Shine

by R. L. Jameson

  I get honked at. An old woman shakes her head at me as she passes from the other lane, but I smile and wave, feeling even more like an idiot. And of course, because the universe has an extraordinarily horrible sense of humor, that’s when blue and red lights flicker behind me.

  “No,” I whisper to myself, not believing my luck. Of course this is my luck.

  I slow down and park by the curb in the residential area, seeing curtains pulled aside to stare at the woman getting pulled over. Sighing doesn’t do me a lot of good. Neither does rolling my eyes. The cop is taking his or her sweet time getting out of her or his car. So the snooping residents go back to watching The Big Bang Theory or whatever it was I interrupted.

  My hands are at ten and two. I vaguely remember my driving coach laughing at me, saying I didn’t need to be so stiff when driving. But I didn’t want to give in to the urge of driving as fast as I could. The driving coach wouldn’t understand my need to run. I didn’t understand my constant need to run.

  I hate that I’m overthinking right now. I can’t help it. It’s keeping my mind from Paul and Chris and kissing two men in less than twenty-four hours. It’s keeping me from telling myself I’m a slut, even though I never would think that or say it to a friend of mine. I don’t know why I’m so vengeful to myself. Actually, I do know why. I just hate admitting to myself that I worry I’m not lovable. It sounds asinine, doesn’t it? Like a problem a child might have. I did have it then. And I can’t seem to shake it now. So many things I can’t shake.

  “License and registration, ma’am.”

  I jump when I hear the deep voice of the officer who’s caught me driving recklessly. I forgot I’d unrolled my window because I’d been so freaking hot, thanks to Paul. I’d like to wring his neck about now. Then bite it.

  I nod, not looking at the officer, feeling fire spread over my face. Leaning over, I find my insurance and registration in the glove box and hand them to a large calloused palm.

  “You know why I pulled you over, ma’am?”

  “Because I was driving like an idiot.”

  “You been drinking tonight, ma’am?”

  I shake my head. No, I’ve just been imbibing on a man. A very naughty man who had me opening my legs, revealing my sex to him. I can’t believe I did that. I was drunk on Paul, damn Paul. Damn me.

  “You okay?” The officer’s voice softens, and I can’t help but look at him, wondering about the concern etched in his voice.

  The night somehow approached and midnight blue encompasses the fall colors. I love this time of night. Twilight. It makes everything black and blue, two of my favorite colors. It makes everything nondescript. I can’t tell what’s what. It might seem spooky to some, but after running for three days in the twilight, I know it’s not. It welcomed me into its arms and promised me safety if I just kept running.

  I’m itching to run. It’s what I do when I can’t overthink things. I love the pound, pound, pound of my feet hitting the ground, especially asphalt. All I’m thinking about is running when I look up at the officer’s face. I can’t see much. Dark lines of an angular jaw. Dark hair that might be the color of night. But what I can make out is his blue eyes, the color of twilight.

  He briefly looks surprised as he tilts his flashlight away from my face. I hadn’t even realized he’d been shining the thing on me.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?” he asks again.

  I nod, but, and god knows this is the worst time, I want to cry. I kissed two men. I don’t know what I’m doing. And I feel guilty. Ashamed. I’m always ashamed of my needs. Wants. Desires. Tears begin to threaten. I blink and turn away from him. “I’m fine.”

  “Liar.”

  So surprised he’s said this, I turn back to glare at him.

  He’s smiling. Maybe. The line that is his mouth has been slanted down, but I think that line is tilting up on one corner.

  “Do you usually almost hit a garbage can and then drive into oncoming traffic?”

  “No.” I try to augment my frown because I’m not too sure, but I think he’s teasing me.

  “And you haven’t been drinking tonight?”

  I sigh. “No, but I need to.”

  “One of those kinds of days?”

  He has no clue. Has he ever kissed two women in less than two days? Well, three technically if I count Paul’s first kiss. And I should count it.

  I nod, thinking the cop would more than likely call himself a stud for kissing two women.

  Granted, being raised in the kind of environment I was, I heard my fair share of jezebel sermons. I was raised with rather restrictive rules regarding sexuality. But for mainstream people there still seems to be such a gap between male and female’s sexual identities. One gets called a stud. The other gets called…

  And I’m overthinking again.

  The cop sniffs. “And now you get pulled over by some cop.”

  I nod again.

  “You going to a bar to get a drink? With some friends? A boyfriend? A…?”

  “My husband’s dead.”

  He winces.

  I don’t mean to say that, let alone say it with that sharp tone. I know what an impact saying something like that can have. I’m usually more careful because people suck when it comes to grief. Very few people allow another to grieve with grace. Most try to comfort, saying things that are inappropriate unless I’m convinced of whatever religion they follow. If I’m not—and I haven’t followed any religion since I was fourteen—it’s about as comforting as if they’d taken a razor and cut along my arms. Others try to glaze over grief as if it’s not really there. Denial is cruel with its negligence.

  So I wait for the officer to say something, to try to make me laugh, try to comfort me with words that cut deeper than he intends.

  He drops to his haunches, his head and shoulders in view through my window.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I swallow.

  He’s one of the few who knows how to let another grieve. And usually those who know how have suffered greatly too.

  I bite my lip.

  “How long ago?”

  It’s rude he asks. It should be rude, but I don’t take it that way. He balances himself with his thick blue-clad forearm on my window. He’s very muscular. Like Chris. Maybe even more muscular than Chris.

  God, why am I thinking this?

  “Two and-a-half years ago.”

  He nods. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Thank you.” I look forward, out my windshield. “Did a loved one die on you?” I shouldn’t have asked. I know I’m being rude. He’s a cop, pulling me over. I should let him do his job. But I’ve already asked the question. And I don’t want to take it back.

  “Yeah.”

  I look at him.

  “My fiancé. About seven years ago.”

  He’s young. Maybe not even in his mid-thirties. It’s hard to tell with the blue light of night and he’d turned off his flashlight. Nothing to gauge his age. So I can’t imagine how young he was when he’d fallen in love, asked a woman to marry him, she’d said yes, and then she’d died.

  “I’m very sorry.” I touch his forearm.

  His blue, blue eyes focus on my fingers. “It sucks.”

  “That it does.”

  The corner of his lips curls up. “What do you usually do when you have a bad day? Have a drink?”

  “Actually, I’m not a drinker. Not really. I like to run though, but—” the air escapes my lungs.

  “But…?”

  “But my treadmill’s broken and I forgot to call someone.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  I can’t believe we’re talking like this. No, I can’t believe I’m talking like this. I’m comfortable with him. Really comfortable, and I’ll say too much. He’s the kind of person I have to watch out for, because I’ll like him, want to know him, let down my guard. And I never let down my guard. I can’t afford to. If people don’t want to bend me to their will, they’ll hurt me. Or die. I can’t
even afford to let my guard down around Bethany, and she loves me anyway. She’s a fantastic friend.

  “The belt—actually,” I say, trying to stop myself but having no luck. “I thought it was the belt so I adjusted it, but then the motor started to make this weird noise, and now it doesn’t run.”

  “It is under warranty?”

  I smile. “Yes, I just got it. It’s still under warranty.” It’s my baby and I love my new treadmill, even if the thing won’t run for me.

  “So you’ll get it fixed soon.”

  I nod.

  “But what to do in the meantime? After you’ve had a bad day, a cop pulls you over and is an asshole who reminds you of your husband?”

  I can’t help but grin again. “That makes me an asshole too because I reminded you of your fiancé.”

  “Nah, you were just being polite. I’d bet you’re that way. Always polite.”

  “You don’t know me, mister.”

  We’re flirting. I can’t believe we are. We’re smiling at each other, and I have to mentally smack myself to remember that I just kissed two men. I have to stop the flirting.

  “Tell you what, Ms. Emory—”

  “Jane.” Jesus, I need to stop being so comfortable around him.

  “Tell you what, Jane. I’m Gabe. Officer Gabriel Thompson, badge number 83365, if you want to call dispatch about me. Tell them what a great cop I am.”

  I giggle, which I shouldn’t do.

  “I happen to have a membership at one of those twenty-four hour gyms. I can have guests come with me.”

  “Come with you?”

  “I should have gotten off my shift about ten minutes ago.”

  “But you pulled me over instead. You are a good cop.”

  He smiles. “I followed you from the university’s parking lot, Jane. You were driving like your head was in the clouds.”

  It was. I swallow.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t cause an accident.”

  I nod.

  “Okay, that was my lecture for the day. Now you need a good run. I’ll follow you home, make sure you get there without any more garbage cans as collateral damage from your bad day. Then I’ll do my paperwork, try to hurry, and I can meet you at my gym. You don’t even have to run on the treadmill closest to mine.”

  “You run too?”

  He truly smiles now. White teeth blast me into a stupor. “Not really, honestly.”

  “You’re a weights guy.”

  He loses the smile, and he looks down to where I’m still touching his forearm. God, what is wrong with me? I’m the one flirting. I’m the instigator.

  He shrugs. He’s trying to be modest about the weights he lifts, because it’s obvious he lifts very heavy things. His physique is the kind gods are envious of. I’m impressed by his humbleness. Or maybe that was his goal, to gain my awe.

  I look out at the evening, turning darker and darker. I love fall. It reminds me of school, Anne’s school, of schedules, books, lots of books, fun experiments with baking soda and vinegar, of being free.

  So I say it before I can take it back. “Will you run with me outside?”

  He’s quiet, and I can’t look at him while I wait for an answer, but he’s silent for so long I have to see his face.

  Slowly, he nods. “You’d rather run outside tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can do that, Jane.”

  “Are you going to wear your gun?”

  “You want me to?”

  I smile and shake my head.

  “Yeah, I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.” He takes a short breath. “You want me to meet you at your house?”

  “You know how to get to my house?”

  He holds up my license and registration. “Do I seem kind of like a stalker now? Or is that just me?”

  I laugh.

  “It’s going to take me at least an hour to get back to your house.”

  I nod. “Okay. Hey, aren’t you going to give me a ticket for driving recklessly?”

  He squints. There are fine lines around those dark blue eyes. I like those wrinkles so much. “I’ll have to think about that.”

  “Maybe I can talk my way out of a ticket?”

  He smiles and gives me back my information then pats my hand. “I’ll see you in an hour or so.” Then he walks away.

  Twice in one day I’m utterly baffled. This time by me. I think with Gabe, though, I’m in real trouble. There’s this sensation that I know him. It’s powerful and I yearn to touch him, touch this feeling that hums between us like a hymnal softly sung in an old country church. Anne believed in past lives and she’d tell me we must have been friends before. Or lovers.

  5

  He came in less than an hour. I’d thought of calling the police department, asking for Officer Gabriel Thompson, and telling him not to come. But I didn’t. Instead, I thought about the Greek gods striking me dead with a lightning bolt. Wasn’t that what they did best? Strike down mortals who overachieved, reached too high, tried to fly toward the heavens?

  Was that what I was doing by flirting with a cop and kissing two other men in less than twenty-four hours? Achieving only what the gods would do?

  They were a rather lascivious bunch, those gods. So maybe I was trying to do as the deities. Maybe it was my destiny to want three men’s attention. Or maybe I was just insane.

  “I thought you’d call and cancel,” he says by way of greeting when I open the door to welcome him.

  He’s wearing loose black sweatpants but his black t-shirt is tight across his shoulders and chest. Gods, do I love that. He’s built like a brick wall. He’s thick, only muscle, and looks like he’s the kind of man who could take whatever I can dish out. But that’s more than likely my fanciful thinking, since if he got to know me, really know me, he’d find out what a freak I was and still am. The little girl who ran for three days straight to get away from the fanatics who killed thirteen of their own before the FBI and sheriff’s deputies stopped them.

  Makes for a nice headline, doesn’t it?

  But after living it, it only makes me a freak. I know that. That’s why I hide it from everyone.

  “I thought you might call and cancel,” I say, opening the door wider.

  He’s looking me up and down. I’m wearing my black runner’s leggings and black snug jacket that cradles my curves. I know it does and I wore it for him, freak that I am, overachiever that I am, trying too hard to reach for what the gods had.

  “I never got your number.” His voice is a growl. I wonder if he’s angry with me.

  “I never got your number.”

  “Are you going to copy everything I say? If so, I could have a lot of fun with this.”

  He gives me one of his tiny smiles, the kind that curls up at the corner of one side of his lips. He has nice lips, now that I see him in more light. He has more stubble than I thought. Black whiskers. Black hair in a buzz cut. If his hair weren’t so short, I’d guess he has a receding hairline. But as it is, I can’t tell.

  I giggle and he finally walks into my home. I got it after Tim died. I couldn’t stay in the house where he passed away. I’m not a complete Miss Havisham. With the money from Tim’s life insurance, I could buy a nice house. Not huge. Not lavish. But small and charming. However, my mother-in-law, Margaret, insisted on a rather large house. Said she wanted people to know I was well taken care of even if her son had died before his time.

  I don’t know why Margaret’s still in my life. I would have sworn the woman hates me. But she’s always there. Just a phone call waiting to happen. She asks me to do something with her, and I accept of course. Then she hardly speaks to me during a stiff lunch. I ask her how she is, etcetera. She might coldly smile for an answer and drinks a vodka martini like it’s water. I know she doesn’t drink except around me. I know I make her uncomfortable. But I also know why she’s so willing to be uncomfortable. I’m a reminder of her son who she adored. I can’t imagine the pain she must suffer having lost her
baby boy. So I go and eat icy crab salad with glacier-like vodka martinis. I can give her that much. I wish I could give her more, though.

  She bought this house for me. I don’t know why I let her talk me into things. I didn’t need this huge home.

  But I love it. I love the light. How, once past the foyer, everything is open—the kitchen, dining room, living area, it’s all so spacious. I kept the walls white, and added white rugs and a white sectional couch where I grade my students’ papers, read, and nestle down like it’s my nest.

  I didn’t want this big house, but I’m so grateful to have it.

  “Damn.” Gabe whistles as he walks past the foyer. “This is huge, Jane.”

  I wince. I want to say I’m sorry, but he might make fun of me.

  I follow him, worried he’ll run.

  “Being a professor at our small university must pay better than I thought.”

  “You know I’m a professor?”

  “I Googled you.”

  I think of Chris. I shouldn’t be doing this. I might have an understanding with Chris. And Paul. God, what is wrong with me?

  Gabe wheels around in the middle of my living room, behind my white couch. “Damn, Jane, this is seriously huge.”

  I bite my lip, not sure what to say.

  “I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I?”

  I shake my head, but he is.

  “Sorry, but I didn’t expect this. I mean, I should have when I read where your house is. And I should have when I read what your husband did for a living.”

  “You read what Tim did?”

  He was plastic surgeon. Granted, he did the boob jobs and trimming of noses for our small town and surrounding counties, but he did that so he could save up to cover cleft palates in Chile or Brazil or some other exotic locale. At least, that’s what Tim told me. Honestly, I think Tim liked the money too much to pass it by.

  But the house was bought by my mother-in-law who’s an heiress of the powdery soap that cleans toilets. Yeah, that’s her. She fell in love with her cowboy of a husband, moved to Wyoming, where later he became a senator for fifteen years before he passed away. Half of Margaret’s family is dead now. She and her daughter, Deidra who I adore and wish I knew better, are the only survivors. And that’s why I always have lunch with her. I want to comfort her. But I haven’t figured out how best to do that. Her smiles are freezing.