Hard Time

by McKenna, Cara

  “I know you did.”

  “And that what I thought was reality—that you weren’t getting out for years . . . That was unfair enough, you not telling me. I’m glad you didn’t pull any punches when you told me about your . . . crime.”

  “That was so stupid, though. Telling you I’d do it again.”

  “Would you?”

  He pursed his lips.

  “You would,” I said, surprised to hear the exasperation in my voice. I was annoyed. I really wasn’t scared anymore. “You’d do it again.”

  “I don’t have any choice.”

  “Can you imagine how I’d feel,” I said quietly, “if my ex tried that bull on me? Told me he only hit me because he didn’t have any other choice except to give in to his impulses or whatever?”

  Eric looked like he’d been struck himself, irises framed all around with white for a breath. He looked so hurt, I regretted my own impulse, blushing.

  “Sorry. Maybe that was harsh . . . But for all I know, the two are perfectly comparable.”

  His features softened. “Did you deserve what your ex did to you?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Then it’s not the same at all. At all. That guy I beat deserved everything I gave him. If I hadn’t done that, he’d never have felt what he had coming to him.”

  “You went to prison so you’d have a chance to realize how bad you messed up,” I said. “That you’d done something wrong. And you came out without learning that lesson at all.”

  He frowned. “I’m different than I was when I went in.”

  “It doesn’t sound like it.”

  Pink rose in his cheeks, nothing to do with the cold. But his anger or frustration didn’t frighten me. It didn’t reach his eyes.

  “If I went in and came out thinking that guy got more than he deserved, when I beat him down . . . If that’s reformed, I don’t want to be reformed, then. Call my parole officer and get me sent back to Cousins, because I don’t regret what I did. If I had a time machine, I wouldn’t change a thing aside from have the common sense to not tell the judge I would’ve killed the guy if I hadn’t been stopped.”

  My mouth dropped open. “You told the judge that?”

  He looked embarrassed, then steeled. “Yeah. I was pissed. And it was probably true.”

  “But that’s so . . . foolish.”

  “I was young and dumb. And righteous. The prosecution wanted me in for life, for intent to kill. My lawyer wanted me in for plain old assault with a deadly weapon. The judge split the difference with intent to maim, even with my fool ass telling her I wanted the guy dead. She believed my lawyer, that it was a crime of passion. That I wasn’t in my right mind, I was so upset.”

  “You wouldn’t tell me why you did it. What he did to you.”

  “And I still won’t. Look it up if you want—it made the local news. Play detective if that’s what you need.”

  “I did—enough to corroborate what you told me about it. But the why of it’s clearly personal. I’m not going to get the answers I need in some old news blurb. I want to hear it from you.”

  He shook his head. “There’s business at the heart of it that nobody ought to know. If people find out, it won’t be from me.”

  Jesus, he was stubborn. “Are you an angry man, Eric?”

  He gave that a long moment’s serious consideration, then met my eyes squarely. “No. No I’m not. I’m actually a real sensitive guy. Calmer than most folks.”

  “Most folks wouldn’t try to bludgeon a man to death.” I took my own breath away. My words felt blunt as that tire iron, and I was shocked to hear them. Shocked and oddly thrilled to have found my voice, my spine.

  “Everybody gets mad, if you push them the right way,” he said. “That guy I beat down pushed me harder than anybody can be expected to take. But I got cranked through three years of anger management classes at Cousins, and I know what angry motherfuckers look like. And act like. And I’m not one of them, not outside those circumstances that got me put away.”

  I wanted to believe him. I really did. But I’d wanted to believe Justin, all those times he promised not to hurt me again. And I’d wanted to believe I wasn’t the sort of woman who’d let a man mistreat her. Eric believed what he was saying—I trusted that much. But people were the worst judges of their own characters.

  He sighed and stared at the tabletop between us. “It’s like we were never anything at all, were we? All that stuff we said to each other . . .”

  Even knowing it might be dangerous, I said quietly, “I meant every word I wrote to you. I felt every last bit of it.”

  He met my eyes. “Doesn’t feel that way. The way you look at me now.”

  “I knew you in a vacuum then.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I knew . . . In that context, I only knew part of you. One side. And the stuff on the other side is huge—why you did what you did, and how you feel about it.”

  “You’re saying that like, before, I looked okay from where you sat, like some shiny red apple. But now you sliced me open and I’m too rotten for you?”

  I opened my mouth. Closed it. My brain thought the simile was apt, but my heart begged to differ. “It’s not as cold as all that. But you . . . I dunno. Petals and thorns or something. Some poetic bullshit like that.” Like the kind of bull I’d fed myself only weeks ago.

  “You think I’m like him, don’t you? You think if you give me long enough, I’d hurt you like he did.”

  I shifted in my chair, all at once deeply uncomfortable. “I don’t know what I think.”

  “I’m not a guy who gets mean if you just wait long enough. But if somebody fucks with the people I love, I’m not going to just sit back and let it pass.”

  My brows rose at that.

  Eric seemed to catch himself. I saw color rise in his cheeks and he went stiff, sliding a cell phone from his pocket and checking its screen. “I gotta meet with my parole officer at five forty-five.” He stood to shrug his coat back on.

  My stomach turned. I felt unsatisfied way down inside, teased by the very edge of a satisfying explanation. As he pulled on his hat, I eyed his neck, still red from the cold. I unlooped my scarf from the back of my chair. It was rich bottle green, a cashmere blend, and it stood out like a jewel against my camel-colored winter coat, against the gray and white of Michigan winter. I loved it, a lot.

  “Here,” I said, holding it out.

  His brows rose.

  I gave it a shake. “Take it. I have another at home.”

  Reluctantly, he let me put it in his hands. “Green.”

  I thought of you when I bought it.

  “It’s real soft.”

  “Use it. Your neck’s all chapped.”

  His fingers squeezed it but his expression was pure misgiving.

  “I want to you have it.”

  He met my eyes. “I don’t need your charity.”

  “It’s not charity. It’s a woman telling a man he’s being a stubborn jackass. Take it before you get wind burn.”

  A little smirk, a little breath. “I’ll borrow it. But only ’til I see you next. I’ll find my own by then.”

  “Fine.”

  He caught my gaze. “Will I?” he asked. “See you again?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “We don’t have to . . . We don’t have to be those people we were, in the letters. We can be just who we were today.”

  If I took you to bed, which man would I get? Shit. I hadn’t meant to think that.

  “Unless you don’t like who I am,” he added quietly.

  “I don’t know who you are, Eric. You’ve kept things from me—the fact that you were getting out. And why you did what you did, to get locked up.”

  “That first one—I’ll own that. But I can’t tell you why. I’m sorr
y.”

  I sighed, watching his fingers as they flexed, subtly feeling the scarf. “Just tell me this, then. What this man did . . . Was it worse than trying to beat a human being to death?”

  His gaze darted, moving back and forth as he looked between my own eyes. “That’s not an easy question, Annie. But he hurt someone real bad. Someone I love, who didn’t do anything even half as bad to him. He did something that he had to answer for. And he answered to me.”

  “Why couldn’t he answer to the police?”

  “Not my call to make.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, weary. When I opened them, he looked as tired as I felt. I stood. I watched him wind my scarf around his neck, its tails so bright against his dark coat.

  “That’s a good color on you.”

  He smiled limply. “I remember a time when I used to dress you.”

  My body responded, humming. He spoke the way lovers do, when their affairs have come to an end. Sad and fond and accepting. Were we lovers? Without ever having touched one another? My scarf had now caressed more of this man’s bare skin than I ever might.

  “I remember liking that,” I said softly.

  “I’m still him. I’m still that man.”

  I looked away. Tears were brewing, and that was just another intimacy I wasn’t ready to offer him.

  “Look at me,” he whispered. And the way he said it, every noise and every person around us went away. I turned. He held out one end of the scarf, brought it to my cheek.

  “I love how your eyes do that,” he said, voice full of wonder. “How they look green, next to something green. Like that old trick you do with buttercups. Like they suck the color right up.” He let the end drop. “Anyway. I have to get going.”

  I nodded.

  We bundled up. He extended an arm and I preceded him to the door, which he held.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m gonna be around the library now and then,” he said. “I can’t help that. All depends on the weather, and where the city sends me. With my record and this economy, I need to just go wherever my boss tells me I’m going.”

  “That’s fine. I’m not scared of you.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Good.”

  My lips twitched and I pursed them. I couldn’t say if I was on the verge of smiling or crying.

  “Do you . . . Do you want my number?” he asked. “You don’t ever have to use it. But would you like it? Or my email address?”

  “You have email?” Why did that seem so surreal?

  He nodded. “My sister gave me her old laptop.”

  “Um . . . Okay, then. Can’t hurt.”

  He fished for his wallet and took out a business card of all things. Eric Collier. Contract Landscaping, Odd Jobs. An email address. A phone number. A free man.

  I slid it deep into my coat pocket. “Thanks.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you around, Annie.”

  I watched his lips as he said it, my cheeks warming to remember how I’d fantasized about kissing them. “See you.”

  A little hitch of those lips, a little wave, then he turned away, heading for the road. My scarf around his neck, probably smelling of my lotion. His card in my pocket, slippery between my gloved fingers.

  The man who’d brought me back to life, crossing the street, leaving me closed in the dark and cold. Leaving me wanting.

  Chapter Ten

  I made the decision two days later. After a lot of thought, and no alcohol. After weighing the pros and cons and finding no answers there, only more questions. And it was a question I typed into the body of an email.

  Would you like to hang out on Saturday evening? Just as those two people from the donut shop. There’s a bar on Benson Street called Lola’s. Seven o’clock?

  Anne

  I paused. Hit the back arrow key. Added the i.

  Annie

  I could’ve called. But writing . . . Wasn’t that the only way, really?

  His reply didn’t come for another two days, sent around noon while I was busy at Cousins. Busy worrying he’d either not received my message or had chosen to ignore it. My heart stopped when I saw his name in my inbox.

  I’ll be there. And I’ll bring your scarf.

  Eric

  When the night arrived, I was early. But he was earlier.

  I spotted his back through the front window, his messy hair. As I hauled the door open, it felt as though I were spreading my ribs wide, heart pounding and slick for the world to see. He didn’t spot me until I reached the booth he’d procured. He looked surprised as our eyes met.

  “Evening,” I said, slipping off my coat. I’d donned it as a formality, not ready for him to know I lived here. And I’d dressed exactly as I felt, a bundle of caution hiding a core of hopeful mischief. Jeans and a fitted sweater saying nothing special . . . but underneath, spring-green lace and satin.

  “Evening.” He studied me as I sat, his expression tough to read. My scarf was rolled neatly on the table by his elbow, and he slid it over the shiny wood. “Thanks for that.”

  “You’re welcome. You all right?”

  “Yeah, fine. I’d just expected to be kept waiting. At least until seven.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve been needing a drink.” And to see you. Whoever you are. The bar was warm, and he was wearing a tee shirt, his winter layers heaped beside him. I tried to not notice his arms.

  He looked around. “This is not a place my parole officer would approve of.”

  “Are we violating your conditions?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. But I sure didn’t have you pegged as a girl who’d pick a dive like this.”

  I shrugged. “It’s close to where I live, and it’s not like Darren has a ritzy section. Can I get you something?”

  “You sit. I’ll grab whatever you want.”

  My eyes jumped to the bar, glad not to find Kyle on duty. The last thing I needed was him shooting me looks, demanding, Is that the guy? The one we warned you about?

  “Iced tea with lemon and ice and a shot of bourbon.”

  Eric looked puzzled at that but nodded. “Sure.”

  He came back shortly with my drink and a bottle of beer. We sipped in heavy silence for half a minute, then he asked, “Why’d you decide to see me again, anyhow?”

  I read your letters on Monday night. Every last one. Wrapped my tongue around each word, then watched us act them out in my mind, all week. “I’m not sure.”

  His brows drew tight.

  “I’m not trying to toy with you,” I said. “If I knew what I was after, I’d tell you . . . I think maybe I’m just trying to make sense of you. And us, how we were. What we are now.”

  “We’re whatever you decide we are.”

  “Would you want to just be friends with me?” I asked, curious.

  “Maybe. Until you started seeing somebody.”

  “What would happen if I started seeing somebody?”

  “It’d rip my heart out,” he said with a sad smile. “How would you feel if we tried being friends and I started seeing somebody?”

  Oh God. I felt exactly that in a breath—the meanest twisting in my chest and stomach. We were here already, weren’t we? Talking about things I hadn’t been sure we’d ever be able to utter to one another.

  “I’d feel crummy,” I admitted. And I realized in the next breath exactly what we were. We were exes. We had a history. We’d been intensely, romantically intimate. We’d felt for each other, and we’d hurt each other. We’d never truly touched, but all the same, we weren’t over what had been, between us.

  “I’ll be honest,” he said. “If you want to hear it.”

  I nodded, sipping my drink to try to clear a lump in my throat.

  “I’d be frien
ds with you, for as long you weren’t seeing anybody. Because I like you, as a person. And because I’m in love with you.”

  I froze.

  “I’d be friends, just for the chance to see you. But the second you got into something with some other guy, I’m out of there. And not because I’d flip out and beat him up. Just because it would hurt too much. I’d be out of your life—no drama, no nothing. Just gone. But for now, I’ll take you whatever way you’ll let me.”

  “Jesus.”

  He smirked at that. “Like you didn’t know.”

  “No, I didn’t. Not in . . . those words.”

  “Well, you know now.” He stared at his bottle, spinning it around and around by the neck. “But if you feel like being friends . . . I don’t even care why. Pity, curiosity. Because you want to fix me, or get back at your daddy. Whatever.”

  I frowned. “None of those reasons.”

  “I know I ought to be getting busy forgetting about you, because I fucked all this up so bad, I’m probably never fixing it. But you’re the first good thing I’ve felt in so long. The only colorful thing in this shitty gray world I’ve come back to. The spring seems such a long ways off. Maybe seeing you will get me through the winter.”

  I didn’t even know if he was speaking in metaphors or not, but again I pictured the green oasis I’d hidden behind wool and denim.

  “Well . . . I don’t know why I’d want to be friends,” I said. “I don’t think I need to know why. But we connected on the inside. I want to know if maybe there’s some way we could do the same, in the real world.”

  He held my stare. “That was my real world.”

  Fuck. I blushed, ashamed. “I’m sorry. Of course it was. It was real to me, too . . . in the moment. But I didn’t know what I was doing, either. I was too drunk on it. Too close to step back and see what was happening.”

  “And what was happening?”

  I blinked at his hands, still toying with the beer bottle. “I was falling for a man I didn’t really know. A violent man. Who’d done something terrible to another human being. Worse than the boy who’d made me not trust myself to begin with.”

  “Your ex hit a woman. He hit you. Why?”