No Second Chances

by Marissa Farrar

  “Umm, Willowbrook, I guess.”

  “I was released three months ago. I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

  She nodded and pushed her hair from her face, the roots damp with perspiration. Her hair was still the mass of spiral curls I’d always remembered, though she wore it shorter now than she had when we were teenagers. Other than that, she looked exactly the same to me—hardly a day older.

  Well, except for the missing limb, of course.

  I nodded down at her leg. “What happened?”

  Her lips thinned. “I don’t really want to talk about it standing on the sidewalk, Cole. I think people have seen enough of my business for one day.”

  “Okay, so let me buy you a coffee. We can talk then.”

  But she shook her head and my heart sank. “No. I don’t want to talk about it, full stop. I just want to get what I came for and go home.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, as though, as though I was trapping her somehow just by standing here and she was checking for an escape route.

  “So you’re back, then,” I continued, wanting to drag out what little time I had with her. “Are you staying with your dad?”

  “Yeah, for the moment.”

  “How is he?”

  A shadow fell over her face and she shrugged. “Same as ever.” She glanced back toward the drugstore. “Look, Cole. I have to go, okay?”

  “Sure, but I’d really like to take you out for that coffee sometime.”

  She shook her head again. “I don’t need your pity, Cole. Just get on with your life, and I’ll try to get on with mine.”

  Gabi turned and walked away, and I tried not to focus on the way she lurched slightly, favoring one side.

  I waited until she’d disappeared inside the drugstore and then went back to my car. My shift started soon—I was on food prep for the lunchtime rush—though I would have risked being late if Gabi had agreed to coffee.

  Even though I’d known she was back in town, seeing her had still been a shock. It was like being punched in the chest, having her so close again. And she was right, I did feel bad for her. More than that, my fucking heart broke for her. I couldn’t even imagine the sort of pain she must be in, how much this must have affected her life. I had so many questions, but I didn’t know how to ask a single one without sounding exactly how I felt—shocked, horrified, morbidly curious, and absolutely gutted for her.

  And like the selfish son-of-a-bitch I was, I also felt devastated by the loss of one of her beautiful legs. I’d admired every inch of her when we’d been together all those years ago, but perhaps I’d loved her legs the most. The first day I’d managed to get up the courage to speak to her, she’d been sitting in the park, propped up against a tree, reading a book. Her already short skirt had ridden high on her thighs, and I could tell she’d been aware of how much leg she was showing by the way she’d kept tugging at the hem, trying to make the skirt longer. I’d gotten to know those slender calves and smooth thighs a lot better in the months that had followed, and my heart cracked at the idea a part of them no longer existed.

  What does the remaining stump look like? How high had the amputation gone? I pushed the thoughts from my head. It wasn’t any of my business—not anymore. I’d seen to that ten years ago.

  She was obviously still angry with me, and I didn’t blame her. Perhaps she was just angry with the world, and I didn’t blame her for that either. I wondered what had happened. A car accident, perhaps? I had deliberately tried not to learn anything about her over these last ten years, stopping anyone from even speaking her name if they tried to broach the subject with me. The pain had been too great, and I hadn’t wanted to learn that she was happily married with a houseful of children. Maybe I should have wanted to discover she was happy after what I put her through, but maybe part of me had worried I’d learn she wasn’t happy, and that would make me feel even worse.

  But I’d never wanted this for her. I wouldn’t have wished what she must have gone through on my worst enemy.

  I lingered beside my car, hoping Gabi would come back out of the store and be forced to talk with me again, but she didn’t make a reappearance. I couldn’t lurk like this for much longer. I was attracting curious glances, and besides, I was going to make myself late for work.

  Not wanting to be leaving Gabriella yet again, I climbed into the car.

  She didn’t leave my thoughts for a single second for the rest of the day. All I could think about was her being back, and when I would get to see her again.

  Chapter Six

  Cole - Eleven Years Earlier

  I sneaked into my foster family’s house and carefully closed the front door behind me. I’d stayed out past my curfew, but I hoped everyone had gone to bed already.

  “Cole?” A man’s voice.

  Damn it. I froze, somehow hoping if I kept still for long enough he’d forget he’d heard me come in. But then the figure of my foster-father appeared in the open doorway of the living room, his arms folded across his chest.

  “What time do you call this?”

  Busted.

  “Yeah, sorry,” I muttered. “Me and the guys were practicing and I forgot the time.”

  “It’s almost midnight, Cole. You’re supposed to be back by eleven on a school night, and to be honest, I think even that is too late. If you can’t stick to your curfew, I’ll have to stop you going out during the week altogether.”

  I hated being told off as though I was a little kid. “I said I was sorry.” Even I could hear the sulky, petulant tone to my voice. It wasn’t something I was proud of.

  He exhaled a sigh. “Okay, just go straight to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Happy to escape without punishment, I kept my head down and ran up the stairs.

  Emily and Stephen Cowen were good to me, but I’d never consider them to be my parents. Perhaps I was just too old by the time I’d come to live with them a little before my sixteenth birthday. I’d been in and out of so many homes by that point, I hadn’t wanted to make any kind of emotional connection with someone, knowing they’d probably get sick of me within a few months. I didn’t blame my previous foster families. I knew I wasn’t easy to have around. I wasn’t exactly the cute, lovable toddler or baby they’d probably hoped for. I had issues, and even though I’d gotten better with age, I’d been an absolute shit between the ages of thirteen and fifteen. Drinking, smoking, shoplifting. Name it, and I’d probably done it. I’d already been kicked out of several schools for fighting or truancy.

  I pushed open the door of the bedroom I shared with another foster kid, Danny. I wasn’t surprised to find him still awake, sitting on his bed with his back leaning against the wall, headphones clamped to his ears as he listened to his portable CD player.

  Danny was almost a year younger than me, and a good foot shorter, but he didn’t let that hold him back. He reminded me of a scrappy little terrier, who, aware of his size, went into everything with his teeth bared and hackles raised. I liked to think I was a little more chilled out about things than he was, but Danny had a way of winding me up.

  I noted the stack of CDs beside him on the bed weren’t his own.

  A couple of strides brought me over to his side of the room, and I grabbed for the CDs. He hadn’t even bothered to look up when I walked in, but, as I lunged, he reached out and shoved my arm away.

  “What the fuck, dude?” he blurted, wrenching off the headphones.

  “Those are my CDs. Don’t take my stuff without asking.”

  “Jeez, man. I was only borrowing them.”

  “Yeah, right. Borrowing something without asking is basically stealing.”

  “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

  My rage boiled. “Are you calling me a fucking—”

  The bedroom door burst open, and Stephen stood in the doorway, his expression thunderous.

  “Are you trying to wake the whole damn house? What’s going on in here?” He raised a hand. “No, actually, I don�
��t want to hear it. You’re already in my bad books, Cole, for breaking your curfew, and then you come back in and start a fight?”

  I tried to defend myself, but the hand lifted again, silencing me. “I said I don’t want to hear it. Go to bed, and if I hear another word, I’ll ground you for a month.”

  Fuming, I dragged off my clothes and climbed under the covers of my bed. I rolled over so I faced the wall, my foster-brother at my back. Danny still had my CDs. They might only be things, but I didn’t have much stuff that was my own. In a few months I’d turn eighteen and would finally be free from the system that had pushed and pulled me in every direction since I was twelve years old. When that happened, I wanted to be able to take the few things I had with me.

  I couldn’t stew over Danny for long. My thoughts left my foster brother and went to Gabriella Weston instead. She’d shown up at my band practice that night, when I’d been certain she wouldn’t turn up. I’d chatted to her friends, trying to make her see me as an amiable type of guy. They did all the things I’d taken for granted girls did around me—the giggles and eyelash fluttering—but Gabi hung back, leaning against the garage wall and ignoring me. I’d stepped up the flirting, being deliberately louder, even touching her friend’s hair to try and get her to glance in my direction, but she’d only looked bored.

  I wasn’t sure what fascinated me so much about Gabriella. She seemed different than the rest of the girls at school. She was smart, and while she had a couple of close friends, she didn’t appear interested in fitting in with the crowd. While the other girls all sidled up to me, flirting and twirling their hair around their fingers, Gabi acted as though I barely existed. When I spoke to her, she looked at me as though she couldn’t quite believe I’d had the nerve to engage her in conversation. That might put some guys off, but not me. I’d like a challenge. Plus she had the cutest nose I’d ever seen—the way it tipped up slightly at the end—big brown eyes, and dark curls I imagined sinking my hands into. She wasn’t quick to smile, but I bet when you eventually coaxed a smile from her, it would be like she’d given you the greatest gift on earth.

  I was determined to get that smile, and I always got what I wanted.

  Chapter Seven

  Gabriella – Present Day

  I got back to my dad’s house, still reeling from the altercation with the woman in the parking lot, and from seeing Cole again. I hated that he’d gotten even hotter with age. If the universe had been kind to me just the once, he would have had a beer gut and a receding hairline by now. But no, instead he was even better looking—a grown man now instead of a boy. Tattoos and muscles, and a hard edge to his jawline. I didn’t know what he’d been through in prison, but he appeared to have lost the playful, relaxed air I’d loved so much about him. Sure, he’d had a temper back then, and even at eighteen had been quick to fight, but I’d always believed that had been an act so he could survive in the world in which he’d been raised. I’d always resented only having one parent—especially as the parent who’d been left behind wasn’t exactly a functioning member of society anymore—but I couldn’t imagine having grown up feeling like no one wanted me. My dad had plenty of faults, but, other than the drinking, he’d never made me feel like he didn’t love me. If anything, I was the one who probably made him feel like the unloved one.

  I pulled my car up in the driveway and began the awkward process of climbing out with my prosthetic limb. The position always reminded me of a dog cocking its leg—something that didn’t do much for my self-esteem. To be fair, no part of the last six months had done anything for my self-esteem. Here I was, twenty-eight years old, out of work, and living with my alcoholic father. Oh, yes, and missing a limb, and now an ex-boyfriend on the scene who looked better than ever, and who’d witnessed me arguing with a woman in a parking lot, while bright red and dripping with sweat, all before flashing my prosthetic limb at half of town. As far as I could tell, I had absolutely no reason to feel good about myself.

  Trying not to think about it, and failing miserably, I let myself into the house. Immediately, I caught the waft of bacon cooking, and my stomach grumbled with hunger. I’d only grabbed a banana before leaving the house, and though I suspected my dad had only just managed to get out of bed, I’d already been up for hours.

  I walked into the kitchen to find him standing at the stove, flipping rashers. He smiled at me as I entered, and I tried not to notice his bloodshot eyes and puffy complexion.

  “Hey, sweetheart. There you are. I wondered where you’d gotten to.”

  I gestured to an envelope on the countertop on which I’d scribbled him a note before I’d left. “I wrote you a note, Dad. Didn’t you see it?”

  “Obviously I didn’t, or I wouldn’t have asked you,” he grumbled.

  He got frustrated with himself in the same way I did. His drinking made him miss things, and he wasn’t as sharp, mentally, as he used to be. He got frustrated, and then he got angry. He wasn’t a mean drunk, by any means, and had never hit me, though he’d shouted plenty. I knew he was angry at himself for not being able to control his addiction—especially now I was home and in the condition I was in. He wanted to be able to do more for me, but the drink was stronger than he was.

  “I just went to the drugstore to pick up my meds. It’s no big deal.”

  “Okay, good. Sit down and I’ll bring you some breakfast. Got to keep your strength up.”

  I did as he suggested, though it was closer to lunch than breakfast now, and slid into a chair at the dining table.

  He placed a cup of coffee in front of me, and I knew without tasting it that the beverage was full of sugar. I’d told him multiple times I didn’t take sugar in my coffee anymore—I hadn’t since shortly after I’d left home—but he kept forgetting and I didn’t have the heart to remind him again. A bacon sandwich—thick white bread, dripping with butter, and half a pigs’ worth of bacon—slid onto the table beside it.

  I forced a smile. “Thanks, Dad. Looks great.”

  I knew I would barely eat half of the food, and would have to dispose of the uneaten part without him noticing so I didn’t hurt his feelings. I had to watch what I ate now I wasn’t so active. I’d been told I would be fitted for a blade once my stump had settled down, but that wouldn’t be for another couple of months or so yet, and that was only if the funding for the blade came through. I was desperate to get back to running—I’d run six miles almost daily for most of my adult life—and the loss of this ability to do what I loved, and allowed me to de-stress, was as hard as the loss of the limb itself.

  “So …” I started, unsure whether or not I should broach the subject, but finding myself unable not to talk about it. “I bumped into Cole Devonport while I was out.”

  His head whipped around to face me, his thick, bushy eyebrows lifting. “Cole, as in the teenage boyfriend?”

  “Well, he isn’t a teenager anymore.”

  He scowled. “No, obviously not. You know what I meant.”

  “Yeah, sorry.” I twisted my coffee cup in my hands and then lifted it slightly to take a small sip, trying not to grimace at the cloying sweetness. “He asked how I was.”

  “So he should,” he said, gruffly. “That boy was ultimately the cause of … this.” He gestured to my leg.

  I sat up straighter. “Cole was not responsible for me losing my leg, Dad. I haven’t even seen or heard from the guy in over ten years.”

  “He was the reason you ran off and joined the Army.”

  “He didn’t drive a bomb-laden car into my post in Iraq.” I could feel my tone getting heated, my body tensed. Why did I still feel the need to defend Cole to my father, even after all this time? “And he wasn’t the only reason I left town.”

  His head lowered, his shoulders dropping. Immediately, I felt bad, a wave of guilt swamping over me, and not only because I’d brought up my leaving. Hearing that Cole had spent the last ten years in prison twisted my insides. I couldn’t begin to imagine what his life had been like.

  �
�I don’t want to have this conversation, Gabi,” my dad said, standing from the table and picking up his untouched sandwich.

  “What about your food?” I replied, keeping my tone softer.

  “I lost my appetite.” He threw the sandwich into the trash and then walked from the room.

  “Where are you going, Dad?” I called after him, frustrated once more. That seemed to be what my life revolved around now—just dealing with one frustration after the other.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” he called back.

  I didn’t reply, but my thoughts went to the bottle of vodka I knew he had hidden in the top of the toilet cistern. I figured his shower might take a while.

  I gave a sigh and turned my attention back to my breakfast. I ate a couple of mouthfuls, though my appetite had all but deserted me. My thoughts kept flicking back to Cole. Suddenly the boy—who’d been my whole life when I’d been seventeen, but whom I’d tried not to think about for the past ten years—was back in my head again. How could a pain I’d believed I’d let go of suddenly rise up back inside me as fresh as though it had happened yesterday? I’d thought I’d gotten over everything he’d done, but perhaps I’d simply buried it, like a long forgotten object, only to be unearthed again and dusted off.

  No, I couldn’t start thinking about Cole again, not after everything he did back then, and what had followed. Besides, I had bigger things to worry about. I had an appointment that afternoon to be assessed for a new limb, which would be a big upgrade on what I was currently wearing. At the moment, my leg was effectively strapped onto the lower half of my body with rubber right up to my groin, and not only was it uncomfortable, when the weather was hot like it was, I sweated something awful. On top of that, I also had to wear numerous socks over my stump to try and make the stump fit into the top of the prosthesis, and the number of these had to be changed during the day as the stump would grow and then shrink again due to fluid loss, and make the prosthetic fit badly. The new leg would be a pin lock leg, so would hopefully fit a lot better, and I’d be done with the rubber.