by Lindy Zart
Beth tried to keep a scowl on her face, but it was no use. When Harrison met her eyes with his blazing with mirth, it completely vanished and was replaced with a grin. Needing movement, she brushed the hair from her face and shifted her feet. The dark melted away, taking her hurt with it. A slice of her soul was healed, a part of her heart stitched back up.
Harrison moved to his chair and sat, locking his fingers together and resting them on his abdomen. “There are times when we take more pain than we should from those we love, Beth, but don’t think of that as a weakness.”
“Don’t think of fear as one either,” she told him, unable to look from him as his body turned to stone and his eyes shot to hers. Quiet weaved around them as she sat on the couch. Beth crossed her arms and legs as she looked back.
“Fair enough,” he finally allowed. Harrison set his chin on his fist. “Tell me more about Ozzy. Tell me what made you come here. Something happened.”
“He has a temper.” She took a choking breath of air into her lungs. “And he has a dark side.”
“We all have a dark side.”
“No.” Her eyes flew to Harrison’s. “Not like his.”
Harrison stared at her, not only hearing her words but listening to them. “What did he do?”
“I saw him tonight.” Beth’s throat tightened. “I was walking to my parents’. His brother lives near me. Ozzy was there, outside, like he was waiting for me.” She unconsciously rubbed her sore wrist, glancing down. Beth’s eyes widened as she noticed the ring of fingermarks and jerked her arm back as if to hide the evidence of Ozzy’s fury.
Harrison was to her before she could cover up her reaction to the sight of the small bruises. He crouched beside her, keeping space between them. Flints of steel held her gaze. “Show me.”
Beth shook her head and gripped the wounded arm. “I told him to stay away. He won’t bother me anymore. It won’t happen again.” Conviction rang hollow in her words. Even she couldn’t believe them.
His mouth hardened into a thin line.
“The last time we broke up, I broke up with him.” The bookshelf across the room held her gaze, and Beth gathered strength from all the many stories waiting for her to get found in them.
People talked about getting lost in books, and that was fine, but it was the opposite for her. They reminded her of who she was, and who she wanted to be. Books were nightlights in the darkest days. When she was lost, she could open up a book and feel the light of it, the life. It pulsed through the pages, brought words to her heart, and in doing so, gave her heart to the words. Beth could read on any day, and be better for it.
“It sounds horribly weak of me to admit, but all the things he’d done through our relationship—none of those things were bad enough for me to go. He always apologized. He always made me feel bad for being upset with him. And I always gave in.” Her mouth went sour at the admission. Not anymore. There is no more giving in.
Parts of Harrison’s face were obscured by the dark, others by his thoughts.
“But when I told him I was serious about pursuing a writing career, he laughed at me, like he thought I was joking. I spent my childhood and teenage years writing, and he knew how much it meant to me, that it was a dream of mine. For him to laugh…that was the end for me. He told me I was nothing without actually saying it. I didn’t realize until then that that was possible—to make someone feel small without uttering a word.” Beth’s fingers worked at the hem of her shirt, tugging at it and releasing it, curling it up and smoothing it out.
“He went out with some friends that night, and when he came back, I had my clothes and most of my things packed. I told him I was leaving, and I wasn’t coming back. That we were finished. I couldn’t keep telling myself what we had was what I wanted when it wasn’t. When I tried to leave, he stopped me.”
Beth remembered the smell of alcohol on his breath, the feel of his fingers biting into her flesh. The fear, the disbelief. “He tried to take my bags from me, and we fought over them. I tried to get around him, but I couldn’t. He grabbed the back of my neck and shoved my face to the floor, and when I tried to fight him, he went out of control. Furious. It was like looking at a monster. The things he said to me.”
She inhaled. Exhaled. “He grabbed me by my ankles and dragged me across the floor of the house and to the door. He threw me out, and he tossed my stuff out after me.” Beth went still and quiet as she relived the helplessness she felt. It was a surreal scene of black and sickness. It could have been worse. She knew that too. That didn’t lessen what it was.
Harrison moved to recline on the couch beside her, close enough that she felt the heat of his body, but always physically out of reach. Ozzy left bruises on her collarbone and shoulders, proof of his maniacal love. The ones that hurt the most, that wouldn’t fully heal, were the ones he’d left upon her mind and heart.
He’d broken her that night, just a little, enough to leave a tattoo.
“It wasn’t long, maybe three or four days, and he was the old Ozzy again. Of course, he said he didn’t mean it. Of course, he said he was sorry. Of course, he cried and promised it would never happen again, but it happened once, and it never should have happened at all. I stayed with my parents until I was able to get my own place. I never told anyone, and the bruises were hidden.”
She took a sharp breath of air into her lungs and looked up. “I almost went back. He wouldn’t leave me alone, and he kept wearing and wearing me down, and I started to minimize it in my head. I made excuses for him.”
Beth met Harrison’s fathomless eyes. “He knows I come here. He’s followed me. I’m worried he’ll find out who you are. It won’t be good for you when he does.”
He was shaking his head before she finished. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t think of it.”
“You’ve done so much to keep your identity secret. How can you act like it’s of no consequence if it’s known?”
“Beth. It doesn’t matter.” His tone was even, inarguable.
She dropped her eyes to her marred skin, and Beth closed her eyes against the sight. Stop being that girl who loved Ozzy Peck. Be the woman who told him goodbye. She took a shuddering breath, told herself she couldn’t be scared anymore, not of anything. When Harrison’s fingers lightly trailed across the bracelet of discoloration on her wrist, Beth’s breathing turned shallow. He thought he was poison, but he didn’t realize how much he mended her.
“You’re safe now,” he said in a low voice, and Beth believed him.
“When I was with Ozzy, I felt…I felt like I lost myself. I was an extension of him, a possession.” She opened her eyes and looked at Harrison. “But when I’m around you, it’s like I’m finding me.” Beth smiled and shrugged, turning her eyes back to the books. The books that centered her, like Harrison.
His fingers dropped from her, and he moved farther down the couch, physically denying her words even as none passed his lips.
“We need to talk about that.” He nodded his head toward the papers on the coffee table.
“Do we?”
“We do,” he said firmly.
Beth set her shoulders back and clasped her hands together in her lap. “Okay. What is it?”
Black flashed at her from his eyes. “You mentioned an illness.”
“Yes,” she said evenly. Beth held his hard-eyed gaze. “Because there is an illness.”
Harrison’s jaw tightened, and he looked away.
“You’re not letting me do what I need to do to give your story justice.” Beth spoke sharply, her frustration coming out. “You told me to write your story, but then you have all these rules. You’re only allowing me to write half of it.”
He shifted his attention to her.
“It’s there, Harrison,” she told him gently. “And it doesn’t have to be the focal point, but it is a layer. A necessary one.”
Harrison rubbed his face, sighing as he cast bleary eyes her way. “What about you?”
Beth froze. “What about me?”
“
Aren’t you a part of the story?” he asked slowly.
She sat still, digesting his words. She inhaled deliberately, schooling her expression into calmness she didn’t feel. “I’m a late addition.”
A hitched eyebrow was the only response she got.
Beth jumped to her feet and stalked the room, wanting Harrison to understand. “Stories are made up of layers, right?” She turned to him, continuing before he had a chance to answer. “There’s an outline, a first draft, second, maybe third, and a final. Each one adds another layer to the story. So there’s you. You’re the initial layer, the starting point, the main character. The reader has to feel like they know you. Add your features, your mannerisms, your thoughts, your feelings, and we sort of have Harrison.”
“Sort of?”
She absently waved a hand at him, striding in the opposite direction. “Another layer could be your goals, something that happened to you in the past that made you the man you are. Some conflict. An illness,” she emphasized.
Beth didn’t have to look at Harrison to know he was frowning.
“Then there’s how you deal with the conflict, or illness. That slaps another element to the story, helps shape and mold it. Gives it depth.” Beth paused and fixed her eyes on him. “You aren’t just some football player, or some man. You’re a man who was told he has a disease that can kill him.” Her chest squeezed, and Beth flinched around the pain. “But you’re more than that, so much more. And I want to show that. I have to show that. Let me.”
Harrison let his eyes drop to his clenched hands, his shoulders bowed against her words or his thoughts. “And what role do you have?”
Beth took a fortifying breath of air and squared her shoulders. “I’m the storyteller. I’m the best part.”
He lifted his head and allowed a faint smile to crest his lips. “Think so?”
Beth shrugged and walked across the room. She grabbed a throw pillow from the bench and settled on the hardwood floor, knowing that before too long her back would regret her position. Until then, she would stay where she was. Harrison had to decide how he wanted his story to be told, but she thought it was an injustice to keep any aspect of his life out of it, even the harder parts.
“Okay, Beth.”
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, satisfaction hugging her. Okay, Harrison. Under the glow of the moon and no other light on this side of the room, she turned her head and looked out the window at the stars. “Be honest with me.”
Harrison stepped over her and compacted his long body to fit on the bench beneath the window. He set his hands behind his head and aimed his face toward the ceiling. “What is it?”
The relaxed intimacy, coupled with the late hour and the deepness of Harrison’s voice, made her bolder. “You didn’t need anyone to write your book.”
His answer was surprisingly fast. “No.”
“Then why did I come here?”
“I looked up the residents of the town, did some research. I like to know the kind of people around me. You wrote an article,” he said slowly. “I saw the potential in your writing, the passion for the subject you were discussing, and yes, I thought you were pretty. But that wasn’t what caught my attention. It was your eyes. Innocent, hopeful. Haunted.”
Harrison looked down toward her, his features black in the night. “I do want you to write my story, in your words. I think only you, with your heart and your openness, can write it as it should be. No one else.”
Beth closed her eyes against the tripping of her pulse, breathing in his words and hugging them with her soul. “I figured you saw the article in the paper. The timing was accurate. You emailed me just a few days after it came out. The one about me graduating and the big writer dreams I had. You’re paying me too much, by the way.”
“It’s not enough,” he argued evenly.
“I have more at home ready for you to read,” Beth admitted, popping open her eyes. “Do you want to read it?”
“No, not until it’s done.”
“How do you know it doesn’t veer off into some fantasy land where you’re dressed in a pink skirt and like to talk to peas?”
She caught the smile before he turned his head. “I trust you.”
“You’re paying a lot of money on trust.”
“I don’t need it.”
Harrison scooted closer to the wall, and as soon as he did, Beth got up and filled the space, their bodies situated with his head near her feet and her head near his feet. He went motionless, and then he exhaled. Beth smiled to herself. She was tired, but content to talk to him until she either left, or fell asleep.
“What do you do all by yourself in the mornings and over the weekends?”
“Think.”
“And what do you think about?”
“People, mostly.”
“Oh?” She lifted her head and eyed him. “What about them?”
“Well, I find them interesting, for starters.”
He said it so matter-of-factly that Beth laughed as she relaxed against the cushions. “Really?”
“Yes.” Harrison shifted, either in nervousness or agitation. “Do you ever think about all the different kinds of people there are?”
Beth tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and frowned. “I’m not sure I’m following.” The rubber band against her scalp was making her head sore. She removed it and put it on her wrist, smoothing down the thick locks that had been held hostage by it for too long.
“Okay, well, let’s say there is a room full of people.” He paused. “Are you with me so far?”
Rolling her eyes, she clasped her hands together on her midsection and replied, “Yes. I’m somehow managing to hang on.”
“You have all these people with all these different working brains. Some people are nervous being around so many people, some are enjoying it. Some are quiet, some talk. There are dreamers and scientists and know-it-alls. Observers, entertainers, shy people, loudmouths.
“There are people with empathy, sympathy, and apathy. There are some who don’t know the dissimilarities between the three. Some who like broccoli, some who hate it. Some who have never even tried broccoli. Introverts and extroverts. We’re all programmed in our own individual way. We all have a brain, and yet no two are alike. It’s fascinating to me.” Harrison stopped as if he realized he’d said too much, shown too much of himself to her.
“It is fascinating,” she said.
Harrison’s leg bent, and his foot bumped the outside of her thigh. “You sound fascinated.”
Beth laughed. She liked this side of Harrison. He was actually talking to her instead of trying to push her away. “How was your Thanksgiving?”
“My parents cooked me dinner and refused to let me help in any way. When I went to wash the dishes, my mom shoved me back in my chair and told me to drink a cup of coffee. To be fair, it was delicious coffee. She wouldn’t even let me take the pie from the oven.” Annoyance sharpened his words.
“What kind of pie?”
“Pumpkin. My favorite.”
“Your parents are ridiculously mean.”
A short burst of laughter left him. “They’re amazing. Overprotective. And amazing.”
Beth sat up and rested her chin on her knees, studying what she could see of Harrison’s face. “Can we do this all night?”
He pulled himself up to a sitting position. “Do what?”
She shrugged. “Talk. Not sleep. Research, you know.”
Even though she couldn’t see it, Beth felt his smile. “Ah, yes, research. I’d hate to stand in the way of that.”
“Is that a yes?”
He reached out a hand, played with a lock of her hair. She felt his touch all the way to her scalp. “Yes.”
They stayed up until the blackness outside turned to gray, and then pink. She laughed, and she heard the magic of Harrison’s multiple times. Beth learned of his favorite sandwich—a BLT. His first kiss was at the age of thirteen, and he dated the girl for three months, even copping a feel be
fore he was dumped for a guy with facial hair. Beth told him about the time she threw up at the roller rink one town over, and how she won her first dance competition at the age of seven.
“Sometimes,” Beth whispered as dawn touched the sky in pinks and oranges. “I feel like everyone around me thinks I’m not strong. But I do, Harrison, I think I’m strong.”
The silence filled the space between them, and as it grew, her elation dimmed.
And then Harrison spoke.
“I think you’re strong, Beth.”
Beth smiled as her eyes stung. “I think you’re strong too—and lovely.”
Harrison snorted, causing her to laugh.
“Keep talking, Beth. I like your stories,” he whispered into the morning’s hello.
She talked until her throat hurt, and her voice went hoarse. And at some point, his hand rested beside hers, close enough that their fingers periodically grazed one another’s. It was a perfect moment in a collage of misfortune. A sick man and a wounded woman, both restored in the presence of one another’s brokenness.
TEN
AS THE WEEKS went by, they formed their own rhythm. November crept into December, and with it, came more snow, more cold. Beth spent most of her days with Harrison, and some of her weekends. Nothing went past an unspoken point. They rarely touched. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all. Beth observed, and Harrison lived, and it was as if they were in their own world of white. She knew what was happening, and she couldn’t stop it. She didn’t want to stop it.
Beth was falling.
Falling.
And falling.
Beth was falling for Harrison.
A glance of his eyes, the hint of a smile; his voice as it drifted along the air. Harrison’s thoughts projected with a certain look that made her mind go blank and her words falter. The way her body sparked to life when he was near. How he echoed in her mind long after she left his presence. Beth was reborn in the eclipse of Harrison.
Ozzy became an afterthought, but he shouldn’t have.
The smattering of Christmas lights and decorations around town had multiplied in twos and threes. Beth stopped on the busy sidewalk, one shivering form paused in motion while lives pulsed around her, their feet as fast as their heartbeats. It was negative ten degrees out with the wind chill, and frozen air left her mouth as she breathed, the tips of her ears stinging even under the cover of her thick hair and a stocking cap.
