by Dani Wyatt
This is not in your wheelhouse, I’m afraid. Some things they don’t teach you in SEAL training.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. You don’t have to tell me, but I’m driving you wherever it is you need to go.”
He leaves no room for dissent, and I have to say I’m relieved to not have to wait outside for a bus around here. This neighborhood is changing for the better, but it’s dark and getting late, and the bus stop is three blocks away.
“Let me get my keys.” He’s striding away, and I can’t help the flutter that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my stomach as I watch him go, his neck jerking a couple times on the way.
“Okay.” I am clearly flustered, and Mr. Fitzgerald is staring me down.
“He’s a good boy. He managed to end up on the right side of things even with everything. Even with me.”
It seems to be his way of giving us some sort of blessing for whatever that was he saw us doing on the counter.
Kissing, right? It’s such a small word for what that was.
“Oh, you’re not so bad.” I give him a soft tap on the shoulder. “You need anything before I go?”
I take a step into the apartment’s efficiency kitchen as he grunts from behind me. I gather up my purse and straighten some papers on the counter next to the stove.
“I’m fine. I’d be fine on my own, too. I don’t need you fussing over me. I don’t need to be living with my son, either.”
“You coming?” Beckett is standing at the door to the apartment, holding my jacket.
“Yep. Bye, Mr. Fitzgerald. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I give him a quick wave and remember to shut the door as I step away. All the doors around here weigh more than a boulder and feel like solid steel.
In the parking area below the building, Beckett’s holding open a door on what looks to be a brand new Suburban.
It’s black. Every part of it. Black windows even. Inside, my assessment of its newness is confirmed. There is no smell quite like new-car.
Just like the loft, it is immaculate. I don’t know what genetic combination I’m missing, but I wish I could keep things neat and clean like he does. When I did have a car, I was that person who needed a good five minutes to clear off her front seat in order for anyone to ride shotgun.
Not Beckett. I bet that in five years, this car will look just as clean as it does right now.
“Is hand holding on the ‘don’t want’ list?”
He’s already reaching for me as he pulls down the dark street. The wind is still whipping around, and I can see a few snowflakes wafting in the street light.
“I guess not.”
It takes me a second to decide to tell him, but I want him to know.
“Your dad really does care about you. He loves you. I don’t know if he will ever get around to telling you himself, so I just want you to know. It’s none of my business what happened. Trust me, I know families have stuff. But, you never know how long you have with people.”
I see his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel, and he sucks his cheeks in.
“Yep, I know.” His gaze has lost its cheerfulness, and now I’m sorry I said anything. But, I want them to be okay. I don’t know why, but I do.
“You love him, too. I can see it. Just do something for me, will you? I’ll let you kiss me again if you do.” I add that last part with as much playful humor as I can muster. It lightens the mood, and I watch his brow loosen a little.
“What’s that?”
“Just tell him. No matter how weird it may feel, just tell him you love him. Tell him you guys are okay. Whatever happened is done. He’s living with you, and I can see you both just want to forget and move on. But, you have to be the bigger man. Just tell him, okay?”
“When exactly do I get this kiss? That information is critical to the terms of this deal we are making.”
He squeezes my hand and flashes me that smile and that chipped tooth grabs at me.
“See that red light?” I nod at the stop light coming up.
He brings the Suburban to an abrupt stop ten feet before the light, and his lips are on mine as fast as he can maneuver to me. His hand slips to the back of my neck, and it’s a good thing because I don’t remember how to hold my head up anymore.
I don’t ever remember enjoying a kiss like this. It’s even better than the other two.
His tongue wraps around mine, and there isn’t enough air to exhale into the sigh that comes out of me. I feel this crushing weight of a longing that is new and amazing.
My legs press together, trying in vain to stem the tide of tension and tingling that shoots straight from his lips and settles inside my panties.
There is a loud honk from behind, and I jump. Beckett breaks away, leaving me feeling like I just ran up a hill and ended up in wonderland.
He moves the Suburban forward, and I see stars.
“Do you hear that?” He’s not letting go of my hand as he pulls it to press against his lips.
I’m still trying to regain my bearings and figure out how to calm my pulse before I go into cardiac arrest.
“What, that guy honking?” I say breathlessly, my free hand haphazardly pushing my hair around on my head.
“No. The other thing.”
I tip my head like a stupid owl trying to hear whatever it is he hears.
“I don’t hear anything.” I shake my head, looking at him.
“I do. I hear you falling for me.” He gives me that devilish smile, then his lips are on my hand again.
“Gawd, really?” I shake my head and give him an exaggerated eye roll. “Just remember, you promised. I gave you your kiss—pre-paid, so as soon as you get home, you tell your father you love him. You fix whatever’s broken.”
“Yes, ma’am. You drive a hard bargain.”
“That wasn’t the only thing that was hard tonight.” I am shocked that just came out of my mouth, but he is so disarming. I feel so safe with him.
Beckett lets out a laugh that shakes the car.
“Touché, my dear. Touché.”
Beckett
When I’m sure she’s safely inside her apartment, I ease the Suburban forward, but it just feels shitty letting her go. She wouldn’t let me walk her up, and she wouldn’t tell me what the phone call was about.
I don’t like that. At all.
I need to know. For whatever reason I feel like I have the right to know.
Everything.
These waves of predatory possessiveness are taking over and I’m trying like hell to keep it in check. I can’t shake the feeling that I need to hover over her and block out anything that could take the smile from her face.
It’s a fight, but I manage to let her walk herself upstairs and not drill her like a damn de-briefing about the phone call that seized her up and ended what was shaping up to be one of the best evenings of my life.
Now, I’m trying to figure out how to tell my dad—the same man who once wished me dead and meant it—that I love him. I need to mend almost two decades of pain.
The life our little family had before the fire was pretty damn good.
We didn’t have money. Dad’s diabetes hit him young and hard. Mom worked as a nurse, but it still left us in an apartment on the side of the tracks most people would call wrong. But, we didn’t realize we were missing out on anything.
My dad loved my mom; they never hid it from us. He was as quick to give her a nice swat on her behind as he was to pull her onto his lap and lay a good long kiss on her lips.
Even so, they had their share of heartache. My mom’s family refused to accept their relationship. Even when you think the world has made progress, there are some people who just stay closed. Their minds stay small, and they refuse to open their hearts. Even to their grandchildren.
You'd think that by 1972, a black man and a white woman in love wouldn’t snap any heads around. But it wasn’t the case. By the time they eloped with her belly already pushing out, filled with me, mom�
��s parents had made it clear that she was no longer their daughter.
No one would look at me and think I was anything other than some white boy. I lived a different life than my dad. I didn’t have the experiences he did even though half my DNA is his.
We moved a lot, but we were happy. Whatever walls and roof they put around us, it was filled with their love.
For each other, for my sister and me.
But, things change. In big ways. You don’t realize how fragile people are until the worst happens. Like it did to us. To him.
Promise is right. I’ve got a chance. I’ve lost enough time. I can swallow my pride and fix this chasm between us.
But, to move forward, I’ve got to quit looking back other than to realize that maybe the man that raised me for the first ten years of my life is still inside the man in the wheelchair. Together, maybe we can forget and forgive and wash away the memories. We can live whatever time is left in a new way, in a good way, even if it is a different way.
It doesn’t have to be perfect, but I do still love him. .
I guide the Suburban around the last corner toward the loft. There is a glow on the usually dark street. I know the rest of the building is empty as Louis is fighting with the city to get the permits to turn it into residential upscale lofts.
Why is there light coming from the windows?
Then I smell it.
It hits me like a cannon ball when I realize I know exactly what this is. No fucking way this is happening.
Not again.
No.
Please.
I can’t do it again.
“No! Fuck! My dad is in there! He’s in there! Get the fuck off! Get off!”
Three guys are holding me and my lungs are burning. I’m jerking and pulling until my head is pounding from the strain. I wrench one arm free and start swinging.
The dark street is filled with flashing with blue and red lights. The area is blocked off, and I clench my teeth until pain shoots deep into my head.
“Stop! We’ll get him. You can’t go in there, let us do our job!” The firefighter grimaced as I twisted and he almost toppled down with me.
A fourth monster sized guy in a yellow fire suit is added to the detail of holding. Five or six guys have already gone up the stairs, but belching smoke is billowing out of the two apartment windows.
“He’s in a wheelchair. He can’t get out!” I’m screaming and pulling. I have to go in. I have to.
They don’t understand.
“They’ll find him!” One of them yells. "You go in; it’s just someone else we need to save.” The firefighter next to my left ear is trying to stay reasonable, but I’ve already landed a couple fists into him, and I can hear he’s losing patience.
I don’t give a fuck.
More yellow suits go up the stairs.
With hoses.
And a stretcher.
The black halo closes around my vision, and the chaos turns silent.
The next thing I recall, I’m sitting on the curb. I’m holding my breath. My hands are pulling at the back of my head, trying to hold it on or tear it off I’m not sure. I don’t want to be here. I’ve ridden this ride before, and I want off. Permanently.
There're voices all around and the smell of diesel from the running engines of the firetrucks.
I don’t know how much time has passed since the last solemn faces in yellow fire suits came out. It could be minutes, could be hours. I don’t care. God hates me, and I hate him.
I can see Louis talking to the fire chief. He keeps glancing my way.
I can't think. I drop my head onto my forearms and watch the streams of filthy water washing off the street into the storm drain next to me.
There’s a hand on my shoulder. I don’t know how to move.
“Come on. Let’s go.” Louis has me under my arms. I can feel the pressure as he pulls me up.
I’m surprised when I don’t crumple back down. My feet move, my legs do their job, and I’m numb. I don’t feel. Anything.
Inside his car, Louis is silent for a few blocks. I watch the darkness roll by, an occasional figure dots the sidewalk, and I think about Dad’s face when I walked into Windfield. For a moment, before he thought about it, he looked happy to see me.
“Man, you know how sorry I am. I can’t believe it either. You don’t deserve this, Beck. You don’t.”
I let out a sniffing laugh, trying to figure out why I don’t deserve it.
“They said the fire door to your dad’s apartment contained the fire and smoke. Whatever was in the loft side is fine. The fire was really just in the apartment kitchen. They’ll investigate, but they said you can get back in the loft tomorrow to get your stuff or whatever. If you want to, that is. You can stay in the guest house as long as you want.”
“I should have been there. I could have gotten him out.”
“Man, don’t. You’ve got enough of that bullshit on your shoulders already, don’t take more. Don’t do it, it will kill you, Beck. It will kill you this time.”
“I don’t care.” I stare out the window, watching the empty store fronts and boarded up windows on the street.
“Man, don’t go dark. I get it, I do, but I’ve seen you go there before. I’ve had to drag you out of some scary shit. You’ve done one hell of a job getting your life together and keeping it there. Don’t let this blow it up. There was nothing you could do. You know they’ll investigate and find out it was some damn electrical thing. And, if you want the truth, then that’s fucking on me because it’s my damn building, and I asked you to live there to help my ass out.” Louis’s voice catches and gets louder with each word.
“It’s not on you.” It’s all I can muster. My friend is knocking himself around, and I couldn’t even come up with something better.
Don’t go dark, Louis said.
I don’t think I can stop it. I’ve never been able to stop it.
I feel like someone is pulling my guts out through my damn ass. It hurts. Like cancer eating at me while I sit here feeling like I’d just lost the last opportunity to figure out my life.
“Listen.” His voice goes hard, and I give him the bare minimum of my attention. “I know what’s going on in your head. It’s coincidence. Bad fucking luck. That’s all.”
“There is no bad or good luck; there’s just luck.”
“Jesus, shut the fuck up. You know what I mean. What happened has nothing to do with you. What happened on that dirt road in Afghanistan had nothing to do with you. What happened with your mom and your sister had nothing to do with you. The world sucks sometimes. It sucks more for some people than for others, and you’ve had about ten helpings of your share of suck.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing here. I mean, what am I going to do? I don’t know how to live a normal life. I’ve been back, what? Five days? Six? And already I want to fucking blow something up. I want to wrap my hands around a throat and watch the life leave someone’s eyes. But the only person I seem to want to kill is—”
“Stop! I’m fucking serious. I’ll make a phone call right now and put you somewhere safe if you fucking say it, man. Don’t. Please.”
Louis is the only person that knows what happened when I couldn’t take it anymore. He’s seen me down in the well, daring life to snatch me from death. Gun in my hand, sitting in the corner of some abandoned building on Center Street where the mess wouldn’t matter. Twelve years old without any hope that the pain corroding my insides would ever go away.
No one knows about that except him.
“What the fuck, Louis.” My voice shatters as I smash my head against the passenger window. “Fucking fire? Really? Why did it have to be fire?”
The pain explodes in my head, and I barrel my fists against the dash until Louis pulls the truck over and wrangles me into a headlock.
“Stop! Just stop. I don’t fucking know why, man. I don’t.”
I turn and lay a blow on the side of his face. I don’t care who he is, I just want t
o hurt someone, and he’s here.
“Fuck!” He keeps the hold on my neck even as I grapple at his forearm.
It doesn’t take long for my brain to run out of oxygen, and my head starts spinning. He's got me tight, and even with berserker fury, I need oxygen.
“You done?” he growls when I finally go slack.
Yeah, I’m fucking done.
“Let go, you ass.” His grip loosens as I shove him off me and lay my head in my hands.
He pulls the truck back into the light traffic, and I feel like I must weigh two thousand pounds. Even my fingers feel heavy. Every breath is torture to get in and out of my lungs.
My phone is buzzing in my pocket. I dig it out for the distraction.
PROMISE: Hi, sorry to bother you. I forgot my scarf in your dad’s apartment. Just wanted you to know. I’ll get it tomorrow when I come, BFF. :-)
I type in six various replies before I stuff the phone back in my pocket without hitting send.
I’m not sure what the fuck God has against me, but I’m beginning to take it personally.
Promise
Jeremy is pacing in the hallway outside the apartment by the time I get there. I know he’s here to help me, but sometimes I feel like he’s overdoing it. Almost bullying me into how he thinks I should live my life.
“What took you so long? I was getting worried.” The annoyance I hear is not translating his words of concern.
“What’s going on? Why couldn’t you just tell me over the phone?” I dig in my backpack pocket for my keychain.
I jiggle the key in the lock and swing the door open, stepping into dark apartment. Jeremy is right behind me, shuffling me inside, his hand already pushing the door closed behind us.
“Turn on some lights.” His entitled, overbearing tone raises the hair on my arms.
He’s been a part of my life for so long, ever since the day the State of Ohio decided a ten-year-old girl should not be left alone to raise an eighteen-month-old in an apartment with no heat and empty cupboards.
I passed from case worker to case worker for years. Ever since my file transferred to him, he’s been in my life.
After I turned eighteen and “aged out,” he kept in touch. More than kept in touch, he’s become a friend.
