by Jordan, Drew
“Thanks, we’ll let you know. Hopefully he’ll turn up before we need to go into all of that.” He gave us a nod. “Sorry to ruin your lunch.”
I sank back down into my chair, knees wobbly. I set my phone carefully back down, allowing it to continue charging. What did I do now? Did I call Victoria? The prison? My roommate? I bit my lip, hard, my nostrils flaring. There was a twitch in my left eye and I squeezed it shut, pressing my fingers against it to try to curb the spasm.
“We need to leave,” the stranger said, his voice low so only I could hear. “It’s just a matter of time.”
I knew what he meant. A matter of time before they found the body. Why had I done this to us? Why did I always do shit that I couldn’t undo? It was like getting pregnant with Victoria all over again. Once I had done that, there was no hiding my relationship with Dean, and my mother took my baby away from me. Then came the poison, then her call to the police, then there was the hospital and prison and everything all so wrong and off the rails…
Now this. I couldn’t undo this. And it was all so wrong too and now it was going off the rails…
“Where?” I asked.
“Not here.”
I stared across the table at him, not sure what to say. “Are you mad?” I asked, because he had a life and I was messing it up. Complicating it.
“Of course not. You chose me,” he said, his large hand reaching across the table and closing over mine. “And I am choosing you.”
For once, someone had chosen me. I felt a immense gratitude for that.
I had a very weird thought pop into my head. I wasn’t sure why it hadn’t occurred to me before. “Why doesn’t anyone in town know what Stephanie looks like? Why did you think I could be her? And why don’t they know she died?” It was risky to ask him in public. Hell, it was risky to ask at all.
But he didn’t look annoyed. “Stephanie was agoraphobic. She never left the cabin.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
His voice was cold. I wondered if she had a phobia or if she were a prisoner. Like I had been. Like he still wanted me to be. “How did you meet?”
“By chance.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “But I didn’t love her like I do you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
It wasn’t. But the words reassured me, made my heart swell. “Good.”
I’d forgotten what my point was.
The waitress brought over our drinks finally and a bowl of soup for me. It looked like mucus, viscous and yellow. My stomach turned. It reminded me what he had asked me right before Harry had shown up. I took a sip of my water. “I haven’t had my period,” I said, repeating what he had already said. I was losing it. I couldn’t even think straight any more. “What do we do if…” I couldn’t say it out loud.
“I think you should take a test. We can stop at the store.”
I nodded. I didn’t want to take a test. I didn’t want to do anything. I wanted to crawl into our bed and never leave. Maybe that’s how Stephanie had felt. Fucking Stephanie. I was jealous of her despite his words. Sure, he loved me now. But he’d loved her then, hadn’t he? What happened when they hauled my ass to prison forever and he replaced me with an Ashley? Or a Nikki? I never got along with Nikkis so that would be fitting.
“You need to eat,” he said. He raised the spoon, forced it between my lips.
I gagged but I made myself swallow. When it hit my stomach I thought it was going to come back up, but it settled down and I did feel slightly better. I was hungry. I didn’t remember when I had last eaten. He gave me another spoonful.
Sensing someone watching me, I glanced over. The waitress was rolling her eyes and making blowjob gestures with her fist up by her mouth. My eyes narrowed. Jealous bitch. She didn’t know me. Maybe if she spent more time putting dick in her mouth instead of cookies she would have a hot boyfriend too.
But that was my hunger and my fear talking. I was on emotional overload. I didn’t care about the waitress. She probably had a boring life and I was entertainment. Maybe she’d heard gossip about me, or maybe she’d had a crush on Cody for years. Or maybe she had Tourette’s or something. Who was I to judge? I would have found a woman being fed by her boyfriend annoying and ridiculous too so honestly, I couldn’t blame her. So I smiled at her, sweetly. She looked taken aback and her hand dropped to her side as she turned quickly away from me. I still had it. The ability to feel normal, be normal. Maybe I should buy a brush and actually attempt to look normal again as well. At least I had some clothes in my carry on bag too.
“I need to go to Seattle first,” I told him impulsively. “Before we go anywhere else.”
If we were going to disappear into the bush, I needed to tell my family that I was okay. I needed to see Victoria, give her a hug, reassure my grandmother. I needed to talk to Dean. Tie up the loose ends of my life, pulling them taut so they were like a tourniquet to my old life. Constrict the blood. Let it die off.
He frowned. “That’s a long way to go.”
“It’s what Harry will expect me to do,” I said, pulling the card that would sell him on it.
He shook his head. “But I can’t go with you. I can’t leave the dogs.”
It hadn’t actually occurred to me that he would. Or that he would want to. I couldn’t picture him in Seattle, in the coffeeshop with me. Introducing him to Sammy or to my family. I couldn’t see him sleeping in my floral bed with me, or taking an Uber ride to a restaurant downtown. He didn’t belong there. He belonged here. “I understand. But I really need to do this. I can’t let my family suffer.”
Part of me expected him to say no. To just shake his head slowly and forbid me. He could keep me. There was nothing to stop him. Asking him permission to leave was a huge risk because he knew everything. He knew the secrets. Would he turn on me? Save himself and crook his finger, call Harry back, and tell him I was a killer. Would I then turn on him? Say he did it, not me?
We stared each other down, me waiting, him assessing. What did it take to pit two people against each other? Less things than murder.
I remembered his question, not too long ago, but when everything was different. When I was afraid of loneliness, of being abandoned. Do you trust me? I had said yes and he had told me I had no reason to trust him then.
But I did now, right? I had his love. His loyalty. I’d seen him, the true him, when he had cried over the death of his dog. I might be pregnant with his child. Plus I knew his name now. Cody Doyle. Who had been married to Stephanie. I could trust him.
Maybe.
“How long do you need?” he asked finally.
That felt like a victory. He wasn’t going to stop me. “Just a few days.”
He leaned back as the waitress arrived with a burger and fries for him.
“Thank you,” I told her. “May I have a cup of coffee, please?”
“Sure, no problem.” She gave me a smile.
We seemed to have turned a corner. I’d earned her respect somehow. When she disappeared back behind the corner I watched him. Cody. Did he even understand what he’d given me? I didn’t know how to tell him, and he didn’t like me to ramble on and on anyway. “I need to make sure Victoria is okay.” I found her text message and I slid the phone across the table so he could see it. “I want her to see me in person. One last time.”
He nodded. “Can I see her picture?”
“Sure.” I found one of the two of us, smiling. It was at the zoo. I hated the zoo. All those bored and restless animals aimlessly wandering around a pen. So depressing. The chimps were the worst. In a glass box they lived out their entire lives, slowly going insane, screeching at the humans who stood and stared and pointed at them. They swung, they bounced, they bared teeth, they kicked the glass that imprisoned them. I felt angry on their behalf and when I made eye contact, I apologized instinctively.
But Victoria loved the zoo. She thought it was funny to watch the animals run around acting insane. She made faces at them and tried to get their attention
. That was her-bold and confident. Maybe not entirely concerned about the feelings of others. She was the oddest combination of myself, Dean, and the throwback genes of my mother. She had no Grandma Jean in her, nor did she have any of my need to be loved. She assumed she was and if she wasn’t she didn’t give a shit. So perhaps more my mother than anyone else.
Her looks were all mine though. Dean wasn’t present in her facial features at all. She had my nose, my eyes, the tiny bow of my lips. It was obvious looking at us side-by-side that we were related.
“She looks like a miniature you,” he said. “But with darker hair.”
I nodded. “It startles me sometimes.”
“Let’s get a room in town tonight. Then we’ll get you the first flight out. I’ll take care of everything here.”
Another nod. I wanted him to take care of everything. I had been hoping he would accept my decision, but at the same time, take charge of the situation. I couldn’t deal with everything. With Harry here and everyone back home. I wanted to shut down, to panic, to confess. But I couldn’t because he wouldn’t let me. The thought gave me strength.
He hadn’t touched his food yet and smelling the fries I actually felt hungry. I was about to swipe one off of his plate when he said my name in a quiet, firm voice. “Laney.”
“Yes?” Something about the tone tripped off my sense of fear. My heart started to race. My panties went damp.
“Don’t touch my food without asking.”
I froze, hand in the act of snaking out toward his plate. My nipples went hard. I had pushed the boundaries of our relationship and he was letting me know that was as far as I could go. That he was still dominant.
That was not something I intended to challenge. “Yes, sir.” My voice was husky and I swallowed the hot taste in my mouth. I had truly found my role in Alaska. Now I had to go back to Seattle and see who I was there.
Be normal.
I wondered which would feel more authentic.
He lifted a fry and bit it, taking it into his mouth in two pieces. My mouth watered and it wasn’t because I wanted the fried potato. I licked my lip, moistening it. Everything could be sensual with him. Everything was.
“It’s not about humiliation,” he reminded me. “It’s about control.”
“I’m learning.” I lifted my spoon to my mouth, and resisted the urge to snatch a French fry off of his plate.
“I know.” He pushed his chair back. “Stay here and eat your soup. Make your phone calls to family and friends. I’m going to get us a room and make some arrangements.” He gestured to his plate. “Don’t eat any of those. Not one. There are fourteen of them.”
He was smart enough to count. He was also testing me. Not just about food or sexual obedience. He wanted to see if I was loyal to him. We were both pushing, testing. Circling. Eyeing each other. Partners in crime, quite literally, and lovers.
“Whatever you say.”
When he stood up he casually ran his hand down my cheek and I loved it. I turned into the rough feel of his skin. He dropped his hand and gestured to the waitress. “Don’t let her take my food away.”
If this were Seattle and he were Trent or another of my casual dates or friends I would protest that his food would get cold. That he should eat first. I’d joke that he was going to leave me to pick up the tab. But it wasn’t Seattle. So I studiously ignored his plate and picked up my phone. I texted Sammy and Harrison and my boss, Theresa. I would save Victoria for in person.
The responses were mixed, something I hadn’t anticipated. But to be fair, if I got a text from someone I was told had died, I would assume it was a sick joke too.
This isn’t fucking funny.
That was Harrison.
What kind of an asshole texts from a dead girl’s phone?
So I decided I needed to take a selfie to send to him and anyone else who questioned my survival.
The camera on my phone revealed a riot of messy and fuzzy hair, wide, glassy eyes, and chapped lips. I looked like shit. But I looked alive. So very much alive. I snapped a pic then sent it in a group text with the following: living in the woods without a shower or products is hell on my skin.
Call me RIGHT NOW was the response from Sammy.
I smiled, pleased at the reaction. It was nice to know I had been missed.
That in my world of “brought you wine, bitch” people did consider me a true friend.
My friend Dina texted OMG YOU’RE ALIVE AND YOU LOOK SO SKINNY.
As more texts poured in, my eye twitch came back and I decided I couldn’t call Sammy. Not here, in the diner. What would I say? I couldn’t explain.
The questions came fast and furious. Are you with Michael? Is it going good? WTF happened? Why didn’t you text sooner? I’m literally dying because I never knew that was your real hair color and how do you feel? Are you happy? When are you coming home? Are you and Michael hitting it off?
Prying, nosy, nonsense questions. They overwhelmed me.
I sent a big group text that I was fine and I was going to be back in a few days and I’d explain everything then.
Going home was going to be harder than leaving it had been.
I powered my phone down and spooned more soup into my mouth. The French fries taunted me. They were limp, the way I liked them, liberally doused with salt. The ketchup sat like an enticing wading pool for me to dunk the fries in. My mouth watered and I craved the starch desperately. My diet was sparse, lean. A lot of meat. Canned vegetables. Little seasoning. If I lifted one and ate it the flavor would explode over my tongue.
But I could be starving and I still wouldn’t eat a single one.
“Fuck you,” I whispered under my breath.
I started counting, to ground myself. I stared at my phone, angry with it. I had wanted to communicate with the outside world so desperately in the first few days after the crash. Now I had access to everything and I didn’t know what to do with it.
Swiping to open my books app, I started reading a novel I had downloaded months ago. I got two sentences in when I glanced over at the stranger’s plate of food. The waitress was hovering over it.
“Does he still want this?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Would he still want me when I got back? That I wasn’t sure.
When he walked back in, he ate the burger.
Then he tossed the French fries into the garbage receptacle a few feet away.
The general store had rooms to rent upstairs. After we bought a pregnancy test, which was curiously eyed by the clerk, and some snacks for me, the stranger urged me up a set of wooden steps at the back of the store.
“Hold the railing,” he said.
It was steep, but I wasn’t in danger of free falling without a handrail. I did hold it though because he had told me to, though I wrinkled my nose a little. He thought I was pregnant. The soup. The carrying my bag. The concern I might fall. He was being solicitous, in his way. It was odd. Amusing. Terrifying. I couldn’t imagine raising a little bush baby. That wasn’t what our relationship was about. Not rearing a child. It was about pleasure and pain. Control and wild abandonment.
Yet there was something really wonderful about his concern for me. I felt special.
He studied the box, reading the directions before handing me the foil wrapped stick. “You can do it any time of the day. Just pee then lay it flat for three minutes.”
“Okay.” I half expected him to follow me, or at least stand in the doorway and watch. But he didn’t.
Shutting the door to the small bathroom, I flicked the light on. It was an old bathroom, with a stained tub and a white speckled linoleum floor. The sink had a very small surface around it and I ripped open the package with trembling fingers. When I set it down, it slid into the sink. It took me three times to get it out of the package and to not upset the stupid directions I felt the need to read. But finally I did my thing and I set it on the tiny strip of counter space.
Then I pulled my phone out of my pocket, turned i
t back on, and set the timer on it.
While I was waiting, I forced myself to go through my emails and start mass deleting anything that was unimportant, which really was all of it. But it was a mindless task, and appropriately distracting. I only got through about forty when the timer squawked at me. I closed my email and shoved my phone back into my pocket. Then I looked at the stick and felt the room spin.
Not pregnant.
Thank goodness. Holy shit, I hadn’t realized how scared I was that I might be until I wasn’t. I couldn’t do that again, give a baby up. Nor could I keep one. I threw the door open so hard it crashed against the wall. “It’s negative,” I choked out, holding the stick out for him to see for himself. “That’s good.”
He took it from me, frowning a little as he glanced down at it. “Yeah, that’s good. We need to be more careful. Maybe in Seattle you can get an IUD or something.”
It wasn’t like picking up a pizza. You couldn’t get an appointment to have an IUD inserted in a day or two, but I didn’t protest. I just nodded. “Yeah.”
“Come here,” he said, the corner of his mouth turning up. “Let me hold you.”
He could have said a million and one different things and none would have been as perfect as that. I went into his open arms and breathed deeply as I sighed against his chest. “I love you,” I murmured.
“I love you, too.” He kissed the top of my head. “Maybe someday we can plan it.”
That he could even be thinking ahead, to a future with me, was everything. He was everything. I nodded vehemently into his sweatshirt. I didn’t know if I really wanted children or not. I just wanted him to know I wanted him. Even when I was afraid of him, I wanted him. Even when I wasn’t sure I could entirely trust him, I wanted him.
Did anyone ever fully trust their partner? Even those people living their seemingly perfect lives? For every happy Christmas card, how many wives felt the nagging poison of suspicion that compelled them to search through their husband’s phone in the middle of the night while he slept? I’m guessing many a husband eyed his wife’s anti-depressant bottle and wondered why it seemed to empty and refill more rapidly than she would cop to.
