by Dylan Heart
“Why are you telling me this?” I shake my head in disbelief. It’s not something I’m used to, growing up in a place like Ridgefield where doors are kept closed at all times, because if they’re not, that’s when people start to talk.
“Because I’m tired of feeling alone,” the words come barreling out of his mouth like a truth cannon, locked and loaded with sadness, riding a quivering wave of solace.
“It’s all we have in this world. Ourselves.”
“Maybe.” He shifts his eyes to the gun. “But if you really believe that, you’d put that gun down.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Make it that simple,” he commands in a roaring tone. “Choose life because you know it gets better. Choose life because, like you said, all we have in this world is ourselves, and you don’t want to let yourself down.”
“That ship sailed a long time ago.” I purse my lips and shake my head gently, afraid if I make too sudden a movement, I’ll accidentally pull the trigger. “I can’t live with what I’ve done. I can’t live with what I’ve lost.”
“You’re not going to do it,” he assures me and takes another step.
“You can’t know that.”
“You’re not crying.” Another step toward me, and his face is illuminated in a faint light pouring downstream from the cafeteria. “When people are really going to pull the trigger, they’re crying.”
“Crying?” I stumble over my own words, trying to process them. I think to myself, why am I not crying? I settle for the first answer that crosses my mind, because I don’t have to.
“They cry because it’s the end. They don’t want it to be the end, but they’re trapped with no way out of whatever particular level of hell they’ve found themselves in.” Now within touching range, he reaches for my hand, tangling his palm around me, but he doesn’t take the gun. “You have a way out, and it all begins with putting that gun down.”
“I’m empty inside,” I cry softly.
“That’s okay.” His lips roll over each other, and he reaffirms his grip on my hand. He won’t steal the gun away from me, because maybe he thinks I have to make the choice to live.
I make it.
The gun clatters against the wood floor and I collapse forward. He catches me in his arms as we both spiral to the floor. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. I became a teacher to save students, and now a student has saved me.
I give into the tears, and they come like a flood, drenching my face in a stream of relief and regret, of pain and sorrow, of freedom and a second chance at life. But I know it’s not that simple. The path I must walk in life has been irrevocably changed.
He cradles me in his arms as my emotions stain the floor. And gently, he whispers to me, “You were never going to pull that trigger.”
“Maybe,” I whimper. “Maybe not.”
12
Neon red light flickers, canvassing the interior of Kemper’s Challenger in a soft glow between chaotic flashes of darkness akin to a strobe light. Auroras flood my eyes, typically an impending sign of a severe headache, but there’s nothing inside to ache.
I’m a hollow woman in a hollow world, regressing into a younger, more fragile state of mind. There’s a tapping on the passenger window before the door is pulled open.
A crack of thunder rips through the sky, followed by a flash of lightning but there are no clouds in sight. It’s a clear night, where I take in the sight of a tapestry of interconnected stars as I step out of the car.
“Thanks,” I say to Kemper.
He shuts the door behind me and jangles a key in his hand, pointing to the upstairs portion of the Sunset Motel. I begin a slow march past a row of rooms, each fronted by green doors with chipped painting. We reach a short flight of stairs and ascend them.
Kemper glances around us, searching with his eyes for passerby’s who could spot us, but on a Friday Night in this city, everyone is preoccupied with the game. By my estimation, the fourth quarter is about to start and I couldn’t care less if we’re winning or losing, because I, myself, am losing.
Always losing.
Kemper twists the key into the lock and pushes the door open. I’m bombarded with a musky scent and cool air from an air conditioning unit that seems to be stuck on high by default, humming a cry for maintenance.
By all means, it’s your typical vintage hotel with one queen-sized bed on one wall, and a mirror-lined dresser on the other.
“What are we doing here?” I question as I inch past him.
“Taking a break from the world.” He pulls the door shut and steps to the window to draw the curtains to a close. A dark shadow falls upon the room as I drop down onto the bed. I’m content to stay here in the dark, listening to the pacifying sound of occasional traffic zipping by outside.
A clicking sound, and a standing lamp in the corner of the room kicks on, painting the room in a soft, yellow glow. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, taking note in the way I don’t see my reflection no longer. I look like me, with the same dark brown hair and green eyes sunken under the weight of tiredness. It’s a hollow reflection of a hollow woman who’s been rescued from the pit of despair by a man who was a stranger first, a student second, and a savior third. Now, who he becomes is anybody’s guess, but more than anything, I just want to be alone to drown in my own sorrow.
In the mirror, I see Kemper’s reflection approach. I feel the weight of the bed sink as he drops onto the bed beside me. “I live downstairs, in room twenty-three.”
“You live here?” I question, but I don’t face him. I’m content for our reflections to have this conversation. With the distance the mirror provides, it’s safer this way. Easier too.
He laughs to himself and falls backward onto his elbow. “It’s nothing more than a temporary home.”
“You choose to live in a hotel?”
“Motel,” he corrects me. “It’s not so much a choice as a necessity. My uncle owns the place.”
“So, you do have family here.” It’s an observation. Not a question. It’s small talk, and nothing more.
“Blood, yes.” He shakes his head. “Family? No.”
“I’m tired,” I say softly, hoping he’ll get the hint that I want to be left alone.
“You need rest.”
“Do you mind…?”
“Leaving?” he questions, as if he’s reading my fucking mind. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“This isn’t going to be a repeat of the other night,” I warn him, but I’m standing on shaky ground. In the back of my mind, I see him undress and take me in the front seat of his car. A nice, hard fuck might be the only thing to bring me back from the brink at this point, but it’s just as possible it could be the final nail in my coffin. The second he walked into my classroom was the second everything changed.
“I just want to make sure you’re all right.”
“I’m here to tell you that I am.”
“Sorry.” He shrugs and rises to his feet. “I need to see it with my own eyes. If I walked out that door and you did something stupid, I’d never be able to forgive myself.”
“Forgiveness comes slow.” I turn to face him, because now I crave the connection our reflections in the mirror could never provide. “Too slow.”
“It’s none of my business.”
“You’re right,” I say under my breath. “So don’t ask.”
“Why were you going to do it?” He questions and falls into the sitting chair adjacent to the bed and in front of the lamp.
“You can sit in that chair all night if you want, but I’m going to sleep.” I crawl backward to the top of the bed and turn over onto my side, opting to stare at the bathroom instead of him. If I ignore him, maybe he’ll leave me alone long enough so I can figure out my next move. Unfortunately, I haven’t read the handbook on attempted suicide. It’s never even crossed my mind, but today in the face of impossible grief, my psyche snapped in half like a tree branch in the fragile mornings before spring.
“I can’t forgive myself.” I sigh and roll over onto my opposite side. “That’s why I couldn’t do it.”
“Die?”
“Live.”
The revelation hits him like a ton of bricks. It’s not something a young mind is capable of understanding—that sometimes it’s easier to live than to die, and sometimes it’s harder to die than to live. It should be straightforward, but nothing in life ever is. I couldn’t pull the trigger tonight because I didn’t deserve it. I need to pay for my sins.
He clears his throat and averts his eyes. “It’s none of my business,” he reiterates.
“I wanted to become a teacher so I could help people,” I press on, not because he needs to understand, but because it’s easier to process my thoughts when they’re spoken aloud. “I wanted to help him so badly, that I threw all caution to the wind. But I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t even help myself. One choice ripped my entire life away from me.”
“There’s always light at the end of heartbreak,” he assures me with a half-assed smile. It seems to me that there’s something weighing heavy on his heart too, and his assurance isn’t solely for my benefit, but the part that hits me the hardest is that he doesn’t ask who the he is when I talk about him.
“Even if the heart’s already stopped beating?”
“It looks like yours is beating just fine.”
“It’s not mine I’m talking about.” My heart thumps in anticipation of what comes next. I want to slam the brakes, but my mouth is accelerating too fast. “I was pregnant.”
A realization sinks into his eyes, but there’s no way he’s able to grasp the situation for all its emotional weight. I’ve said it out loud for the first time since the accident, and a burden has been lifted from my soul, but now I’m too tired to carry on this conversation.
This is a complicated and twisted tale of despair that even I don’t have a strong handle on. I can’t assign blame where it belongs, because I can’t figure out the puzzle of tragedy. All I know is that we all played our parts.
Nathan and his rebellious soul, spurned by that which he could never change.
My husband and his unshakable penchant for following the rules, but only when those same rules suited him.
Nathan’s parents for their blinded convictions, for which they always stood.
Myself for getting in the car even after inhaling the first intoxicating breath of alcohol.
My sister for picking up the pieces in the only way she knew how.
We all played a part except for my innocent, unborn child. And now that the plug has been pulled on Nathan, it makes it all for naught. Before, there was retroactive justification for jumping in that car, because what ifs are a powerful grieving tool. Now all that’s left is a hollow hole in the world.
I turn back over, with no care to continue talking. The hurt is too raw, and too real. I fear I may fall back down the rabbit hole if it should continue much longer, and besides, I’m too exhausted. It’s a chore to even keep my eyes open.
The last thing I see before I fall asleep is my phone ringing, with my husband’s photo flashing on the screen.
13
My eyes snap open and instinctively, I reach for my phone. Through the grogginess, and a pounding headache, it takes a while for my eyes to adjust. On my screen is a long list of missed notifications: 18 text messages, 14 missed calls, and 5 voicemails. Most are from my husband, but a few are from Ashley. I’m going to have to talk to my husband eventually, and I’ll probably return Ashley’s calls first, but there’s one voicemail from my sister that will be left alone, unanswered, deleted, and pretended as if it never existed.
Harsh morning light peaks through motel curtains, blinding me when I roll over. I throw my hand over my eyes to block the sun, and see Kemper asleep in the chair, wearing a plain white tee and an innocent, resting face.
He stirs when I set up in bed as if he’s the lightest sleeper in the world. Feeling congested, I let out a cough and he springs to life.
“Good morning, Princess,” he groans as he throws his arms over his head, stretching away the exhaustion of sleeping in a chair meant for sitting. “How do you feel?”
“Hungover, and before you read my mind and finish my sentence, I’m well aware I didn’t have a drink last night.”
“Do you have alcohol problems?”
“What?” I scoff and throw white sheets off my body. “That’s one of those things that’s none of your business.” The truth, of course, is that I don’t have a problem. The beer I threw at my husband’s truck last weekend would have been the first in what seems like forever. “It runs in the blood.”
“I’m sorry to hear.”
“Mom and dad, at different points in their lives, drank themselves to the brink.”
“And your husband?”
“Why are you so inquisitive?”
“I told you.” He lets out an obnoxious yawn, shifting in the chair to accommodate the commotion he’s making with his stretched arms. “I want to know everything about you.”
“You know that’s creepy right?”
“It is what it is.” He twirls his finger at me and kicks his feet over the side of the chair, so that his body is slumped in the ravine of the seat. “Continue.”
“I was in an accident.” I raise my thumb to my mouth and chew on the nail. “He was drinking before I got in his car.”
“I’ve heard stories.”
“You’ve heard lies,” I snap at him, anger vibrating in my tone.
“Enlighten me to the truth?”
I sigh and bow my head. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s why you wanted to kill yourself last night?”
“It’s a part of me, forever and always.”
“You feel guilt?”
I jump to my feet, landing against shaggy carpet. “I need to change out of these clothes,” I say, my sentence finishing the exact moment my eyes spot a fresh pile of clothes lying on the dresser. “Are those—?”
“Yours?” He averts his eyes away from me, his eyes purged with guilt. “I snuck into your house last night after you fell asleep.”
I stare him down for what seems like an hour, but amounts to nothing more than a few seconds. “You are seriously crossing lines—“
“I was petrified that he was going to wake up,” he points out as if there’s nothing inherently wrong with what he’s done.
“Please stop interrupting me,” I scold him.
“It’s a two way street, Teach.”
“Teach?” My brow furrows. “Is that the sexy nickname you’ve chosen for me?”
“Can you get dressed?”
“Why the rush?”
“I don’t know.“ He shoves his hands into his jeans, the same jeans he’s been wearing since yesterday. “It’ll be good for us to go out and get some air.”
“We?” I chuckle at the ridiculous concept. “I can’t be seen in public with you.”
“Is that the way you show gratitude for the guy who saved your life?” He rises to his feet and shakes his head in disbelief. “Not that I’m expecting compensation in any form.”
“Thank you, for everything,” I say softly, because he’s right. I owe him the world.
“Thank me by getting ready.”
“So much for no compensation.”
“Where we’re going, nobody is going to see us.” He plops down on the bed and removes his shoes. “And if they do, they certainly won’t recognize us.”
“Fine,” I huff and swipe the stack of clothes off the dresser.
Shower water rains upon my face, storm clouds of steam rising from the basin of the shower tub. I run my fingers through my hair, pushing it all backward as shampoo is rinsed from my locks.
When I’m clean, my body sanitary and my mind clearer than it’s been since this ordeal began a little under twenty-four hours ago, I turn the knob of the shower. Steam billows around my body as I gather my hair behind my head and squeeze the water out.
I towel myself off and reach to clean the mirror from the steam, but decide against a clean slate. The last thing I want or need right now is to be hounded by my own reflection. I don’t bother applying makeup or fixing my hair. Instead, I opt for simple and quick, with nothing more than a hair tie to bound my hair behind my head in a ponytail.
I exit the bathroom, and the first thing I see is Kemper leaning against the motel door, spinning a key around his finger. He’s changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a blue plaid button down. He eyes me up and down and nods his head in a satisfactory manner.
“I like the clean look.” He smiles a perfect smile and steps toward me. “You look stunning.”
“You’re an idiot,” I scowl. “I’m not even wearing any makeup.”
“You don’t need it.”
“Please don’t stand here and try to tell me what I do or don’t need.”
“No.” His brow arches. “Nothing like that. Wear it or don’t. You’re beautiful either way.”
“Do you think you can compliment your way into my pants?”
“Should I try?” He chuckles to himself as he reaches for a pair of shades and glides them over my eyes. “Nobody is going to recognize you now.”
“I’m warning you,” I say as I pass him and reach for the doorknob, “if anyone spots us, I’m going to scream that I’ve been kidnapped.”
“Oh…” he coos and wags a finger at me. “So, that’s what turns you on?”
14
It’s not too hot that we need air conditioning. It’s not too cold that we need heat. It’s the perfect day to race down the highway at sixty miles per hour with the windows down.
