Chased

by Hazel James

  Funny, from what I’ve heard in the breakroom, back seats are her specialty.

  Still, I kept my mouth shut for Ali’s sake. Then, I made the mistake of asking about the shower theme on the drive to the first store. Whitney started in with the most God-awful ideas, right down to the cake. Who in the hell wants to eat something in the shape of boobs and a pregnant belly? Ali finally spoke up, saying she wanted to keep the shower in grays and yellows—the colors of the baby’s nursery—and said Austin requested cupcakes instead of regular cake. I suggested a bumblebee theme, which Ali loved. Whitney, on the other hand, shot me evil looks every chance she got. The rest of the evening went downhill from there. Ali ended up vetoing most of Whitney’s ideas because they either didn’t fit with the theme or didn’t fit with what Maggie would’ve liked. Come to think of it, the only idea of hers that Ali fully supported was having a co-ed shower.

  The icing on the shitty cake was dinner. Whitney insisted on going to this posh restaurant where the entrees were the size of appetizers. She spent the entire meal telling us about a doctor she hooked up with one particularly slow night a couple of weeks ago. Part of me wondered if she was making it up, but I wouldn’t put it past her. I’m just grateful she never mentioned who it was. I like most of the doctors I work with, and I don’t want her ruining that for me.

  “I am so glad that’s over,” Ali sighs, driving away from Whitney’s house.

  “Ain’t that the truth.” I make no effort to contain my shudder.

  “I haven’t hung out with Whitney in years. Maggie thought it’d be fun if we co-hosted the shower together. I hope she doesn’t mind having alcohol there, because that’s the only way I’m going to get through another afternoon with Whitney.”

  “Agreed,” I laugh. “Maggie’s going to love the shower though. I still can’t believe she doesn’t know what she’s having. I’d be too impatient for that.”

  “They wanted to find out with Austin, but he wasn’t being cooperative on ultrasound day. When she went into labor, she said not knowing helped her get through the pain. It gave her something to be excited about.”

  “I saw a picture of her and Eric at prom. How young was she when she had Austin?”

  “Eighteen. She had him two months after she graduated. She and Eric have been together forever though. I think they started dating in eighth or ninth grade. I’m actually the one who delivered Austin.”

  “Really? That’s so cool! Is that what made you want to be a nurse?”

  “It is.” She beams with pride. “Maggie was a couple of days past her due date. She was supposed to be induced on a Thursday, but Austin had other ideas. She and Eric were living in the apartment above the shop, and I was hanging out with her that Tuesday afternoon trying to keep her mind off how miserable she was. Eric and his dad were a couple of hours away picking up a part for the shop when Maggie went into labor. We all thought there was plenty of time since it was her first baby, but thirty minutes after her water broke, she said she needed to push. I called 911 and they walked me through everything.”

  “Holy shit, Ali. How old were you?”

  “Sixteen. I won’t lie, I felt like a badass.” She laughs and puts the car in park next to DH’s truck in front of our house.

  “When will you get back from China? Will you be cutting it close to her due date?” I ask as we unload the bags from the trunk.

  “She’s not due for another eight weeks.” Ali unlocks the front door, and we set our bags on the dinette. “The shower will be next Saturday at her house, and Mom, Dad, Tyler, and I will fly out Monday morning. We’ll get home with about five weeks to spare.” She walks to her bedroom and returns with an overnight bag.

  “Shacking up with Chris again?” I tease, as she walks to the front door.

  “Yeah. I think it’s starting to get serious. I have a drawer now.” She winks and turns the doorknob. “See ya!”

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m at Sonic, cutting my Coney dog into manageable pieces. Other girls may be able to survive on a dinner of three stuffed mushrooms and a side of parsley, but not me. I should probably care about the calories, but wedding planning has been the last thing on my mind lately.

  Bethany and my mom keep texting or tagging me in posts about dresses, venues, and caterers. I know they’re just trying to help, but they’re driving me nuts. Especially when I don’t reply with enough exclamation points. When I talked to Beth last, she had the nerve to say I didn’t sound happy about getting married. I dodged that statement by reminding her that she was living vicariously through me; she got married at the courthouse when she was pregnant with Annabelle.

  Still, she might be right. I’m learning that long-distance relationships are more challenging than I thought. I figured we’d be a case of “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” but it’s starting to feel more like “out of sight, out of mind.” Phone calls and webcams help, but it’s not the same. Not to mention, his school schedule and my work schedule don’t leave us much of an opportunity to talk.

  Is it possible to grow apart from someone you’ve been with for three years? And if it is, does that make me a horrible person? When I moved here, I was certain that I wanted to marry Chad. He’s always made me happy and things between us are easy. But I’ve realized there’s something missing. Like a beard. And dimples. And a metric shit-ton of ego. I’m not in love with DH by any means, but if I’m being totally honest with myself, I’d rather spend an afternoon with him than with Chad. Being around DH is exciting. I never know what’s going to happen, but I know I’ll have fun. The fact that he’s wormed his way into my head means my relationship with Chad can’t go on. It’s not fair. He may be boring, but he deserves to be with a girl whose whole heart belongs to him. And I’m not her anymore.

  I don’t realize I’m crying until a waitress skates over with a stack of napkins.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, wiping my cheeks and nose.

  I look down at my uneaten Coney dog. My mood has killed my appetite, so I trash my food and drive home with my cherry limeade. As soon as I lock the front door behind me, I dial Mom’s number. She always has good advice, and I could use a heaping dose of that right about now. She answers on the second ring, and before she can even finish saying hello, I burst out into a new round of tears.

  “What’s wrong, Paige? Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. No.” I sigh and take a deep breath. “Mom, I need your help.”

  “With what?”

  “Figuring out how to tell Chad I can’t marry him.”

  I HATE IT WHEN PEOPLE slowly peel Band-Aids off. It just hurts worse and delays the inevitable. I’m a rip-that-bitch-off kind of girl, which is why I called Chad about three minutes after I hung up with Mom.

  “Paige? Are you crying?”

  “A little,” I admit, wiping my nose with a fresh tissue.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Needing to get the worst part over with, I blurt, “I’m sorry, but I can’t be with you anymore.”

  “What?” he asks, his voice laced with pain and disbelief. “Did I do something? Or not do something that I should have?”

  “No, you didn’t do anything wrong, I promise.”

  “Then what, Paige? What happened? Is there… someone else?”

  I could lie and say no, that it’s all due to distance and us growing apart, but that’s not entirely true. DH has made it clear he doesn’t want a relationship. I’m not dumb enough to think he’d change his mind for me, but there’s no way I can take back everything I’ve experienced with him since the day he came into the emergency room. “Yes and no.”

  “What do you mean, ‘yes and no?’ Which is it?”

  I pause to wipe my nose again. “I’m not breaking up with you to be with anyone else, but there’s someone here who made me realize there are things I want in life that I don’t have right now.”

  “Like what? Do you want me to move up there now instead of waiting? Is that what this is about? Just say the word and I’ll
do it.” His voice is wavering, and that kills me. Chad is the epitome of a good guy, and I hate that I’m hurting him. I take a deep breath and think of a way to explain everything so he can understand.

  “Do you remember the first time you read the Lord of the Rings trilogy?”

  “What? What does that have to—”

  “Hear me out,” I interrupt. “Do you remember?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you remember the way you felt after you finished them?”

  “Um… I guess.”

  “Before you read those books, you didn’t miss them. But now that you’ve had a taste of that world, you can’t forget what that feels like. You can’t go back to the way things were before. It’s sort of like that.”

  He’s quiet for several seconds. “Paige, please don’t do this.”

  “I’m really sorry, Chad.”

  “There’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”

  “No.”

  More silence.

  “So this is it, huh?”

  “This is it,” I whisper.

  When we hang up, a part of me still feels awful, but a larger part feels relieved. Now I just have one more piece of unfinished business: I need to get DH’s truck back to him.

  The shop is about a mile away, according to my phone, and it looks like a straight shot. That bodes well for my directionally-challenged self. If I don’t see any lights on, I’ll leave the key in the gas compartment and walk back. I toss my pepper spray, lip gloss, and an extra hair tie in my purse, and lock the door on my way out.

  The truck’s headlights slice through the shadows as I pull around the back of the building. Jesus, it’s dark. It was stupid to drive here at eleven p.m. without calling or texting first, but I tend to lead with my emotions in times of personal crisis. For consistency’s sake, it’s good to know nothing’s changed.

  I gloss my lips and secure my hair in a messy bun to keep it from being windblown on the walk back. With my purse slung across my chest and my pepper spray unlocked and strapped to my hand, I stow DH’s key inside the gas cap and make a mental note to text him when I get home so he knows where to look.

  Floodlights flick on when I round the corner and cross the small parking lot in front of the auto shop. For several moments, I’m grateful to have the additional light. That is, right up until I see the police car parked in the corner space. Red and blue lights begin a frenzied dance along the top of the cruiser, warning me that my night has just gotten a lot worse. I’ve never been in trouble with the law. No speeding tickets. No accidents. Not even any registration checks that make you feel guilty, even though all your paperwork is up to date.

  I’m the Virgin Mary of crimes.

  “Stop right where you are, ma’am,” a voice calls as two officers get out of the car and walk toward me. One is beefy, and one looks like he got out of high school yesterday. My feet obey, but my heart takes up a sprint inside my chest. The officer from the driver’s seat—the beefy one—speaks into a radio clipped to his chest. “We have a female suspect outside Rhoads Auto Shop. Blond hair, approximately five-five, one hundred fifty pounds.”

  That’s one hundred forty-two pounds, asshole.

  “What’s your name, ma’am?” Beefy Officer asks. He was intimidating from across the parking lot. From three feet in front of me? I might pee myself.

  “Paige Landry,” I squeak. “I’m a friend of DH’s.” My eyes dart between them, searching for any sign in their expression that says they’re in a good mood and that this is all a mistake. I’m in jean shorts and a Sam Hunt shirt for Chrissake. Have you ever seen a Sam Hunt shirt in a mugshot?

  “And what were you doing in DH’s truck, Miss Landry?” Baby Face’s Southern drawl does little to comfort me.

  Shit.

  “I was returning it.” I casually tuck my left hand into the pocket of my shorts and grip my canister of pepper spray tighter with my right. I need to appear calm and rational, and shaky hands do just the opposite.

  “Because he let you borrow it?” Beefy Officer scoffs.

  “He did. Last night.”

  Baby Face turns to his partner. “Did you hear that? He let her borrow it and keep it overnight.” The two share a brief chuckle before turning their attention back to me.

  “He did. I swear.” Jesus, could I sound guiltier if I tried? “I know it looks suspicious, but I promise I’m telling the truth. I can try to call him so you can ask for yourself.”

  Yes, I could.

  Beefy Officer mutters something to Baby Face. I’m pretty sure that one of them is supposed to be the good cop, but neither seem like they’re volunteering for the job. “Do you have identification on you?”

  “I do, in my purse.” What happens in the next ten seconds will be funny one day—many, many years from now. I remove my hand from my pocket and reach for my wallet just as the floodlights turn off, since none of us have been walking around. My right hand, the one with the pepper spray fastened to it, gets caught on the strap of my purse. I successfully free it, and at the same time accidentally hit the trigger, which was unlocked because I was walking home alone at night.

  Like a fucking idiot.

  Beefy Officer wails in a tone not very becoming for a man his size, and before I can curse or apologize for unleashing the fires of hell in his eyes, Baby Face pins me face-down on the concrete, activating the floodlights once again. He might look like the prom king, but he’s hiding a shitload of muscle under that uniform.

  Then I start laughing. Hysterical, can’t breathe, drooling-on-the-ground laughing. Can we take a moment and look at the facts? I just hit a target square in the eyes with pepper spray in the dark. Doesn’t that qualify me for a medal, or at least a free drink at Cattlemen’s? However, my joy is short-lived as words like “suspect might be on drugs” and “assaulting an officer” and “you have the right to remain silent” fill the air. When Baby Face cuffs me, my laughter turns to crying.

  “This is all a misunderstanding!” I protest. “I’m a nurse! I don’t hurt people!”

  The nightmare continues once we get to jail. That’s right—I’m in a holding cell. I feel like that’s worth repeating.

  I’m in a holding cell.

  The room itself makes me want a bleach bath and a tetanus shot. Small rivers of water trickle toward the drain in the center of the concrete floor, taking with it whatever bodily fluid the Lysol washed away. Graffiti and gang tagging adorn the walls, and judging by the anatomically correct artwork closest to me, I’ve just learned how to say “go fuck yourself” in three different languages.

  Three other girls are in here with me. One is sitting along the wall picking at her nails, one is lying on a metal bench bolted to the wall, and the last one is in the corner twerking like her life depends on it, except she’s not listening to any music. And from the length of her skirt, I don’t think she’s wearing any underwear, either. I stand as close to the door as possible, counting the minutes until they come back and tell me I’m free to go. I’d close my eyes and pray, but I’m afraid to make myself any more vulnerable than a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl in a Sam Hunt shirt can be. I leave them open instead.

  Dear Lord, please let the police sergeant or the detective or whoever it is out there get a hold of DH so I can go home. Please keep me safe from the girl who’s picking at her nails. She keeps scooting closer to me, and I’m not too proud to admit that she scares me. And most of all, please—

  My prayer is interrupted by the echoing sound of the metal bolt on the door. “Landry,” the portly jailer shouts. Relief washes over me, and I nearly fling my arms around him, but catch myself before I can be charged with anything else. For all I know, hugging an officer in uniform is a misdemeanor. I step outside the holding cell and see DH leaning against a counter about ten feet away, the epitome of relaxed in his jeans, Oklahoma Thunder shirt, and ball cap. I’ve never in my life been more grateful to see him. Or more pissed. This is all his fault. I know I said that I’m a nurse and shouldn’
t wish harm on people, but I give myself a temporary pass for the rest of the night and shoot eye daggers in his direction.

  “What’s up, Shawshank Redemption?” DH teases as I approach him. I bite my tongue to keep my sarcastic reply to myself. It looks like they’re letting me go, and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.

  “We called DH,” a red-faced Beefy Officer reports from behind the counter. “He corroborated your story and isn’t pressing charges. He also said you’re an upstanding citizen and he’d bet money that the pepper spray thing was an accident. You’re free to go.” He slides my purse to me but doesn’t come any closer.

  “I’m really, really sorry about that.” I snatch my bag and rush toward the nearest exit, hoping like hell I can find an Uber at one-thirty in the morning. I’m emotionally spent, and my right cheek and shoulder hurt from where Baby Face held me down on the concrete. All I want now is some ibuprofen and a bed for the next twelve to fourteen hours.

  “Let’s go,” DH says, walking out of the building behind me. I ignore his comment and launch my Uber app. There’s a driver nineteen minutes away in Oklahoma City. If I sit on the bench and don’t move or make eye contact with anyone, I’m certain I can make it home without getting into any more trouble.

  DH stops several feet ahead of me and spins around. “What are you doing?”

  Pride has me lifting my chin in defiance. “I’m getting a ride home.”

  “The fuck you are.” In two giant strides, he’s in front of me, scooping me into his massive arms. I almost shriek, but remember where I am and clamp my lips together until we’re farther away from the building.

  “DH, put me down right now!” I whisper-shout. He grips me tighter as he crosses the parking lot and gently deposits me beside the passenger door of his truck. The same fucking truck that got me into this mess in the first place.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” I state, backing away. “I’m not going anywhere near that damn thing.”

  He unlocks the door and opens it. “Get in the truck, Paige.”