice rises, the anger in his tone escalating before he jumps to his feet and pushes the stack of papers onto the floor.
“Luke…”
He points a finger at me. “Don’t you tell me to calm down and that everything will be okay.” His eyes become heavy, filled to the edges with spider-webs of red. “It’ll never be okay. This is a nightmare, and I can’t fucking wake up. And every morning, when I see that you’re still here, all I can ask myself is, why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you still here?”
“Because you’re my family now.”
He raises a fist to his head and then pushes his hair back. “I know that… I just wish Noah was here.”
“I think he is,” I say and step quickly to the window that hangs over the breakfast nook. Noah stands at the end of the driveway, his body tucked into a tight hoodie with a d
uffle bag sitting beside his feet.
I dart to the front door and find my hair in the wind as I sprint to the end of the driveway.
When I meet up with Noah, he smiles and says, “That was dramatic.”
I bend over, grabbing my knees as I inhale sharply. “I was… worried… that you’d leave again.”
“You know I couldn’t do that without saying goodbye.”
It hits me like a ton of bricks, and I’m no cartoon bird. I can’t take the hit. “You’re leaving?”
He shrugs, but not out of uncertainty. “You could come with me.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I can’t leave Luke.”
“He can come with us.”
I shake my head again. “You know he won’t.”
He places a palm on my shoulder. “C’mon. We can do this, just like we always dreamed about.”
“And we will, someday. We’ll travel to the ends of the world, but not today.”
“It has to be today.” His face falls into his palms. “When I look around, when I see the chipped-painting on this house, all I can think about is them. Every glance is a painful reminder that I’ve lost the first people I ever cared about.”
“I know how you feel,” I say tensely, “but we’ve done enough running in our lives. Let’s just stay here for a while.”
One hand falls to my side, and he takes that hand into his fingers. “I love you, Faith. More than I ever thought possible. Through all the darkness that’s been my life, you’ve been a constant light.”
My eyes flicker. The tears can’t be stopped. I’ve seen enough goodbyes that they should be painless by now. But this feels foreign, like I’m experiencing it for the first time. “Please, don’t go…”
“I think you know I have to.”
I grab him by the head and pull him into me, kissing him with enough passion that perhaps he’ll choose to stay. His lips are rougher than before. His arms circle my hips and he presses into me.
His cheek brushes mine, the tears streaming down my face rubbing off on his. “Faith, please… come with me.”
8
PRESENT
I can feel the weight of Noah’s shadow following me as I head for the bathroom. When I reach the door, I pivot to face him. “I think I can manage to go alone.”
“Didn’t say you couldn’t,” he says and shoves his fists into his pockets. “But I’ll be out here waiting for you.”
“The perfect gentlemen,” I mumble under my breath and push the handle on the door to enter the bathroom. I didn’t come in here to use the toilet, though. I came in here to be alone for a few minutes, just long enough to collect my thoughts and figure out my next move.
It’s dark, but surprisingly clean. My reflection in the glass taunts me, so I draw closer. In this mirror, and under this particular lighting, there’s a haunted pale look etched across my face. I step closer…
And my foot slides against a wet patch on the floor.
I slip and fall back, cracking the back of my head against the tiled floor as my foot bangs against the sink. Before I can think what the fuck, Noah storms into the bathroom and falls onto his knees, asking, “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, cracked skulls are my specialty.”
He laughs and I remember a time so long ago when that was the norm. “You have always been a klutz.”
“Yet, somehow I became a stripper.”
“People often choose jobs that are against type,” Noah says, and I can’t help but think it’s a pointed comment about his own choices.
“Like you becoming a preacher?”
“Maybe.” He reaches for my hand then pulls me to my feet. “You know why I did it, right?”
“I don’t know, Noah. You woke up one day and said, today’s a good day to find Jesus?”
“It was because I never wanted anyone to feel the pain I felt after that accident. My world was ripped apart, and there was nothing that was going to make it okay.”
Not in a mood to live in the past, I place my open palm in the space between us. “I don’t want to go back there. Not right now.”
He turns his face away from me, his head nodding in agreement.
Then he throws me a specific look.
The kind of sideways glance that screams something’s amiss. His eyes burn in shades of lust—but that can’t be right. He’s not the same Noah from before. He’s a preacher now and lusty-eyes are clearly off the table.
He darts to the corner, scooping a broom into his hand. He spins it between his fingers then pushes it through the door handle and the lock—making sure nobody interrupts us.
“Noah,” I question. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Giving into this.”
I scoff amusingly. “And this is?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t remember.” He grabs both of my cheeks with his hands. “Don’t tell me you don’t miss it.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing works.” He presses his lips against mine, softly at first, and I’m lost in the kiss. Lost in every memory of the way his tongue used to bring me back to Earth when I felt like I was falling. Lost in the way that in a world without gravity, he raised me into the sky. Lost in the way that he still makes me feel all these things.
But it’s wrong.
I brace my hands against his chest with the intent of pushing him back. He’s stronger than before, with definition in his chest that was never there. “Noah,” I pant as his tongue finds its way to my neck.
His leg pushes between my own, pinning me tighter against the wall. I can feel his hardness pressed against me, pulsing with an imminent need for release. Years of pent-up horniness begging to be set free.
“We can’t… you can’t do this,” I say through ragged breaths.
And just like that, he stops. His palms roll into fists and slam into the wall on either side of my head. His body sways against mine. His eyes flicker, his throat tightens. His body goes to war with the thoughts inside his head. “You’re right.”
I fold a hand against his thumping chest. “But I’ve enjoyed this ceasefire from fighting.” A smirk ripples across my lips.
“Yeah?”
“But now I need a cigarette,” I say and push past him, exiting the bathroom and leaving him standing alone.
* * *
Friction—two hands rubbing against each other in the freezing cold. Under the soft glow of the bar light, my breath floats in front of me. I place a cigarette in my mouth and then fumble for a lighter in my pocket.
“Need a light?” a man asks from behind me.
“Sure.” I turn around to see David behind me, the man I had gone to the hotel with the night prior. “Hi...” I stammer.
He raises a zippo to the cigarette that hangs out of my mouth. Smoke sprouts from the end of my cancer stick as he shakes the zippo shut and slams it into his pocket. “You disappeared last night.”
“Yeah,” I say, a little uncomfortable. “I had places to be.”
“And yet, you ended right back at square one.”
“I’m not the only one.”
He nods his head. “Touché.”
In my approximation, I have a few short minutes until Noah comes out that front door—after he pays our bar tab. The last thing I want—or need—is for him to see me with this man and ask questions. There’s only one thing that comes to mind to end this conversation. “Can I be honest with you?”
He shrugs and takes a drag of his cigarette. “That depends. If you’re going to tell me I’m a lousy fuck, then I would prefer you keep it to yourself.”
I take a deep breath. “Your daughter, Charlie, is home. You should go see her.”
His hand, the one holding the cigarette, drops to his side. He exhales a cloud of smoke slowly, his eyes refusing to blink until he bites into his lip. “How do you…?”
“Let’s just say I know things and keep it at that. She’s going through something and she needs you.” It’s as if I’m speaking to mysel
f, and I can see myself in his body. Hearing this news and knowing, with certainty, that it’s time to stop running. Or maybe I’m confusing our issues. But without a doubt, there’s an inner realization that Noah and I need to talk.
The front door is pushed open and Noah steps out. He grabs me by the arm and asks if I’m ready to go. I nod and take his arm, looking back at the man one last time. Within me, I pray that I did the right thing—telling him the truth—even if it was for the wrong reasons.
* * *
FIVE YEARS AGO
One more ring of the telephone and I know what comes next—voicemail. It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen, or heard from Noah and worry has settled in my gut. He’s always been available through all these years and now he’s distant.
The Generic ‘you’ve reached Noah, leave a message’ filters through my phone, but I hang it up before I can leave a message. There’s no point. He’ll call when he’s ready.
I make my way into the den to find Luke spread out on the floor, digging at a floorboard. Beside him, a carpet has been thrown to the side. “What are you doing?”
“There was a creak in the floor,” he says without breaking focus on the task at hand. With one hard jerk, he lifts a board from the floor and tosses it to the side. “See?”
Quickly, I drop to my knees and examine the hole with him. My first thought when he reaches his arm into it is that there’s a monster living under there. Cliché horror film begins in 5… 4… 3… 2… 1….
“There’s something here.” His voice strains as he seems to grab hold of something. His eyes squint as his hand reaches further, deeper into the hole. “Some kind of box.”
“Dear lord, I hope there’s a genie in it or something.”
His teeth grind against his lips, and one pop of his arm later, he’s pulling a dusty, old box from the floor. “Think we should open it?”
“Hmmm,” I muse out loud. “Probably not.”
Faithless #1: A Tainted Love Serial Page 4
