Heartstopper

by Lauren Landish

  "Hold on," I said. I took the phone away from my ear and covered the mouthpiece. "He wants to meet. Not a date, just to talk."

  "And what does your heart tell you?" Shawnie asked.

  "To say yes," I replied. "But how should I set it up?"

  "How about a coffee shop or someplace public? If you want, I can go with you."

  I smiled in appreciation at her offer and nodded. Uncovering the mouthpiece, I took a deep breath. "All right, Dane, but it's where I want and on my terms, agreed?"

  "Agreed," he said immediately, relief evident in his voice.

  "Good. Then meet me at The Nook, on the edge of Piedmont Park. You know where that is, I assume?"

  "Just down the street," Dane said eagerly. "What time should I meet you there?"

  "You can meet us there at seven thirty. But Dane, if we don't see you by seven thirty-five, I'm walking out and blocking your number. Okay?"

  "I'll be there," he said. He was so eager, he didn't even ask who the other person was. "Abby?"

  "Yes, Dane?"

  "Thank you. I'll see you tonight."

  "Good-bye, Dane."

  I hung up my phone, looking over at Shawnie. "So, what do you say to the two of us getting one more study session in on European History before I take you out for burgers and tots at The Nook?"

  Chapter 10

  Dane

  I was nervous standing outside the door to The Nook, even more nervous than at my court martial. The tavern wasn't too busy for a Tuesday night, but I'd still made sure to arrive five minutes early. I was wearing my best clothes short of a suit, which I still didn't own. Instead, I’d put on my best pressed-collared linen shirt, dark khaki dress pants, and my only set of dress shoes, slip-on black shoes that I'd polished not to a military-level shine, but still pretty good.

  I looked down at myself and nearly slapped my head. I felt so stupid. The night I'd met Abby, I'd been wearing jeans and boots and a t-shirt underneath my hooded shirt. Now, I probably looked like a loser who was trying to look like something he wasn’t. “The worst that can happen is she says no. You've gotten plenty of that in your life."

  Somewhat reassured, I entered the place, looking around for Abby's face. I panicked for a second after my first look didn't see anything, but then when I checked again, I saw what looked like a familiar face behind a burly-looking man at a corner table. She was seated with a friend, I guess, and I did a double take when I realized it was the same girl that Chris had his sights on back at Roundups.

  I went over, her friend seeing me first. She leaned over, and Abby turned, finding me and raising her hand not so much in a wave as a signal that I had found the right table. I couldn't help it. My heart jumped in my chest when our eyes met, and it felt like at least a little bit of the weight that had been sitting on my shoulders since she'd run out of the apartment was gone.

  "Abby . . .” I said, not sure how to continue when I reached the table. I wanted to pull her into my arms and kiss her again, to feel the lips that I'd dreamed about for weeks. I wanted to whisk her away to a fantasy land that didn't exist outside of movies. Finally, I knew I had to say something. "It's good to see you. Can I sit down?"

  Abby's eyes cut over to her friend, whose lips twitched in an amused smile. "Sit down, Dane. By the way, I'm Shawnie, Abby's friend."

  "It's good to meet you," I said, offering my hand. We shook, and I was impressed with her grip. Most women in the South either wilt or give you a weird sort of grip that doesn't quite align properly with the way a man grips your hand, web of thumb to web of thumb, fingers wrapped properly. Most women give you some sort of three-quarter grip where their thumb ends up right about the base knuckle of your fingers, a half-inch short, with their own fingers in some sort of strange stiff pincer grip. Shawnie could shake hands correctly, and I was pleased with that at least. "So I guess you're the other part of us that Abby mentioned earlier?"

  "I am," she answered playfully. "I get to play the silent muscle, or the Inquisitor, whichever is needed. Do you have any sins to confess?"

  Her eyes were twinkling in good humor and her mouth was quirked in a half-grin, but it faltered when she saw my face and reaction. "I have more sins than I can think of counting," I said somberly. "But I promise you both, I won't hide any of them."

  Abby nodded, and for the first time since that one special night, I saw a faint ghost of her smile. "Be careful, Dane. If you think I'm the sort of person who asks hard questions, Shawnie's a pit bull. You may be asked things that you aren't comfortable answering."

  "I know. I've been thinking about that for the past six hours. Hell, in reality, I've been thinking about that for the past month. And I'm willing to do that," I said. A waitress came by and took our drink orders—Cokes all around. "You're probably wondering why."

  "The thought had crossed my mind," Abby said. "Shawnie's been asking me that too. Why would a man be willing to even try explaining things to a girl who he has known for only one night? Why not just find another girl, one who doesn’t know and doesn’t care about what you did?”

  "I think it's because he's thinking with his hips and not with his head," Shawnie added with a wicked grin.

  “If I just wanted to get my rocks off, there's a lot of places I could go. But I didn't, and other than two nights out, one at a place called Roundups with my friend, Chris, I haven't been in a night spot since Abby and I met. To tell you the truth, I've seen you before. You were there that night.”

  "Ah, that night," Shawnie replied, totally unfazed. Smart and collected. I liked this girl. She was a great friend for Abby. "Yeah, I went by there. What did you think?"

  "Beer's a bit expensive, but the music is tolerable. But anyway, I'm doing this because I felt like maybe we had a connection. I could be wrong, but I’d like to find out.”

  Abby's eyes softened. My words had an impact on her. Still, there was a lot of hardness in her eyes. Our tension was broken, however, when Shawnie interrupted. "Whoo, you're either the most romantic man in the world or the smoothest talker. Hey, barkeep! I'm going to need a beer over here to put out these flames!"

  "So why didn't you tell me?" Abby asked quietly after the beer arrived. I demurred, taking just a sip from the previously ordered Coke. I didn't need any alcohol in my system. "Why didn't you tell me about your past?"

  “I didn’t think it really mattered at the time. I didn’t exactly expect that to happen, and well, after it did, I didn’t really know if I should or how. I mean, was I supposed to say ‘by the way, you just slept with an ex-con’? How would you have done it if our positions were reversed? I'd feel like I was in a Carly Rae Jepsen song or a bad Internet meme. I'm a convicted killer, so call me maybe?"

  Shawnie nearly snorted beer from her nose, but Abby didn't flinch, studying me with those perceptive eyes of hers. Finally, she nodded, accepting the point. "I do suppose that’s not the sort of thing you tell someone in that kind of situation. Would you have told me eventually?"

  "I'd like to say yes, but hypotheticals have never been my strong point," I said. "I'll be honest. Not a day goes by that I'm not reminded of what I did, of what happened. There are times, though, that I'd like to move past it, to not wake up every morning with the thought that I'm going to spend the rest of my life with this weight around my neck."

  "Tell us what happened, in your words," Shawnie said suddenly, very serious. "Abby showed me some of the old news clips about your conviction. They said you pleaded guilty after killing another soldier."

  I nodded and told them my version of the events. "In the end, I pleaded guilty because I could have done something different," I said. "I could have knocked him out. I could have kicked him in the back of the leg or something, something to have let me be in control and not end up where we did. That, combined with the case and who I had as a lawyer, I decided the best thing to do was to plead guilty."

  "And if you hadn't?" Abby asked, almost all of the hardness gone from her eyes. "If you'd taken it to the trial?"

 
"The prosecutor was asking for murder," I said. "Conviction would have been either twenty years and up, or death. Considering it was in a combat environment, I most likely would have gotten life or the death penalty."

  "So why Atlanta?" Abby asked. "I know I mentioned that before, but it seems like San Francisco or Seattle or someplace like that would be a lot less dangerous for you."

  I sighed and took out my wallet. Flipping through, I took out the creased photo I had inside. "Take a look," I said, handing over the photograph. "You may not recognize one of the people there, but that's me when I was twenty, about six months before I enlisted. The other people are my parents, my brother, Cain, and my sister, Denise. Once I was arrested, I've heard from them one time. My father wrote me a half-page letter that I got to read when I was in the holding brig at Fort Campbell awaiting my court martial. My defense JAG had asked my family to appear, to make a statement or something that could help my case. Instead, my father wrote back that neither he, my mother, or my siblings knew who Dane Bell was, and wanted no contact with said person forever. He disowned me, and disavowed that I'd ever been his son. It . . . it was difficult to read."

  "Then why do you keep this photo?" Shawnie asked. "Isn't it painful?"

  I nodded and took the photo back from Abby, tucking it back into my wallet. "Sometimes, our pain is what shapes us. I keep it because somewhere inside me is hope. Hope that some day, maybe I can redeem myself in my father's eyes, and I can be accepted back into my family. So far, though, no such luck."

  "Have you tried to contact them?" Abby asked. "You were pretty determined to contact me."

  "I write my parents every month," I said. "So far, all these years, every single one has been sent back marked 'Return to Sender.' I'll keep writing, though. Stamps are pretty cheap, and I don't have their email or Facebook accounts."

  "And are you still living with Chris Lake?" Abby asked. "In that apartment?"

  I nodded. "I am, but I have a job now, working at Lake Ford. It's not much, just sweeping the repair bay and hauling stuff here and there, but it's a start. As soon as I can, I'm going to find my own place. The amenities may not be as nice, but I'll be standing on my own two feet again."

  "Why’d you stay with Chris, anyway?" Shawnie asked. "I guess that also has something to do with Atlanta."

  "Chris, Lloyd and I were in the same team in the 101st. Chris was our team leader. He'd enlisted nearly a year before I did. Afterward, he was the only guy who stayed in contact with me, and when he got out, he continued to send me the occasional letter. So after his father died and he inherited half-ownership of the Lake Automotive Group, he said that when I got out, to look him up in Atlanta. He's let me stay at that apartment, lent me some cash while I tried to find my own job, and when that didn't pan out, he hooked me up with the job at Lake Ford. Of all the people in the world, he was the only one who didn't toss me aside like a piece of trash after what happened to Lloyd. That's why."

  Abby looked like she was about to say something about Chris, then closed her mouth. She looked down at the table, then at Shawnie, asking her a question without speaking swords.

  "I think you've made up your mind already," Shawnie said with a smile. "On the good side, I've listened to every word he's said, and either he's been totally honest, or he's the world's best liar, in which case you spent the night with a sociopath."

  I was still staring at the table when I felt the soft, sorely missed touch of her fingers on my hand, tenderly touching the back of it. I looked up to see Abby's eyes gazing into mine.

  "Before you two get doe-eyed, I've got one more question, just for curiosity's sake," Shawnie said. “What’d you do all those years in prison?”

  I looked over and smiled. "You have a lot of spare time, that’s for sure. You can either spend it staring at the walls, staring at a television, or trying to better yourself. I tried to use my time to make myself better. Some studying and a lot of reading.”

  “Okay, I lied. One last thing, then I'll shut up. What sort of toppings do you think I should get for the tater tots that you're buying for me?"

  I laughed and looked at the menu. "If it were up to me, I'd go with the chili and cheese."

  "That seals it. You’re a keeper," Shawnie said with a chuckle, patting Abby on the shoulder. "He has my seal of approval. You can kiss your boyf . . . whatever it is you want to call him."

  "Actually, I had one more question," Abby said. "About Chris . . . how close are you two?"

  The same look that was on her face when I mentioned Chris earlier came over her, and I tilted my head. I figured it was a bit of uncomfortableness over the fact that he and I were friends while he was an ex-boyfriend. Even if it had been years, there were rules that some people followed about that issue. "I owe him a lot. He gave me a home, a job, and loyalty when the rest of the world turned their backs on me. But, if you're worried about how he'd react, I think it wouldn't be a problem. He's moved on. Is it a problem?"

  Abby shook her head, then lowered her head. "Dane, I feel like I have to say first that… "

  She paused and was about to say something when a thunderous voice boomed across the tavern. "Abigail Melissa Rawlings!"

  My head jerked up as Abby whipped her head around to see an older man, maybe in his late forties or early fifties, his eyes glaring at the two of us. He was in good shape for a man his age, and he had a vein pulsing in his forehead as he stood rooted to his spot, his hands clenched at his side. At the sight of him, Abby jerked her hands back from mine, her eyes wide and fearful. I surged out of my chair, getting in between the two while the tavern went dead quiet. "Who the hell . . .?"

  "Dane, stop," Abby said quietly, laying her hand on my arm. "He's . . . he's my father. Daddy, this is—”

  "I know who this son of a bitch is," Abby's father said. “I’ll never forget the face of a goddamn terrorist sympathizing, murdering traitor. Dane-fucking-Bell."

  "Daddy, please," Abby said, her voice quaking. "If you only knew him . . .”

  "Enough!" he nearly screamed, his face turning purplish. "We're leaving. Now!"

  I looked around the tavern. While there were a few people looking at Abby's father in shock and even some upset, there were just as many faces looking at me. Two of the guys looked like soldiers, perhaps on leave, or at least the type that wanted to be soldiers. High and tight haircuts, lean faces, and a look in their eyes that said they knew how to handle themselves. I reached back and put my hand on Abby's forearm, but not taking my eyes off her father. He looked mad enough to kill, and that was no exaggeration. "It's okay. It'd be better if I go. Abby, thank you."

  I left, trying to keep my head high, even as Abby's father stared daggers at me, along with a few of the other patrons. Shawnie saw what was going on and stood up, but I glanced back quickly and shook my head. Abby needed her friend more than I did.

  Outside the tavern, I watched as Abby's father said something in her ear, and Shawnie tried to defend her friend before a glare from him silenced her as well. I saw the door to the tavern open, and the soldier boys started to come out.

  I'm no coward, but this was one situation where discretion was the better part of valor. I couldn't help Abby, but messing with those two guys would get me nothing but time in jail. Hating every step, I left, walking just below a run back toward the apartment.

  Chapter 11

  Abby

  When I heard Daddy's voice cut through the bar, I froze, my heart trembling in my chest as my head whipped around to see him standing there, rage on his face. I'd seen him that mad only once before, when Mike Burriss had been caught red-handed drunk on a job site, and his drinking had caused two other men to get hurt. Daddy had needed to be restrained by four other men that day, and I knew that I had to try and do something. If he’d attacked Dane, Dane would either catch a beating if he didn't fight back, or else Daddy would go to the hospital. I'd seen Dane fight, and for all my Dad’s strength and rage, he wasn't a match.

  Still, I also knew that Dane was
a man who was conscious of his criminal record, and that he tried to do everything he could to blend in, not catch the attention of the police. If something did happen, he’d probably just let Daddy beat on him mercilessly. I had to do something, but I didn't know what. When Dane got up, trying to protect me, I laid a hand on his forearm, hoping that maybe I could use words to diffuse the situation. "Dane, stop. "He's . . . he's my father. Daddy, this is—”

  Daddy cut me off, his face turning purplish and scaring me. After the cardiac incident back in high school, he wasn't supposed to get upset like this. And he almost never cut me off unless he was upset, and never by screaming at me. If anything, he would interrupt with quiet tones, never showing a lack of control of his emotions. He claimed it was what some of the upper-crust folks who tried to hold him back would use against him. This time, though, his voice was bellowing, loud, and dripping with the blue-collar accent that he’d tried his hardest in daily life to not let seep out. "Enough! We're leaving. Now!"

  I wanted to say something more, but Dane's calm voice stopped me. I looked at him and was moved. He was obviously angry, but he was under control. A warm flush ran through me, knowing how much passion he had inside him, yet he kept it under such strong control—all to protect me. "It's okay. It'd be better if I go. Abby, thank you."

  I watched Dane make his way out of The Nook, and turned my attention back to Daddy. "Daddy—”

  "Abigail, not a damned word," he said, shocking me into silence. He had never, in my entire life, cursed at me. Sure, he might have occasionally described something in one of our conversations using a curse word, but never had he cursed at me. It brought tears to my eyes, and I gaped like a fish out of water, staring at him as he made his way to our table and grabbed the check. He wouldn’t let a tab go unpaid, no matter how angry he was. "Get your things; we are leaving."