Impressions of You (The Impressions Series Book 1)

by Christopher Harlan

  “Wait, so what kind of knife,” he asks her, not even reacting to the fact that a guy pulled a knife on Dacia.

  “Hard to recall exactly, I mean I didn’t expect it and I started to panic.”

  Dacia smiles and looks impressed that someone cares about the little details. I’m so used to her drama at this point that most of my reactions to her stories are the same: I’ll let my jaw drop, or my eyebrow raise, and listen for a little bit while thinking of exactly how to articulate how dumb she’s been to put herself in whatever crazy situation she’s describing to me. But Wesley doesn’t do any of that. There’s no obvious expression on his face except for momentary surprise at the more extreme elements of her story, but there’s nothing judgmental in his voice when he responds. All he can say is, “Wow.”

  After Dacia finishes her story I step into the kitchen and signal for her to come join me. The kitchen is like our tribal meeting ground for all things involving the guys in our lives. We’ve had many intense talks in that little kitchen, but never while the actual guy in question is about fifteen feet away in the living room having a fake nice talk with Kevin. I guess there’s a first time for everything.

  “So?” I ask, and she knows exactly what I mean. Dacia and I have developed a seamless and adaptable code to evaluate guys using whatever setting we’re in. We use very few words and whatever metaphors fit where we are. At the bar we use drink metaphors and similes right in front of the guys we were rejecting or accepting: aggressive douche bags are “too intense,” guys with no game “needed to be stronger,” guys with potential gave us a “nice buzz,” and so on. Tonight it’s food, and for some reason we’re so used to this system that we use it even when it’s not necessary.

  “Delicious,” Dacia responds.

  “Too spicy?”

  “Perfect balance of heat, actually.”

  “I wasn’t sure if the crust was too hard.”

  “Good contrast, actually, hard crust but with a soft, complex sauce and cheese.”

  “Ok, that’s the worst one you’ve ever done, D. Doesn’t even make sense,” I say, laughing. “The cheese is always soft.”

  “All right, screw you, and fuck all this metaphor shit, he’s hot and I think he’s great for you, okay?”

  “Okay, good.” We both laugh, we’re clearly off our guy-as-pizza metaphor game, but all that matters to me is that she thinks he’s the right guy for me—and that he’s hot, of course, but I didn’t need Dacia to tell me that. “Let’s get back in there before they kill each other.”

  “You think it’s that bad?” Dacia asks.

  “Probably not, I just want everyone to get along. I’m not a fan of conflict or drama.”

  “I don’t think anything will escalate. It’s just guy stuff—some chest puffing, nothing to worry about. Wesley’s a good guy; he’d never do anything even if Kevin got out of line.”

  “This is true,” I agree. Wesley could beat Kevin to a pulp without much effort, but he never would, no matter how rude Kevin tried to be. “But let’s get in there anyhow; I don’t want it to get weird.”

  When we walk inside we’re shocked at what we see. “What the hell?” Dacia whispers as she nudges me on the shoulder. Our kitchen discussion of the boys coming to blows was quickly replaced by the visual of them cracking up hysterically in my living room.

  “What’s so funny,” I ask, wondering what the hell they could possibly be laughing at.

  “Oh nothing, don’t you worry your pretty little head . . .” Kevin can’t even finish his sentence without laughing. I know it has to be something I’m not supposed to hear.

  “I’ll tell you some other time, promise,” Wesley tells me. Kevin disagrees.

  “Oh no, no, I wouldn’t tell her if I was you.” More laughter. It’s about me, it has to be. But I can’t be mad; it’s really cool to see laughter instead of tense witty banter.

  “Well, you boys keep your little secrets and we’ll keep ours.” A few minutes later Kevin gets up and tells everyone that he has to leave; apparently he has better plans. He’s done this before; make plans with me and not tell me he’s got some cute little thing waiting for him at a bar in town. It doesn’t bother me that he’s going; at least he got to meet Wesley.

  As dinner winds down I keep noticing that Wesley is reaching into his pocket a lot to mess with his phone. There’s no sound, not even a vibration. He must have put it on silent. But he keeps checking it over and over again. I don’t think anyone else notices but I see it every time, and I want to know what’s going on, but there’s no way of asking him in front of everybody without mentioning Annabelle. Over the span of ten minutes he must check his phone five different times, and each time he looks at it a little bit longer than the time before, even typing a few times. I know that it shouldn’t bother me, that it’s totally irrational to think he’s texting someone, but the more he does it the more the thoughts take over.

  If it was about Annabelle wouldn’t he have said something, or excused himself, or even left to go see her? I know I’m being crazy. We all have phones, after all. Dacia’s has been on the table the entire time she’s been here, and Kevin had probably checked his social media pages at least five times throughout the meal. Rather than say something I decide to text him myself.

  Mia: Hey—everything ok?

  Wesley: Fine, why?

  Mia: You keep checking your phone while we’re talking and you look concerned.

  Wesley: I said everything is fine.

  Mia: All right. You’re in a shit mood all of a sudden. Sorry.

  Wesley: I’m not. Just stop. I’m fine.

  Fine. There was that awful, ironic word again. It’s especially untrue when guys say it. How many out-of-touch-with-their-feelings guys, clearly about to put their fist through the wall, say that they’re “fine” when their girlfriends ask them what’s wrong? I never get why it’s so hard to just say that you’re pissed, or moody, or whatever it is, but I’m not a guy so I don’t know. But Wesley’s “fine” pisses me off because it’s obviously not true; the expression on his face tells a different story than his words. After he looks at his phone a few more times he seems serious and very distracted, and I wish he’d just tell me what’s going on.

  I’m getting sick of all the secrecy; it’s like pulling teeth to find anything out. Yes, he has opened up to me in the most vulnerable way possible, but something deep down tells me that with Wesley there’s always more going on than he says. No matter how detailed the confession the other night, he’s still holding back information, and watching him stare at his phone is making me think about it even more. I’m starting to get angry, and my way of controlling my anger is just to remove myself from the situation. It may be awkward, but it’s better than acting ridiculous in front of both Wesley and Dacia. I stand up and walk outside without saying anything to them.

  “Mia,” Dacia says as I walk out, but I don’t stop to turn around, otherwise I’d lose it in front of everybody, and that’s the last thing I want to do. I put myself in this position; I planned the evening, I invited everyone, and now I’m storming out like an angry kid, but I can’t help how I feel. Wesley follows me outside, and even though he looks concerned for how I’m feeling, his face is still distracted.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he asks me.

  “Nothing, you’re being weird. Why are you staring at your phone all of a sudden?”

  “It’s nothing for you to be concerned about,” he says, and he seems like he’s avoiding telling me something. “You’re overacting. But I need to go.”

  “What?” I yell, completely surprised by what he’s saying. “Go where? What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing,” he lies. “I just have to go, I’m sorry.”

  “Just get out of here; I’m done. Just go.” I can’t hold the tears back. He turns and gets in his car, briefly looking at me from the window with what seems like a look of regret, and then drives away with no explanation, and I’m as confused as ever. Dacia come
s out to see how I am, and I’m a mess. I’m an ugly crier, and I know without looking in a mirror that my eyes are red and puffy. I hate crying, but I can’t control myself right now. Wesley’s gone, speeding away in his car. We’ve never spoken to each other that way before, and even though I’ve seen his anger before, it’s never been directed at me. “Mia, come inside, he’s gone for now, no reason to stand out here falling apart.” Dacia’s voice was soft but stern, and she put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me back inside.

  She’s right; standing in plain sight of everyone on my block and balling my eyes out is serving no purpose but to give my already nosy neighbors some gossip, which I didn’t need. I could practically hear Mrs. Fern, the old lady who lives across the street, coming over and asking in her most gossip-seeking, old lady voice, “Is everything all right, dear, you looked upset last night.” I’m not gonna make a spectacle of myself, so I follow Dacia in and sit down on my bed. “So what the hell happened?” Her concern is evident in her voice. “Everything was going great, I actually really liked him. But look, if it’s worth anything, all guys can be assholes. You hear me, Mia, ALL guys. Just like all dogs can bite you, all men can be assholes.” I realize what she’s trying to communicate to me, and Dacia definitely knows what she’s talking about in this area. I just don’t like thinking of Wesley in those terms. There’s been nothing typical or ordinary about him, but maybe I’ve been idolizing him too much. After all, he’s not a fantasy, or some scripted character from a romantic novel, he’s a real person, and of course he has his flaws. Maybe I’m just not ready to see them yet.

  “I know. You’re right; I just never thought he’d act like an asshole towards me, Dacia. He’s been the most kind and caring guy I’ve ever met.”

  “Well Miss Mia, just because he’s never been like that in the less than a week that you’ve known him doesn’t mean he’s incapable of it. You know better.” She’s right. “I mean, has he seen even half of your personalities? Don’t romanticize him just because he’s romantic. There’s a big difference.” Dacia’s like a sage sometimes, at least when it comes to giving other people advice. She’s a living example of how a completely fucked up life can still produce knowledge and perspectives that were healthy, even if she lacks the ability to implement that knowledge in her own life. When she speaks to me about Wesley it’s not preachy, and she doesn’t judge me.

  “You should write one of those relationship self-help books,” I tell her jokingly.

  “Yeah, sales might drop off a little though when I get arrested for threatening my meth-cooking scumbag boyfriend with a kitchen knife. My advice on how to find the right guy might seem a little illegitimate at that point because, come on, we all know that guy’s just waiting to get paroled so he can hook up with me.” We have a good laugh and my spirits lift a little bit. I’m still a hot mess inside, and I know that my face must look like total shit, but Dacia takes the edge off the events of the night a little bit. “C’mere.” She gives me the biggest hug ever, and at that moment it’s exactly what I need. “Now, what do you want to do about this?” I wish I knew the answer, but I honestly don’t. I’m still reeling from what just happened and I can’t think past it. “I’m not sure what to do,” I say. “But I know that things will be better if I can see him, face to face. I think this is one of those situations where the phone will just make things worse.”

  “Well then, there you have it. Trust yourself, remember?”

  “I did, and look where it got me, Dacia.”

  “It got you exactly where you needed to be. This doesn’t change that. Now, we go find him.”

  “I guess.”

  “Road trip. You and me. And for the love of God, woman, clean yourself up, you look like hell.” She’s right, I need to pull myself together and take a shower. Then it’s me and Dacia, off to Marsden Manor. One way or another this is getting resolved

  DAMMIT!

  I can’t believe that I left her again. She looked so upset and I feel like shit for having to be evasive with her. The strange part is that I was actually having a great time, which I never thought that I would around a group of people. But she has great friends, even Kevin, and I was as surprised at how well everything was going as she probably was. I didn’t want to leave, and I may have just ruined everything by getting in my car and coming here.

  As soon as I felt the vibration in my pocket I knew that I had to leave, no matter how rude it was. When I unlocked my phone, I saw his name on my screen—Zimb—former detective Phil Zimbrano. Phil is my longtime contact for the work that I’m doing, and an all-around interesting guy. I’ve been around a lot of cops in my life, especially during the time when Anna was missing, and twenty-five years on the job had left Phil with the same set of personality traits that a lot of these guys share; he’s generally rough around the edges, he loves to point out the stupidity in other people’s behavior, and decades of seeing the worst of humanity has left him jaded. I’ll gladly take your money, kid, he told me on more than one occasion, but trust me, I’ve been at this long enough to know that the bad guys usually get away with it, no matter what you see on TV. Over the years I’ve lined Phil’s pockets handsomely, and I almost single-handedly keep the doors of his failing PI business open. In exchange, Phil’s exhausted a career’s worth of favors to acquire the information that I need.

  His text said to meet him in an alley in the center of town—a cliché move for a cop if ever there was one. As much as Phil liked to chew my ear off about how unrealistic cop shows were, he played the part like he was straight out of central casting. He loves to curse, and never misses an opportunity to modify a sentence with fuck, or fuckin’; he has a bad, out of date moustache, and he always reeks of old booze and even older cigarettes. Despite being as gruff as he is, he has an incredible mind for police work, having spent the last decade of his career as a highly decorated detective. But it’s not his mind alone that I need—I already have the intelligence—what Phil really brings to the table is access. He’s one of those cops that other cops loves, his brothers in blue, as he likes to call them, and he’s built up enough human capital over the years that all it takes is a phone call for him to get almost anything that I ask for.

  I’m well aware that until this week he thought that I was out of my mind; that I’m some wealthy eccentric who’s obsessed with a case that had gone cold almost fifteen years ago. He’s told me as much over the years. Kid, no disrespect to you or your family, but you’re out of your fuckin’ mind if you think you’re ever gonna find anything new in this case. I don’t need his faith in me or his desire to get justice for my sister; I just need him to do what he’s told, and to make sure that none of it ever leads back to me or my family. For five years he’s done just that, and even though he thinks I’m crazy, he’ll keep working for me as long as the brown envelopes keep showing up in his mailbox.

  I pull into the alley where he asked to meet, and I see that he’s already parked, engine off, a cloud of cigarette smoke coming out of his rolled-down window. I pull behind his beat-up Buick and shut my lights off. He knows the drill. He gets out and brings a large file folder with him as he sits in the passenger seat of my car. “That was fast, kid, even for you.” I’m in my thirties; but he’s developed a habit of calling me “kid”, probably because his actual kids were around my age. I don’t mind anymore. He can call me whatever the hell he wants so long as he’s right about what he told me earlier in the week. “You look upset, kid. Rough night?”

  “You have no idea what I gave up to be here right now, Phil,” I tell him sternly.

  “You’re right, I have no idea,” he says. “But I think after you see what I found that it might be worth it.”

  I don’t know if that’s true. Phil and I have had moments like this on and off throughout our relationship, and it always plays out the same way: after months of inactivity, he would suddenly text me about a new piece of information he’s discovered that would crack my sister’s case. He always disappointed me, and
I really think that he did it on purpose just to keep the checks coming in. If tonight turns out to be another one of those nights, then I’ve made a terrible mistake, one that I may not be able to recover from. Mia doesn’t know, but this was the second time in two weeks that Phil has pulled me away from her. The first was our date at the park. I was lucky enough that she gave me another chance to see her after that, but tonight I really had no choice but to come here.

  My relationship with Mia is something that I had given up hope of ever having, and all she wants is for me to be part of her life; to meet and get along with her friends, and to have a nice dinner. It was such a simple request, something that I owed her after the way I had been behaving up to that point, and I couldn’t even give her that without drama. I left for a third time, only this had nothing to do with my anxiety issues. Opening up to Mia felt like a weight lifted off of my shoulders, and it feels so good to tell her things that have been burdening me since I can remember. I didn’t want to be dishonest back in the park, I never want to lie to her, but there was no way to explain what was going on because the truth makes me sound insane. Maybe I am.

  My father went crazy trying to solve Annabelle’s case; he pushed everyone around him away, including his family, and ended up defeated, miserable, and alone before he died. Is that what will happen to me if I keep going down this endless road? Will I become a shell of myself, lost in a mystery that I can never solve, all alone? I don’t want to think about that now, but Mia keeps texting me, asking me where I am. I can’t answer her honestly, so I’m not going to answer at all. Right now I need to think about my sister, and I want to hear what Phil has to say for himself.

  The second he’s next to me I can tell he’ been drinking, I can smell it all over him. Must have been a bad day. Whiskey is his poison of choice, but the odor is usually less pungent than it is tonight. “So let’s hear what you have, Phil.” I’m all business, I don’t have the energy to beat around the bush; I have things to do.