Ditched_A Left at the Altar Romance

by Holly Hart

  “Okay—okay, let’s talk about this.” I grab Wes by the arm and herd him toward the kitchen table. He goes willingly enough, sinking into one of the rickety chairs at my urging. “I can see where you’d think that, but it can’t have been Max.”

  “But—”

  “No.” I smooth his hair back from his face. No fever—he’s just losing it. “The blackmail didn’t start with Dev. It started ten years ago. I got a note the night before the wedding—I had to run.”

  Wes stares at me, uncomprehending.

  “Don’t you see? Why would Max bother with revenge, if he broke up his own wedding?”

  “Because he didn’t.” Wes laughs, thin and hysterical. “He—oh, Kate, I wrote that note, and I’m sorry, and I told him right after, the second I got him alone. I tried to fix it, but he didn’t care. He hates you, and I’m sorry, and we have to—”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What?”

  “I said I don’t believe you. Max doesn’t hate me.” I take a step back, realization dawning. “And it’s you. You did this.”

  Wes stares at me with huge, wet eyes. His mouth falls open.

  “Why?”

  He hugs himself, gulping sickly.

  “Don’t just stand there! Why?”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  Goddammit, it’s exactly what I think, or he’d be denying it right now. “I’m calling the cops.”

  “No—wait!” He grabs for my phone, misses, and topples to his knees. I take a step back, and another, already dialing.

  Wes springs like a cheetah. I shriek, and we tumble together, down to the filthy floor.

  Chapter 40

  Wes - 2007

  * * *

  Getting that door open was the worst part. I had to hurt Bad Dog to do it. I didn’t hurt him bad, just stamped on his foot a few times, but I didn’t like doing that. I didn’t like taking him to the vet, either, how scared he got in the waiting room. But Matt’s dad fixed him up pretty quick. Then, all I had to do was show up at the Danburys’ late at night, crying about a lost prescription. I thought it might be harder, sneaking into the laundry room, but it ended up being right next to the bathroom. It was the work of a second to flip the lock. Even had time to sprinkle their toilet seat on my way out.

  Now, all I have to do is get over there. Carson, he’s doing way too good a job patrolling the front. I wanted Dev up there. He’d be getting high in the car. Sleeping, even. It was supposed to be Dev, and if Carson screws this up for me, if Carson wrecks everything—

  He’s digging in his pocket. Fishing out his cigarettes, back turned to the house, like we all don’t know he smokes. But this is my chance. I pull up my hood and book it along the fence, hugging the shadows till I’m in sight of the door. Left, right: no one’s coming. I dart across the grass, up the steps, and fuckitwon’topennononono—and I jiggle the door, and it opens, and I’m in.

  I’m in.

  It’s real.

  I’m doing this.

  I lean over the laundry sink in case I need to throw up, but I don’t. I’m getting used to what I’m about to do.

  It’s not really murder if the victim isn’t human. If he was going to hurt actual people.

  I don’t have to justify myself any more. I don’t have time, anyway. Not if I’m going to pull this off.

  I slink out of the laundry room, and he’s there. Right there. Shit. He’s supposed to be passed out by now, but I can see his greasy hair sticking up over the couch. He’s guzzling from a red Solo cup, to a chorus of Chug! Chug! Chug! Is he taking it now? He has to be. If he sold it—or what if he gave it to a girl?

  He’s taking it. He has to be.

  And I have to get out of sight. Quick, before they spot me.

  I melt into the hallway, slinking past the bathroom, Mr. Danbury’s office, the linen closet. And there it is: a curtained glass door. The famous parlor. I turn the handle, half expecting to find it locked, but it opens easily and I slip inside.

  It’s dark, but that’s okay. I can make out the edges of the furniture by the glow of the streetlights. I feel my way along one of those long skinny chairs with no backs, a funny-shaped sideboard, and a case full of china dolls. Creepy...they look alive, with the sodium light glancing off their eyes.

  I cozy up to the window, pull out my camera and my phone, and settle in to wait. It’s nice in here. Kate and I could have a place like this one day, with deep carpets and weird, curvy lamps. Postmodern, I think it’s called. We’d have better couches, though. Overstuffed ones, the kind you sink right into. She’d hold my head in her lap and stroke my hair, the way I’ve seen her do with Max. And if I got sick, she’d make me chicken soup and mop my face with a cool cloth.

  Speaking of getting sick.... I prick up my ears. They’re chanting again, in the rec room, but it’s changed from Chug! Chug! Chug! to Boot! Boot! Boot!

  I hold my breath, straining to hear. Nothing, nothing...and there it is. Someone—Matt—it’s got to be Matt—lets loose, with a satisfying bleuuuurgh.

  So he did take it. I check the time on my phone. Five minutes, he’ll be out cold. Five minutes, and I’ll send Rachel the all-clear. Maybe ten, to be safe. Seven and a half.

  I pull my knees to my chest and sink back into my fantasy. Our house, mine and Kate’s...it’d be in Scarsdale, or somewhere like that. Somewhere rich, with big lawns and no summer people. I’d have a job in the city, something on Wall Street. I’d come home, and—no. She’d have the job in the city. I’d have hurt myself, like my dad, only less gross. I’d still have all my limbs. She’d come home and help me take a bath. I’d listen to her talk about her day.

  Someone comes tromping down the hall. My blood turns to ice as he stops in front of the door. Go away. Goawaygoawaygoaway.

  He turns the handle. Cracks the door. I can see his eyes glittering—he’s looking right at me, and I’m caught, fuck, so close—

  He makes a snorting noise and shuts the door. He didn’t see me?

  I clap my hands over my mouth to hold in a nervous giggle.

  And it’s time. Eight minutes. He’s got to be passed out by now, and even if he isn’t, I can’t chance it any longer.

  I send out the all-clear.

  I’m doing this. Really doing this.

  Now, I could use the laundry sink, but it’s too late. I swallow hard, flip open my camera, and press myself up to the window.

  Showtime.

  Chapter 41

  Kate

  * * *

  “Don’t make me hurt you—get the hell off!” I bat at Wes’s head. He’s the one hurting me, damn it: his knee’s pressing into my stomach, and something sharp’s sticking me in the back. If he doesn’t let me up this second—

  “Promise you won’t run.”

  I’m not promising that.

  “You know I’d never hurt you, right?”

  “You already are.” And I’m suffocating, pinned under him—I don’t want this, can’t deal with this: I need out. I spit in his face to distract him and slam my knee into his crotch. He shrivels up instantly, clutching at himself as I buck him off. “Doesn’t feel too good, does it?” I toe him in the ribs. “Well, too bad. Because that’s the only way I’m ever touching your genitals.”

  “Kate....”

  “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

  “I’m—I....” He curls up tighter, both hands tucked between his legs.

  “Oh, you can shut off the waterworks.” I kick him again. “How could you do that to Dev?”

  “I didn’t!” Wes turns his face to the floor like he’s trying to disappear. “You honestly think I’d—you think I’d do that?”

  “I know you would. And you did.”

  “I didn’t.” His shoulders are shaking. I’m not impressed. Has it always been an act, this miserable persona?

  “Whatever. I’m leaving.”

  “Wait.” Wes grabs for my ankle, thinks better of it, and curls in on himself instead. “No, pleas
e. Wait. Just....” He turns up his face, streaked with dirt and snot and tears. I’ve seen him cry before, but not like this. This is pathetic.

  “Forget it.” I back away, disgusted.

  “It wasn’t me!” He’s wailing, now, crawling, inching after me like a worm. “I—he just killed himself, I swear. I don’t know why.” His hand comes down on an exposed nail, and he howls in pain. Shudders his way through a storm of sobs. “God, it hurts.”

  “Good.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “Of course I don’t. I found the flash drive, remember? In the sink?”

  “’Cause I put it there!” He’s practically screaming. “He was already dead, and I still had a key, and I just wanted to scare you. No-one was supposed to die.” Wes sucks at his wounded hand. I ignore the urge to help him—let him get blood poisoning. Let him fucking die.

  “What about Kyle? Let me guess—that wasn’t you, either?”

  Wes snuffles wetly. “No, it was. But I didn’t know—I thought....” His voice rises to a childish whine. “They were just meant to get divorced. They hated each other, anyway. How was I supposed to know she’d kill him?”

  Something dark and poisonous wells up in my heart: absolute loathing. I despise this man—this groveling creature, trying to snivel his way out of responsibility. How many times has he done this? Can I trust any of my memories?

  “Please. You have to believe me. I only killed one person on purpose, and that was Matt Danbury. I’d never have done that to Dev. Never.”

  “You—what? You killed...you knew?” My rage blossoms, turning huge, all-consuming. “You killed Matt Danbury, and you let us think, all this time... You let us carry that guilt, and it was you?”

  “But I didn’t kill Dev.”

  “And that makes everything all right? At best, you exploited his suicide, made us all think...made us all picture—what’s wrong with you?” I advance on him again. “No. Don’t answer that. Just tell me why. What was it about our friend’s awful, lonely death that made you think...made you want to do this?” I’m almost crying, myself. I bite my lip hard: he’s not getting my tears.

  Wes wipes his face, leaving a bloody smear under his nose. “You laughed at me.”

  “What?”

  “You laughed at me.”

  I what? “When?”

  “The day we found out about Dev.”

  I laughed, that day? At him?—at anything? Outrage mingles with disgust in my gut. All this, over some slight I can’t remember? I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”

  “I said how I almost kissed you that time.” He struggles to his knees, wincing. “I thought we could finally... I thought we could comfort each other. You laughed at me.”

  I...what? What? He was laughing too. And.... “You thought—you wanted to use my grief to get in my pants? That’s not comfort; that’s—”

  “No!” He staggers to his feet, still clutching his groin. “Not that. I just wanted you to love me. With your heart, not your body. I promise.”

  That’s worse. Or as bad. Definitely not any better. “Gross. Ugh. That’s foul, Wes. And I’m leaving. And fuck you.” I flap my hands at him—get back.

  He shambles at me like a zombie. “I can’t. Can’t let you do that.” A sick look spreads over his face. “I’m sorry.”

  I skitter away, stumbling on the uneven floor. The thought of him touching me, this twisted, funhouse-mirror version of Wes, has my stomach doing somersaults. “You have to let me go. Don’t you see? There’s no coming back from this.”

  “Why not?” He’s sidling around me, angling for the door.

  “Because you—you played me for a fool. All of us, all this time; you’ve been lying, playing on our sympathies to get what you want.” I shove the table into his path. “Did your dad even have an accident? Or was that you, too?”

  “Just come with me. I can be good. You’ll see.”

  “I’d be your prisoner. Is that what you want?”

  Wes lifts the table by one decaying leaf and sends it flying. His face contorts into something terrifying, an awful mask of rage and desperation. “If that’s what I can get!”

  Oh, hell no.

  Chapter 42

  Wes - 2007

  * * *

  The rats: they’ll burn, too. I didn’t think about that. Not even when I was playing with them earlier, letting them crawl up my sleeves. But it’s too late now. Kate and Max are running for the car, and any second now....

  I can’t hold back my grin when the screaming starts. There’s nothing to see from here, but I can picture it, rats everywhere, people jumping on chairs, furniture clattering to the floor: this is perfect. The house’ll be wrecked. Everything’ll scream accident. They probably won’t even test his blood. I’m going to get away with it, really get away with it—but I have to be quick. More than five minutes, and my friends’ll start to wonder.

  But just for this moment, I can savor the chaos. This is me. I did this. By myself. Dev thinks it was his idea, but it was mine, and I gave it to him, and it’s working. I can hear them shrieking. Laughing. Thundering out the front door. Leaving Matt behind—fuck his drunk ass. Hope a rat pees on his face.

  Nobody likes Matt. Not even his crew.

  The second the screaming dies down, I creep up to the door. Someone’s still milling around out there—what the fuck? Get out.

  Wait for it....

  I hear shuffling. Cans clunking together. Somebody’s stealing the beer. Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up—and he’s sneaking out back, steps heavy with his burden. How much beer can one guy drink?

  The door slams. I hurry out to the rec room, and there he is. Matt, helpless at my feet. Just like I was, at his. Only he’s not getting away. I grab him under the armpits and drag him off the couch. He drops untidily to the ground, dead weight in my arms.

  “Mm—W—W...huh?”

  I pull his hair, like he’s done to me so many times. There’s puke in it. Nasty.

  “Whatcha...wuh—?”

  His eyes don’t open, even when I slap him across the face. I can’t hurt him too bad, in case there’s enough skin left for the marks to show. But a taste of his own medicine, that’s fine.

  First, though, I need to get him out of sight. So they’ll think he got out, if anyone comes looking. I hoist him up again—shit, he’s heavy—and heave him toward the hallway. Already, I’m sweating... Can sweat be used as evidence?

  It’s fine. It’ll burn away. I give him another hard jerk. His pants come down over his hips. Good. Let him die with his thing out.

  “Wah—suh...uh....”

  “It’s okay.” I yank him good, throwing my full weight into it. This time, I get some momentum going, and soon we’re around the corner, out of sight. I need to get going, but first.... “You’re a bad person. You asked for this.” I grind my heel down on his bladder, hoping he’ll pee his pants, but he only moans deep in his throat. There’s a weird gurgle to it, like he’s already dying. Maybe he is. GHB isn’t vitamins. “Anyway, I need to get back to my friends.”

  I pull out the cigarette I stole off Carson, light it, and run back to the rec room. The carpet behind the TV fires up pretty good. I watch for a second, to make sure it spreads to the wallpaper, and take off running.

  There’s kids outside the laundry room, passing a j back and forth, but the back yard’s empty. I shove my camera down my pants, pull up my hood, and race for the bushes. This is the worst part, the part where everything could blow up in my face—a hand coming down on my shoulder, a shout from the pool house—but nothing comes. Nothing comes as I squiggle through the bushes; nothing comes as I sprint up the laneway between the Danburys’ and the Jensens’. Nobody stops me as I blend with the crowd on the sidewalk. I keep my head down, elbowing my way through till I get to the car.

  It’s Carson who finally grabs me. “What the fuck kept you?”

  “There were people back there.” I shake him off. “It’s fine, though. Nobody saw me.”r />
  “They better not have.” He cuffs me to get me going, and I pile into the car, squeezing in beside Kate. She’s so warm. All I need to do is get rid of Max, and she’ll see—she’ll come to me, like I’ve gone to her so many times.

  “Hey, is that smoke?” Rachel’s pressed to the window. “Shit—that’s smoke!”

  Carson rolls his eyes. “I had a cigarette. So what?”

  “No—the house! It’s on fire!”

  Max leans over me, peering into the night. “Holy shit. We need to... Holy fuck, what if someone’s still in there? Gimme your phone!” He holds out his hand, but nobody hands him one.

  “We can’t be the ones to call 911.” Rachel whacks Carson on the back of the head. “What are you waiting for? Drive!”

  Kyle leans over the seat. “No way! Running looks way worse than calling for help.”

  “No one’s even looking at us!”

  I snuggle up against Kate and wait for them to make up their minds. My part is done.

  Chapter 43

  Kate

  * * *

  He’s stronger than I thought. I should’ve run while I had the chance. I feel like I’m wrestling an octopus: slimy, and too many limbs. He’s not so much fighting me as draping himself over me, clinging on for dear life.

  I shove his face away from my chest. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Then promise—” He snakes his arm around my waist. “Promise you’ll come with me. Let me make it up to you.”

  “You can’t make this up to me.” I grind the heel of my hand into his nose. He whimpers, but doesn’t let go.

  “Please. Please.”

  “Answer’s...still...no!” I peel his fingers off my back, only to feel them on my leg. “Shit, would you just—what are you trying to accomplish?”