by Claire Adams
Wren folded her arms across her chest and lifted her chin. “So you thought it was better to let him go commit a mass shooting.”
“I was scared. And I’m not proud of how I handled it. But that’s what Isaac was planning to do the very next day. He hadn’t told anyone but me. He didn’t want me to be a part of it, to go with him, but he couldn’t keep the thing to himself. He needed to share it with someone, and he knew that I wouldn’t tell anyone. He knew I’d keep his secret for him. Which I did. I always have, up until now.” Kevin took a deep breath and looked skyward. “And the reason I’m telling you now is because I want you to know that you did what I couldn’t do, even if you didn’t realize it. On more than one count. You prevented a sexual assault from happening, and you also prevented him from carrying out his plan. You might always feel guilty for taking a life, but by doing so, you spared a lot of other people.”
I could only stand there, my brain trying to process everything he said. Was he just making this up? It wouldn’t make sense for him to do that, so I had to believe it was true. Did that make a difference? Did it make me feel better that the person I had killed had been someone who was planning to do some awful things?
“I realize this is a lot of information to just have confronted you with,” Kevin said. “And maybe it won’t make you feel any less guilty—I don’t know. But I have been plagued with guilt own my own because of my inability to do anything. It hasn’t ruined my life, but it’s come close because it’s changed the way I see myself, and not for the better.”
It almost felt as though he needed me to absolve him from that, to say the words that might make his guilt go away. I didn’t know what words those were, though. I didn’t know if I felt any less guilty because of what he’d just said.
“My parents thought that the worst thing in the world was Isaac getting killed,” Kevin said, “but they didn’t realize what he’d been planning to do. I could never tell them that. But if he’d done it, if he’d actually gone through with it—that would’ve been the end of them. There’s no way they would have been able to live with themselves. The details were sketchy enough with what happened between you two that they could tell themselves Isaac hadn’t been in the wrong; he’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. They could feel bad for him as the victim because they didn’t know the details. Do I miss my brother? I do. I miss the brother I remember, not the one who seemed completely detached from society and just wanted to do harm to other people. I have a few good memories of him, and that’s what I miss.”
“You never came forward with that?” Wren asked.
“Why would I have? He was dead. He wasn’t going to be able to hurt anyone. I thought it was over with.” He looked at her, frowning. “You didn’t come forward, either. I knew your first name, but I didn’t know your last, and I kept waiting for you to come forward, but that never happened. Until now, anyway.”
The three of us stood there for a minute, no one saying anything. In the distance, way overhead, I could hear the sound of a plane. There were people in that plane, flying somewhere, maybe going home, maybe going on a vacation. It seemed strange to think of them tens of thousands of miles in the air, like it seemed to strange to think of the way that life just happened, how one decision can change the course of it all in an instant.
The knowledge of what Keith had just said would take a long time to sink in, I knew, but I held my hand out to him. He hesitated and then shook it.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for coming out here to tell us this. I know that probably wasn’t easy.”
“It wasn’t. But nothing is easy, and just for once, I wanted to do the right thing.”
After he left, Wren and I just stood there, looking in the direction his car had just driven off in.
“Did that just happen?” Wren asked. “Or was that some sort of extraordinarily realistic daydream?”
“It wasn’t a daydream—that just happened. And I kind of feel bad for the guy.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know—he just looked so haunted. I mean, I believe him when he says that his guilt over the whole thing is eating him alive.”
“I’m somehow finding it difficult to feel bad for him.”
“That’s not what he was looking for. I don’t think he wanted us to pity him.”
She bit her lower lip, a frown on her face. “Do you believe what he said? About his brother planning to go shoot up a mall?”
“I’m not sure. It doesn’t really seem like the sort of thing someone would make up. I believe that his brother told him he was going to do it; whether or not he would have, we don’t really have a way of knowing.”
“But if he would have, you prevented that from happening.” Wren’s furrowed brow relaxed as she looked up at me. “And if that’s the case, then you saved a lot of people’s lives.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
And that was the thing—there was no way to know, because you couldn’t go back and change the past. But even if you could, I didn’t think I would. I pulled Wren to me, wrapped my arms around her, and kissed the top of her head. She smiled and slid her hands underneath my shirt, her palms warm on my lower back.
“You’re my hero, you know,” she said. “And I mean that. I love you.”
I squeezed her against me. “I love you, too.”
Life had not been particularly easy so far, but maybe that was the point—if life, if love, weren’t hard, it would be easy to just take it for granted, to not appreciate it for what it really was.
Epilogue
Wren
Two years later
Two minutes.
That’s how long I was supposed to wait.
Instead of just sitting there, though, and ticking the seconds off in my head, I got up and walked out into the living room. Summer was winding down, and it had definitely been a success, both here at the ranch and at the restaurant.
I sat down on the couch and looked at the framed photo on the side table. It was of Ollie and me, six months ago, on our wedding. We got married here on the ranch, near the quarry, at sunset. The photo is of the two of us, the warm orange light bathing us both an almost ethereal glow. I wore a simple white A-line dress, something I’d found at the vintage shop and got for ten dollars. It was a rather small affair, and we had the reception at the restaurant.
This past season was the first that Ollie had been running the ranch for Garrett and Marie—they’d decided to buy an RV and tour the country for a year. They’d be returning in the fall, and it was up in the air what their plan was after that. Ollie and I were living together in one of the cabins, and eventually, we’d move up to the main house.
I looked out one of the windows and could see Ollie coming out of the barn. He’d be heading up to the house soon; the people he was supposed to take out on a ride had decided to go into town and do the ride tomorrow. I thought about waiting for him to get up here and both of us look at the test, but then I decided I wanted to be able to tell him myself. And if it was negative, then I didn’t even need to mention that I’d taken it in the first place. But I’d felt strange for the past week or so, and my period was late, though it had been late before, and I hadn’t been pregnant.
I went into the bathroom, knowing the two minutes had definitely passed. It was probably more like three. I took a deep breath and then reached over and picked the pregnancy test up off the counter.
Two pink lines.
I heard a creak as the screen door opened and then slapped shut, followed by a thumping as Ollie stomped his boots on the floor mat.
“Wren?” he called out.
I met him in the kitchen, the hand holding the pregnancy test behind my back.
“Hey,” he said. He kissed me softly on the lips. “How’s everything?”
The smile on my face got bigger. “Everything is great,” I said. “Actually, I have some exciting news.”
“Oh, yeah?”
I hadn’t told him that I was goi
ng to take a test; we weren’t actively trying to have a baby, but we also weren’t not trying, either. We’d talked about it and decided that if it happened, it did, and if not, that was okay too; we could be happy with it being just the two of us. And that was true—I knew I could be completely content if it were just him and me, and I had my restaurant and he had the ranch, and our little family was made up of just the two of us. That would have been perfectly fine, and I knew he felt the same way, too.
But it looked like that wasn’t going to be the case after all.
Ollie was still looking at me expectantly.
With a smile on my face, I held out the test and told him the good news.
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GRIND
BOX SET
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
PART ONE
Chapter One
Distraction
Mia
Abs and I elbow our way to the front of the crowd. The competition is about to start, and I’m not about to let my neophyte friend go without a decent view of what’s about to happen.
The announcer comes over the loudspeaker and introduces the first brave soul. I squeeze Abby’s arm and she turns to face me.
“That’s him,” I tell her.
“I really don’t think this is my cup of…” she trails off as Mike Onomato skates into view.
“Yeah, I thought you’d change your mind when you actually saw him,” I tell her.
Mike Onomato. In the world of skateboarding, the distinction between pro and amateur can be arbitrary or fixed entirely. There are no weekly broadcasts of competitions, at least not on any channel that’s going to show up in a normal digital cable or satellite package.
Sometimes, a skater can go straight from photo shoots and video games back to their neighborhood skate park, never to return to the limelight again. Mike Onomato, though, he’s right on the verge of being the next Burnquist or the next P-Rod.
It goes without saying that he’d never be the next Rodney Mullen. Nobody will ever be Rodney Mullen. That guy’s an alien. Seriously, he invented most of the tricks these guys are going to do in the competition today. In fact, if it weren’t for Rodney Mullen, there probably wouldn’t even be street events.
It’s kind of funny that it actually took him so long to switch over from flatland.
Ah, Rodney. If only I was a little older and you weren’t married…
“That is Mike Onomato?” Abs says, and I congratulate myself for converting yet another soul to the glory that is skating. It may take a while for her to actually care about the sport, but at least the seed is planted.
That’s all I’m doing: planting seeds.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“You weren’t kidding,” she says.
“If you’d actually watched those videos I sent you, you’d already know what he looks like,” I tell her.
“I wanted to be surprised,” she answers, her mouth never staying more than half-closed as her eyes move back and forth with her new crush.
I get bored with Abby’s enthrallment—huh—and I’m watching Mike Onomato grinding the top of a quarter-pipe, coming out of it with a 540 shove that landed flawlessly.
I like Mike.
On the flat now, Mike’s only got a couple of seconds, so he throws in a quick varial heelflip underflip like it’s not even a big deal, but just as he’s about to come down, there’s a touch on my shoulder and I instinctively turn, missing the landing.
I only know that Mike Onomato stuck it by the response of the crowd, and I’m looking at a guy I’ve never seen before.
“How are you doing?” he asks, looking Abs in the eye and me noticeably lower than that.
I cross my arms over my chest and turn half away from him.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Hey there,” Abs says.
“Okay, so you’re the nice one then,” the guy says, pointing to Abs.
While Abs is saying, “We’re both nice,” I’m saying, “Neither one of us is the nice one.”
“Yeah, well,” the guy says and claps his hands together. “I’m Ian. You two fans of skating?”
I turn back toward the street course, though I can hear Abby and Ian’s conversation well enough. “You two fans of skating?” Moron.
“I had no idea the women around here were so attractive.”
“Oh, stop it. You’re just saying that.”
“I’m serious.”
“Are you from around here?”
Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
Kyle Law and Ray Vasquez finish their runs, and I’m getting sick of all the chatter behind me. We’re not here to talk to guys; we’re here to watch the street competition.
I turn around, grab Abs by the arm, and say something about needing a bathroom.
Abs tries to turn, to free herself, but my grip is firm.
“I’m sure we’ll see you later!” Abs calls out.
“What are you doing?” I ask, not breaking pace, my fingers still clamped around Abby’s forearm.
“What?” Abs says. “He was kind of cute.”
“He was annoying,” I tell her, and when we’re finally well out of sight of the street course, I let go of her arm.
“Jeez,” Abs says. “You didn’t have to grab me so tight.”
“Sorry,” I tell her. “I just wanted to get out of there.”
“What’s wrong?” Abs asks. “I know you’re not this out of your head just because some guy came over and talked to us.”
She’s right of course, but I really don’t want to get into it with her right now.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “That’s not going to leave a bruise or anything, is it?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t think so. Can we go back now, or are you actually going to squat down behind one of those trash cans?”
“We can go back,” I tell her, “but I’m really not in the mood for social hour with every guy who starts flirting with us. Can you live with that?”
“Fine,” Abs says. “We’ll go to the other side of the course or whatever and we’ll watch it there.”
“And if someone else walks up?” I ask.
“We blow them off,” Abs says. “Can we go now?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m sorry. I just really want you to be into this stuff. It’s kind of a big thing for me.”
“I’ve never seen you skate,” Abs says. “I thought it was just a fashion thing.”
“I never said I was some big skater,” I tell her. “There’s just something about it, though. I don’t know. On the one hand, it’s very physical. It requires a lot of strength and stamina, but it’s also subtle, artistic. You can just get lost watching someone skate.”
“You’re kind of talking about it like a spiritual experience,” Abs says.
Well, for me, it is, but I hardly expect her to understand that. She hasn’t even seen a full round.
“Let’s go,” I tell her.
These are the days when I feel like I can almost see myself and grasp who I am, besides the 20-year-old skate freak with the straight black hair and the camo pants who still lives with her father. My life’s not a bad one, I guess, and there’s much for me to be grateful for, but days like this are almost holy to me.
That’s why I don’t want to let anything in that might ruin it.
“You can probably let go of my arm this time,” Abs says, but I’m not listening to her. I’m listening to the announcer, trying to make out what he’s saying through the distance an
d over the noise of the crowd.
We just missed Mike Onomato’s second run. We also missed about five other skaters, but mostly, we missed Mike.
By the time we’re to the other side of the street course, the cycle’s almost run through again, and the crowd is so thick. We’re already to the final heat of this round.
“I can’t believe this,” I mutter.
“This is only the first round, right?” Abs asks.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“So what’s the big deal?” she asks. “Unless Mike Last-Name-I-Don’t-Remember sucked it up, he’ll be in the next round.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, and look back toward the street course.
I’ve seen most of these guys before, though there are a couple of newcomers. Of all these guys, though, Mike Onomato is the only one who’s ever been called a pro.
Still, as I look up at the big screen showing the current standings, I’m seeing something I hadn’t expected. Someone named Zavala is beating Mike Onomato.
He’s not beating him—he is humiliating him.
There are a total of three rounds whittling down the field, then a semi-final and a final round. In this round, the top two skaters will advance, and Abs is right: Mike’s going through, but unless this Zavala person is some kind of fluke, I don’t know if I like the way this whole thing is about to go.
