THIEF: Part 1

by Kimberly Malone

  I solemn up my face. “Oh. Did he…?”

  “Yeah. A week before my fifteenth birthday.”

  “I—I’m sorry, Silas, I didn’t mean—”

  He stops me. “It’s totally fine. I mean, it’s been a whole decade—not trying to sound irreverent about it or anything, but I’m kind of over it. People die. Life goes on.” We drive a while in silence, till he turns on the radio and asks, “What about you? Your mom made sure to stress the ‘Ms. not Mrs.’ thing when she introduced herself to me, so I’m guessing your dad’s not in the picture, either.”

  “Never met him,” I answer. “I don’t think my mom even knows who he is.”

  “Sorry.” Silas cringes. “This date is not going well so far, is it?”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  I tilt my head back, smile, and think a minute. “Sophomore year of high school. One of my friend’s exes asked me to a concert, and I thought he meant as friends. He was real casual about it, when he invited me. Then he shows up at my house with flowers, dressed up and everything.”

  “That’s not that bad.”

  I hold up my hand. “Wait. It gets worse. First, we don’t have the right tickets. He got them from a scalper who ripped him off. So we wait in line for an hour to get them—which I had to pay for, since he didn’t have enough cash. Then, we get inside, and turns out my friend is sitting right in front of us.”

  “Damn.”

  “She punched the guy in the nose and scratched my face up. All three of us got kicked out before the show even started.”

  Silas is laughing. “Okay, you’re right. That is much worse.”

  I nod, then add, “But the night is young.”

  “Ooh. Putting some pressure on me.” He pauses, glancing over. “So what was your best date?”

  This, I have to really think about. I’ve been on dates—tons—but none particularly swoon-worthy. “To be honest, I can’t remember. Most of my dates were your typical first-date activities. Dinner, a movie, low-key stuff.”

  “No second dates?”

  “A few.” I shift in my seat, a little uncomfortable. “Not many cared to try again, I guess.”

  “Hard to believe.”

  “Well.” I elbow him. “Like I said—the night is young.”

  “Don’t give me that look,” Silas grins, taking my hand. “I promise, you’ll like this.” He holds the door for me, and I step inside towards the blasting A.C.

  It’s an expo hall. And it’s packed.

  He has a sly smile on his face, the same expression he’s had since we pulled into the parking lot of this nondescript concrete building, half an hour outside the city limits. He’s waiting for me to crack the code.

  I look around. There are tables and booths everywhere, most run by women, and most surrounded by women and a few uncomfortable men. There are several displays with huge, elaborate cakes, and some with beautiful dresses on display. A couple have tuxedos. Beside me, before I see them, I smell row after row of flowers.

  Slowly, I turn to Silas. “A wedding expo?”

  He hooks his thumbs into his belt loops, proud. “A wedding expo.”

  My initial reaction, were this any other date with any other guy, would be terror. I’d scream for help because clearly, my date is a psychopath, and I’m one drugged cake sample away from captivity in his basement.

  But Silas has this face like he knows I find it crazy, and so does he. I start laughing, and he starts laughing. It’s so ridiculous, we can’t help it.

  “Some friends of mine spent a ton on the tickets,” he explains, as we work our way inside. “They’re getting married in a few months, but they came down with a stomach bug, so I said I’d go for them and pick up some business cards, pamphlets, maybe taste some free cake….”

  “How kind of you.”

  “Isn’t it?” He gives our tickets to a woman by the main doors. “I’m the best man, actually, so I do kind of have an idea of what they’re going for. And maybe you can help me.” His next words sound like they’re scripted. “We’re supposed to focus on ‘rustic elegance’ and ‘shabby chic.’ Not to sound sexist or anything, but it sounds like something a woman would know.”

  “I kind of hate weddings,” I admit, “but I do happen to know exactly what you’re talking about. I see it all the time on Pinterest.”

  “So…is that a yes? You’ll help?”

  I look around, then dig my fake ID out of my purse. “Free cake. Free booze. Why not?”

  “It’s almost over,” he says, “so we’ll have to do a speed-round. And we need to get our story straight, first.”

  “Our story?”

  “We have to sound believable,” he explains, “if we want those free samples. How do you want the proposal?”

  I laugh. “Something really lame. You put the ring in my cake at a restaurant, and I almost ate it.”

  “That’s good. When’s our wedding?”

  “Next September.” I snatch a mini-cupcake from a table, grab a business card, and nod at the booth owner before they can snare me in conversation. “We’re getting an early start. We’re very proactive, that way.” I take a bite, then offer the rest to Silas.

  “You’re a pro,” he says, impressed. He takes the last bite. There’s a swipe of butter cream frosting at the corner of his mouth.

  And without even thinking—or maybe just caught up in the fantasy—I swipe it off with my thumb.

  The silence between us is painful. It lasts only a second, but it feels much, much longer. I kind of want to die.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  Slowly, Silas takes my hand and lifts it to my mouth. He pushes the frosting-covered thumb past my lips. Our eyes are locked, unblinking, and I feel my pulse bouncing off the rafters.

  “How is it, honey?” he says, like a cheesy actor, stressing the words and really projecting. More than a few women look over at us.

  I’m blushing. There’s no way anyone can buy this act. But Silas doesn’t break character, so I can’t, either.

  “It’s great,” I answer, and start laughing again. Suddenly, I don’t want to die. I want to do it again.

  Silas leans in closer, his hand slipping around to the small of my back. “Let’s show these people how it’s done,” he whispers, and presses his sugary mouth against mine.

  Chapter Four

  We blow through the booths fast. After enough champagne and wine samples, I forget our story. Silas doesn't mind; we have more fun inventing a new one at each table.

  “We met online.”

  “We met at a furries convention.”

  “She was my parole officer.”

  “He was my high school history teacher.”

  The lies get more and more ridiculous. By the end of the expo, word has spread about the two frauds; vendors start glaring when we walk by, and suddenly the pushy salespeople have no business cards or pamphlets for us.

  “We’ve got plenty,” I assure Silas, hefting my swag bag. It’s loaded up with free magnets, keychains, cards and flyers. “Your friends won’t be disappointed.”

  “Let’s get out of here before they start a witch hunt. Besides, I’m dying for some real food.” He starts a parade wave as we beeline for the door. “Thank you everyone, thank you! We’ve got a lot of details to hammer out for the big day!”

  I can’t stop giggling, even once we’re back in his car. “That,” I manage, out of breath, “was so much more fun than I expected.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  I smile at him, realizing I’m considerably drunker than he is, or at least worse at hiding it. “You’re kind of a sleaze, you know that?”

  “No,” he corrects, “I’m a mooch. But I make up for it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I don’t take more than I can give back. I like to keep the universe balanced. Keep track of my karma.”

  I make a big show of buckling up as he tears out of the lot and onto the highway ramp. “Like volunt
eering at Fox Ridge—you think that balances stealing a bunch of cake and alcohol from a wedding expo?”

  “Well, first of all, it wasn’t stealing. Those were free samples. So what if we’re not engaged? Half the women in that thing aren’t really engaged. They wanted free stuff just as bad as us.” He downshifts, barely slowing down for a stop sign. “And second, as far as the universe is concerned, yes, counseling makes up for a little mooching.” He takes the next exit, where a slew of restaurants sits. Their neon signs buzz and blink impatiently, like they’ve all been waiting for us.

  “I don’t believe in karma,” I say, pointing to a bar at the next light. He takes the turn. “It’s all coincidence.”

  “Then why, if you don’t mind me asking, are you serving community service at the ranch?” He parks, undoes his seatbelt, and turns off the car, but looks at me instead of getting out. “Is that a coincidence too?”

  “No. I broke the law, and I got caught. They slapped me with community service instead of jail, because my record was clean. And because I got the most lenient judge you can get in my county, at least according to my lawyer. So I lucked out, I guess.” I’m not quite drunk enough to add what I really want to say: that tonight, I’m actually kind of glad I got caught, if only because it led me to Silas.

  He’s getting serious now, so I brace myself. “You don’t have to tell—”

  “Then don’t ask.” I unbuckle my seatbelt, somehow exiting the car rather gracefully, and lean down to look at him. “At least not till you buy me a couple more drinks.”

  As it turns out, Silas is the king of mooches. “You gotta be, on my salary,” he says, when the bartender—a friend from high school—gives me a cocktail, on the house. We get a free appetizer too, when he chats up the manager and discovers they were both in the same frat in college.

  “Impressive,” I tell him, signaling the bartender for a second martini. “Guess the universe is happy with your good deeds.”

  “Guess so. But you don’t believe in that.”

  “I believe the universe picks its favorites,” I say, “and that I’m definitely not one.”

  Silas sips his soda. For a second, I think I see pain in his features, a nerve I’ve struck, but he moves his glass up for another sip, and then it’s gone.

  He says, “I’m not, either.” And that’s that.

  We make small talk for a little while, pausing only to chow down on our burgers and shared plate of fries. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or my own nerves, but I’m ravenous. I finish my meal—and my third cocktail—before Silas is halfway done.

  “You had enough to tell me what you did yet?” he asks, dropping a fry into my empty martini glass.

  My head’s a little foggy; it’s been a while since I’ve had liquor. I take a minute to think over what I should say. Nothing sounds good.

  I decide on a sterile tone, something a lawyer might say. “I was apprehended after stealing about $1,000 worth of merchandise from a store.” It’s only when my chest burns and I heave a deep sigh that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

  But by some miracle, Silas looks unfazed. In fact, he looks interested. “What’d you steal?”

  I wasn’t prepared for this, and I have to think again. “Some electronics, mostly clothes. Some c.d.’s.”

  He chuckles. “You still listen to actual discs?”

  I shake my head. “That’s kind of the most messed-up thing about it, actually. I just…saw them. And I wanted them.”

  “That is a little messed-up.”

  My stomach sinks. I feel the buzz wearing off.

  “Hey, I’m not judging,” he adds quickly, “just saying that—”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  It happens so fast—the woman stampeding towards our table, beer glass in hand. Throwing the beer into Silas’s lap, and then upturning his plate against his shirt. Even the waiter, a few feet away, can’t react fast enough and just kind of freezes, like I do.

  “You got some nerve,” she snarls, “coming to my town with some slut, when I haven’t seen shit from you in weeks.”

  “What the hell, Abby?” Silas screams, reaching for a napkin with one hand, trying to push this crazy woman away with the other.

  Strangely, the next part isn’t fast at all. In fact, it happens in slow-motion. I feel like I’m underwater, because I can’t move fast enough to stop her. The waiter and bartender can’t, either. We just watch.

  We watch the empty glass, still white and dripping with the beer’s lace, smash against the tabletop. We watch the woman lift the bottom half from its shards, glittering in the bar’s dim lights like gemstones.

  We watch her press the glass against his cheek, how it cuts his face in a clean and winding line. The way his reaction—to jerk away—pushes it deeper, pulls the glass up to his ear. The way Silas’s blood blooms across his neck, deep red and thick, like rose petals unfolding for the sun.

  Chapter Five

  “Stop crying, Erin.” Silas barely flinches as the needle pierces his skin again, the last stitch complete. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. How’s your head?”

  “It’s fine.” In actuality, it feels like my head went through a windshield. When the staff finally pulled the woman off Silas, I scrambled out of the booth to help—only to faint the second his blood touched my hand. I woke to a paramedic practically shouting my name into my face.

  “There you go, Mr. Marlowe.” The nurse pats down the last bit of medical tape. “Stitches should dissolve on their own in a week or so. Keep the bandage dry, and clean the wound once a day. Mild soap.” The nurse looks at me. “You need anything?”

  I shake my head and pull my sweater around me even tighter, more than ready to leave. The scene in the restaurant clings to me like snow.

  A police officer is waiting for us when Silas opens the curtain of his room. “Evening,” he says to me, then looks at Silas. “We have a few questions for our report, Mr. Marlowe.”

  Silas pushes the forms away and starts towards the Emergency Room exit. “I’m not pressing charges.”

  “What?” I don’t mean to yell, but I can’t possibly have heard him correctly.

  The officer seems equally confused. “Uh…Mr. Marlowe, we’ve apprehended Abigail for assault—”

  He stops, sighs, and turns back to the officer. “I’m not pressing charges,” he says again, biting the words. “Just let her go, put her in the drunk tank for a night, whatever you have to do.”

  “Would you like to request a restraining order?”

  “I’ll consider it,” he answers, cutting a glance to me. “Thank you, sir.”

  Hesitating, the officer gives a curt nod, turns on his heel, and leaves.

  I wait until we’re in the parking lot to explode. “Why the hell don’t you want to press charges?” My voice is just below a scream, caught inside the steam creeping along the asphalt. “That crazy bitch cut your face, Silas. She attacked you.”

  He opens my car door for me. “Just get in, Erin,” he says, wilting. “I’m exhausted.”

  I do, if only because my head is killing me, and I’m exhausted, too.

  “Guess this wins first place for worst date ever, huh?” He forces a laugh and then, when I don’t respond, sighs. “Okay, look…I know you think I’m nuts, not pressing charges. But that crazy bitch isn’t a bad person. She’s just got some real bad problems.” Silas pauses. “To be honest, I feel sorry for her.”

  “Oh, yeah, she seemed pretty helpless back there.” The combination of a throbbing skull and complete confusion puts venom in my voice, but it makes him wince more than the stitches did, and guilt takes over.

  I put my hand over his on the gearshift. “Silas…who is she?”

  He stares straight ahead at the empty highway. “My ex-wife.”

  I feel like my stomach’s been punched. My hand pulls away on its own. “You were married?”

  “Yeah,” he breathes, scratching the back of his head. “I was.”

  “Oh.” I kick off my heel
s, hoping I sound cavalier. “So what happened?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “We fought a lot, didn’t have a place of our own…lots of things. I’ve always figured it was just how young we were. We didn’t know anything. Even when we split up, we were still so naïve. I mean, we were only twenty-one.”

  Another punch to the gut. My sympathy turns back to venom.

  Silas notices. “Oh…no, Erin, I didn’t mean it like that. You’re not like we were. We were naive. You’ve got experience, you know?”

  Experience. I hear “a record.”

  I also notice the way he says “we.”

  “I’m sorry.” His hand slips to my knee, his touch like coals against my bare skin. I can’t decide if I like it or not. “I promise, I’ll make this up to you. Let’s have a do-over date.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Erin, come on. Tonight wasn’t my fault.”

  “Do you still have feelings for her?”

  “Who? Abby?”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes. Abby.”

  “Of course not. We’ve been divorced for three years now.”

  Something from the restaurant comes back to me. “Then why was she yelling about how she hadn’t seen anything from you for weeks?” I hate how jealous I sound; I shouldn’t even care. What’s it matter to me if Silas still loves his ex? We aren’t in a relationship. We’re barely coworkers. I know nothing about him.

  But that’s the thing: I feel like I do know him. Maybe not the details, but something deeper. If I believed in karma, I’d wonder what I did to deserve this kind of connection.

  He pushes his hand through his hair. “All right, I’m not proud of this, but…I kind of owe her some alimony. Like, six months’ worth.”

  “Why don’t you just tell her you don’t have it?”

  “Oh, I have the money. But I’m not giving it to her until she gets her drinking under control. I can’t stand the thought of basically paying her to kill herself.”

  His explanation makes me feel guilty again, but also relieved. I touch his arm and say, “That’s sweet of you. To worry about her like that.”