Wolf Pack

by Bridget Essex

  “I'm scheduled to wait for fifteen minutes,” he barked at me, his handlebar mustache quivering as he swallowed another big mouthful of coffee from his enormous to-go container as he leaned against the side of the bus. “Fifteen minutes is all you get,” he said with a shrug.

  I slung my bag over my shoulder, took in a great gulp of air, and I bolted. I could get back to the trailer park and back here in fifteen minutes—if I ran very, very fast. My father and sister thought I was still at the party, so as long as they didn't see me, I might get away with this.

  Stevie must have been delayed. Something was going on in her trailer earlier today. Maybe she was fighting with her grandfather again. They fought pretty frequently, and I knew that sometimes he hit her. She never hit him back, and she never looked like she was outwardly hurt from his blows, but I knew that the violence bothered her deeply, and it bothered the hell out of me.

  Yeah. That must be it. They were arguing again, and she hadn't been able to get away yet. Terrible images flashed through my mind. Of her grandfather beating her up, of Stevie crying on her bed, unable to get to me.

  I ran faster.

  I finally reached the trailer park, my lungs aching as I tried to inhale as much air as I could, panting. It was going to be okay. If Stevie's grandfather had done something to her, he'd have to answer to me, and we would soon be away from this terrible place forever, together, just the two of us. Nothing was going to stop us.

  But as I sneaked past my own trailer in the dark and angled toward hers...I began to realize that something was very, very wrong.

  Stevie's grandfather's truck wasn't parked out front of the trailer, as it should be, but that wasn't the first thing that I noticed.

  The first thing I noticed was the “for sale” sign picketed on the narrow strip of lawn.

  It was a red sign, and it was reflective, so it reflected the lights from the streetlamps along the edge of the trailer park. I paused, staring at it, my breath coming fast as I stood there, the very fabric of the world tearing around me.

  I knew before I went up and peered through the curtainless windows that there was no one inside the trailer. There were no possessions. There was nothing there.

  Because Stevie and her family were gone.

  I stood in the trailer park, my sides heaving as I tried to cover my mouth, tried to silence the sobs that began to wrack my body. I knew then. I knew that Stevie was truly gone. And I knew that she'd gone with her family not because they'd taken her forcibly, not because they threatened her or detained her...but because she'd wanted to go, and she'd gone of her own free will.

  I can't leave my family, she'd told me often enough, repeating the words over and over again. They need me.

  I stood alone in that trailer park, feeling my knees buckle under me, feeling the entire weight of the universe pressing down on my narrow shoulders, bending my body until every bone within me felt like breaking, that absolute press of loneliness consuming me.

  She'd chosen them over me.

  It was reaching, that thought, but it seemed so much like the truth at the time, and how could this turn of events be explained away? Her family needed her, and she'd gone with them, somewhere far away. She hadn't told me she was leaving. We'd planned out everything, the two of us, and she'd promised me that she'd be there, that she'd go with me.

  And then she'd stood me up.

  I glanced at my watch on my wrist through the wash of my tears, feeling the emptiness inside eating me alive. The clock kept ticking, like it always does, and the minutes were passing, and—with them—the only opportunity I had to escape.

  And then I turned on my heel and raced all the way back to the bus station, somehow managing to put one foot in front of the other as I ran, stumbling, toward my future. The bus was pulling away from the station, but I flagged the driver down. And, though he hadn't seemed the type to make allowances, the bus driver stopped for me.

  I climbed up into the bus, tears streaming down my face, and I handed the man my ticket.

  And I left Kankakee.

  Alone.

  ---

  I blink, staring at Stevie, adult Stevie, who's standing in front of me now. The memories are so real, so vibrant, that I feel as if I just relived them in the blink of an eye. The weight and pain of that night, of every night since, presses down on me. The weight of facing my father disowning me once he knew why I'd left, once he knew what I was. I faced that alone. I have faced everything, since that night, alone.

  And now she's here.

  She's here.

  Stevie. The love of my life. The woman I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with...

  The woman who left me alone.

  I feel a great sob wracking my body, aching to be set loose, but I won't release it. Instead, I take a deep breath, my nostrils flaring as I swallow down that sob into my curdling stomach. A single tear falls from my eye, and I reach up with a shaking hand, wiping it away.

  “Please,” Stevie repeats, holding out a hand to me, her voice trembling. “Please come inside, Amber.” And then she steps forward and whispers, “I've been looking for you for so long. Please. Give me five minutes.”

  Five minutes?

  I stare.

  She couldn't have given me five minutes to explain things seven years ago? There's no use asking her that question, because I see the pain reflected in her eyes, and though it's been seven years, yes, I still understand her, the language of her body, the very essence of all that Stevie is.

  I should turn around. I should leave, and I shouldn't spare a single glance backward.

  Seven years ago, Stevie didn't have the decency to tell me that she wasn't coming with me. Seven years ago, we had a connection that I thought meant we were soulmates.

  I loved her with every atom in my body, with every last part of my soul.

  And she, obviously, had not felt the same way.

  How else could she have left me standing there alone? How else could she disappear without a single explanation?

  How else, other than the fact that she didn't love me, after all?

  “Five. Minutes,” Stevie breathes, holding my gaze, her deep brown eyes seeing to the very depths of me. Or, at least, that's what it feels like.

  Five minutes.

  I don't know why I do it. I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. But, somehow, I feel myself nodding, holding tightly onto my purse strap as if it's a lifeline, as if I'm about to fall away into an abyss if I let go.

  Five minutes. I can survive five minutes. Can't I? Because, in five minutes, I can learn so much. After all this time, I still need to know. I need to understand.

  Why did she leave me that night?

  I know that this is opening me up to enormous heartache. But the wounds of the past never healed. I have to know, because wondering all of these years has nearly driven me crazy. I need to know.

  So Stevie turns, gestures down the concrete staircase. She wants me to go first, maybe just to make sure that I'm not going to turn and leave.

  But I wasn't the one who left.

  I swallow down the bile and sobs rising in my throat, and I walk down the concrete steps, my heels clicking on the cement. And Stevie follows. I inhale the scent of her, the scent of her that hasn't changed, even after all these years. She still carries that perfume of wildness with her, of an overgrown wood and crisp, sharp air, like you're walking in the forest, leaves falling all around you. It's an October scent.

  I'm so distracted by my thoughts and feelings that I barely notice that Jessica, the woman who'd been screwing in the new sign, appears from somewhere behind us, following at a distance, her eyes pointed down to the ground discreetly.

  It takes a long moment for my eyes to adjust to the interior of the club. I stand still, waiting for Stevie to move past me. But she doesn't. Instead, she stands next to me, reaches up, and she places her hand against the small of my back, her palm flat against me, gentle and soft...tentative.

  I turn to look up at her, my h
eart racing.

  She used to do this; she used to do this all the time, and I'm ashamed to think of all of the daydreams I've had where she comes back to me and does exactly this. In those dreams, I'm standing on the shore of the river, at the bend, next to the shack that stands there no longer... I'm standing, and I'm staring out at the swirling, muddy waters, and then I feel a light pressure at the small of my back. I look up, and Stevie is standing next to me. She isn't much taller than me—just an inch, really—but it was just tall enough that, whenever I kissed her, I lifted my chin and drank her in deeply.

  In the dreams, I would turn and she would wrap her arms tightly around me, and we would kiss each other hard, passionately. We meant that kiss with every fiber of our beings.

  But it was just a dream. And when I woke up, I was still alone.

  Here and now, I feel the pressure of Stevie's fingertips at the small of my back, the lightness of her palm pressing against me, and I take a step forward. I can't bear it, can't bear that reassuring weight, the weight that has not been there for seven years. That does not deserve to be there now.

  “Five minutes,” I tell her, my jaw clenched. “That's all I'm giving you. And I shouldn't even give you that much,” I whisper.

  She holds my gaze in the darkness of the club, and her eyes are sad, aching, but there are no tears on her cheeks. She nods once, twice, resolute, gesturing behind me.

  “My office is this way,” she says, voice low and soft. Gruff.

  I glance around me at the inside of the club. I've never been in here, but I'm able to tell just from looking around that the inside of it has changed quite a bit in recent weeks. There's sawdust on the floor, and there are old bar cabinets ripped out, dismantled and piled neatly in the corner, waiting to be laid to rest in a Dumpster. There are new cabinets, ones that look very modern, chrome and sleek, being installed by several people who are very carefully avoiding glancing in our direction. I can only assume that my near-shouting was audible through the open door.

  A power saw roars to life in the background, and I nod, suddenly feeling self-conscious as I make a beeline for the only hallway leading out of the main area of the club.

  Stevie moves with me, and we're walking along the darkened corridor together. I close my eyes, my heart aching inside of me. Was this a mistake? Giving her five minutes? Yeah...this was probably a mistake.

  We're not even speaking, and I can feel the weight and the pain of seven years crushing me.

  As we near the end of the hallway, walking together, the sound of her footfalls so familiar, Stevie opens a door ahead of us, and we step through.

  She flicks on the light, shutting the door behind us.

  And we're alone.

  I turn around and stare at her, and she stares at me. Her arms are folded in front of her, and the pain on her face is evident in the dim lamplight, but neither of us speaks for a very long moment.

  “You look good, Amber,” she finally says, quietly, haltingly. “You look really good,” she whispers to me.

  I stare at her, the pain of the years pressing down on me so heavily that I feel like I can't breathe. I want to ask her a million things; I want to cry and scream. But somehow I find in myself the last shred of strength I possess. And I ask her the one question that matters, the question I sobbed into my pillow for years, the question that has haunted me every single day. “Why?” I whisper to her. That single word encapsulates seven long years of pain, a single syllable to symbolize all of my darkness and sadness.

  One word. And it's enough.

  She lifts her chin, holding my gaze with her beautiful, dark brown eyes, those eyes that have haunted my dreams every night.

  “I'm sorry,” she whispers then. She says exactly what I've ached to hear for far too long. She gives me an apology. And with those words, I can feel the weight of her sorrow, can feel the weight of time and promises made and promises broken.

  “I'm...I'm sorry,” she repeats, and she reaches up and presses her hand flat over her heart, pressing down on her skin, as if she can press away the ache, the hurt.

  And that's when a single tear leaks out of her right eye, tracing down her cheek and falling away from her face. She holds my gaze, but there is so much hurt, so much pain in her eyes that it takes my breath away.

  She takes my breath away.

  No. No. I'm not supposed to think that, feel that. One apology doesn't fix things, doesn't erase the pain. It doesn't begin to amend or atone for the debilitating ache that unfurls in your heart when you believe, utterly, that your life is going to go one way, and then it doesn't. It goes in the complete opposite direction.

  But Stevie is standing in front of me. She's pressing a hand against her heart because the ache inside of her is so great. The pain that washes over her beautiful face is deep, vulnerable, raw.

  So my body moves on instinct now. I can't help it, I can't help any of it, as I take a single, tentative step forward, and I reach up...

  And with the pad of my thumb, I wipe away the streak of her tear across her cheek.

  She closes her eyes. Her nostrils flare as she breathes out, as she sighs, as she presses the side of her face against my palm. She closes her eyes, her black lashes fluttering against her cheeks, just as they did when I first met her, when I first saw the girl who would become the woman I would love with my whole heart. She moves her warm cheek against my palm, and something inside of me breaks. Melts. Dissolves.

  “I'm sorry,” Stevie repeats, whispering the words, breathing out with a sigh.

  “Why?” I repeat, as she opens her eyes, as we stare at one another. She searches my face, worry making her brow furrow. She still presses her cheek against my palm, and I stay there, standing, touching her gently.

  “I had to,” she tells me then gruffly, and she takes a step backward, and we are no longer touching. She leans back against the wall, shaking her head, lifting her eyes to the heavens as she takes a deep breath, sniffs. “I had to,” she repeats, looking at me again, her eyes blazing with an inner fire I don't quite understand.

  “That's...it?” I ask, when she says nothing else for a long moment. “Just...you had to? Why didn't you tell me that you weren't able to go? Why did you just stand me up? Why did you just...disappear?” I ask her, the aching scars inside of my heart making it difficult for me to force out the words.

  We stare at one another for a long moment. There's only a small space separating us; Stevie's office isn't all that big. There's one step, really, between our bodies. One step forward. If I lifted my hand right now, I could reach up and touch her. And I almost do, my fingers twitching as I curl them into fists, curling them so that they don't betray me.

  “I can't tell you,” is Stevie's maddening reply.

  “What?” My voice is loud, angry, but I can't help it. I'm yelling now, tears streaming down my cheeks. “How could you even say that? How could that be your answer, after all of these years? You disappeared. You...you evaporated right out of my life when I...when I needed you most...” My chest is heaving with sobs that I'm trying to quell, but I can't. One great, wracking sob escapes me, and then the tears are all that I can see.

  I draw in a deep breath, wiping away the tears and sniffling. “I loved you so much,” I whisper to her, swallowing the lump in my throat.

  I hate this. I hate how vulnerable, how pathetic I'm acting in front of her, the woman who left me. But this is me. This is the truth. My love for her was the truest thing I knew once, the most absolute truth. I loved her with my body, heart and soul, and she disappeared from my life forever. For no reason. For no reason.

  Well, there must have been a reason. But as we stare at one another, emotions heavy between us, I can see the war waging over Stevie's face. She wants to tell me. But she can't. Why in the world would she not be able to tell me this?

  I swallow another sob, bury my face in my hands. My heart aches so much that I can hardly breathe.

  Finally, Stevie clears her throat. I glance up at her through
my tears, see the soft gentleness on her face that she always used to show me, and my insides are unraveling again. It would be so much easier if we were still yelling. Her kindness, her sympathy, is something I don't know how to handle, or endure.

  “I'm sorry, Amber,” Stevie whispers then, her voice shaking. But she keeps her words level, soft, and she lifts her chin, her dark brown eyes flashing in the dim light of the room. “You wouldn't believe me, even if I told you the truth of what happened that night,” she says gently. “I did everything in my power to...to...” She rakes her hand through her ponytail, shaking her head. She's obviously agitated as she pushes off from the desk, as she takes a single step toward me. “To keep you safe,” she breathes.

  We're together, in that moment, almost touching. She wants to kiss me. I think she wants to kiss me. I don't know. I don't know anything.

  But my body betrays me. My heart betrays me, betrays all the nights of pain, all the nights I sobbed myself to sleep and dreamed about a life I would never, could never have.

  I lift my chin; I eradicate the space between us. I lean forward.

  And I kiss her.

  Seven years is a long time. A long, long time, eighty-four months full of regret, sadness and heartache... And it feels as if more than seven years have come and gone. It feels like I've lived a lifetime in Stevie's absence.

  But, at the same time, it also feels like I last saw Stevie only a moment ago, just yesterday, or this morning. Like she stepped out of a room and then came back—changed a little, sure, but back all the same. Back in my arms. Kissing me again.

  I remember what it was like to kiss Stevie. I remember how she tasted, what her lips and tongue felt like against my own. I remember how she would smile against me, how she would tilt her head to the side, just a little, so that she could press closer, closer...so that we could merge.

  Now, she tilts her head, just a little. She tastes of peppermint gum, the rush of coolness against my mouth a shocking sensation as it mingles with the warmth of her skin. I drink her in, the coolness of the mint, the heat of all that she is, and as I kiss her, as I reach up and wrap my arms around her shoulders, I find that I'm crying again, silent tears leaking out of the corners of my eyes as I do the one thing that I'd wished for, all those seven years.