by K Larsen
“Why did you want to come back here?” I ask resting my forehead on hers.
She beams, “This is where I fell in love with you.”
“I thought you loved me before that.” Aubry mock gasps at me.
“I had an inkling before but our time here, you know,” she says shooting me a look, “when you were actually here with me, is when I knew it for sure.”
I splash water at her, causing a squeal to burst out of her. Laughing she paddles away from me toward the beach. Chasing her to the beach is easy. My stroke is longer than hers. She lets out a peel of laughter when I tackle her into the sandy embankment.
“Tell me,” she breathes as I roll her on to her back.
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me you love me.”
Grinning I say, “I love you, Aubry Clark,” and spread her legs wide.
Epilogue
Aubry
It’s taken me a bit to adjust fully and get back into the swing of life but now that I’ve got it clutched tightly in my grasp, I’m never letting it go. Love isn’t finite and that used to freak me out. It’s hard to adapt to a new train of thought sometimes, but the reward it can hold is so worth the struggle.
Nora and I are closer than before because I more acutely relate to what she experienced. I appreciate my mom and Aimee in a way I didn’t before. Sometimes when you don’t experience struggle, you can’t experience true gratification either. Fear is a powerful motivator but so is love and appreciation. Not that any of these things happen easily or quickly.
The first family dinner after my, recovery, as I like to call it, was an epic failure. Liam was still irritated at Mike. Eve and Nora fawned over me and the perceived needs they assigned on my behalf. I got ornery. Mike got quiet and everyone else was entirely too loud. It was Lotte who stepped in and spoke up, reminding us that we’re all friends—family, and that none of the issues we were experiencing were ‘worth it in the long run’. That kid is something else. A little adult caged in a teenager’s body. A fighter like me. Even so, I’ve learned there are many types of fighters.
Lotte is a silent fighter. She’s strong and willful but doesn’t outwardly show struggle. She plots and plans and executes without fuss. It’s one of my favorite things about her. Eve is like me, feisty and loud and able to get angry and physically fight back. We’ve grown so much closer since Mike was discharged from the hospital. And my Nora. She’s a fighter too, but the survivalist kind. She adapts; that’s how she fights. Each type works. Each type is okay. I’ve continued talking to Dr. Richardson over the past few months because it simply feels good unloading all the things that weigh me down. My obsession with survivors and fighters and women and power led Dr. Richardson to prompt me to write a letter to Kesha herself, thanking her for the song that I identify with and hold so dear. That led to a response. Which knocked my socks off.
Four tickets to her next concert closest to us. It was, simply put—empowering. I took Eve, Nora and Aimee, and armed with them at my side, I felt powerful for the first time in a long time. As women, we don’t often feel our own power, but when you do, when you can harness that feeling and run with it, the whole world shifts around you. For me, the concept was enlightening and helped me move forward.
The first thing we did when Mike was cleared of his crutches was take the plane for a spin and I got my first real flying lesson. But as we were up there, above the tree line looking out at the vast skyscape before us, I missed, no craved the security and seclusion of the jungle. I’d just handed control of the plane back over to Mike when I’d told him I wanted to go back to our spot. He’d been so shocked, had such a visceral reaction that he’d jabbed the yoke and the plane dipped suddenly.
I laugh out loud at the memory.
“You know it’s frowned upon to laugh when a man is going down on you,” Mike grunts from between my legs. I’m staring up at a cloudless sky under a hot sun, bare as can be on a little sandy beach.
“I’m sorry.” I cover my eyes with my forearm. “I was just thinking about your reaction when I told you to bring me here.”
Mike halts his actions and I whine at the loss of sensation. He climbs until he’s hovering above my face. I move my arm and take his face between my palms. Here we are still together and thriving. It’s a heady feeling.
“You really shouldn’t leave a gal hanging.” I stifle a laugh when he makes a face.
“Well, said gal, shouldn’t laugh at a man or she might break his fragile ego.”
“Fragile?” I squawk in amusement.
With absolute sincerity he says, “If anyone had the ability to shatter my ego, it’d be you.”
God, I love this man. We’re all selfish but we’re also all capable of compassion and grace and loyalty. Mike has proven that to me. Pushing my hips up I let him know that I want, no desperately need … him. Since he’s an expert at reading my cues, he wastes no time giving me what I desire.
The End
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The Tutor
Trigger Warning
All of them.
This is not a romance.
It will not elicit warm and fuzzy feelings.
Him
Not just any woman will do. I require a special woman. I honored the last woman by staying with her overnight. Outdoors in the woods. I am not a monster. Because she was so lovely to look at and at one point I had wanted her. I tried to make her understand me but she never returned my affection. I can still picture her begging me to let her live. She promised to do anything, if I just let her live. But she wasn’t worth saving. None of them are. No matter, though. I will find another. There is always another. I will keep searching until someone is worthy of keeping. They are easy to find, when you know what to look for.
A simple classified ad. A few interviews. Does she turn her body toward me in the interview? How about a wide open and innocent gaze? Does she bow her head slightly or sit with her shoulders rounded forward? Does she blush or become flustered at something I say? Given a compliment, does she dismiss the validity of my praise or laugh nervously?
All these little characteristics help me choose the right woman. A background check seals the deal. No family—or—no family that cares, and no older than twenty to start.
Not just any woman will do. She has to be the right kind and I am a master at finding them.
Her
I am a logophile. A lover of words. Perhaps it’s because of my namesake or maybe just because I’m quirky but since I was a child, I’ve loved words. I assign all the important people in my life words.
For instance, Aubry, is winsome, callipygian, multifarious and capricious. Just pronouncing those words makes my brain happy. Me? I’m demure, acquiescent, and a logophile. Words inspire me. Always have. Certain ones sound magical when said aloud. Aubry thinks I’m ridiculous but that’s because her attention to detail is evanescent. Without Aub though, I’d be a total outcast. She basically saved me throughout high school—socially that is. Aubry is my toran to others; her peremptory confidence paves a way for me and my slight self-consciousness.
“So, are you going to be ready when I pick you up tonight?” she asks.
I roll my eyes. “Aub, you know I hate parties.”
She holds her hands up. “Wait, wait, if I play your game, will you go?”
“What game?” I ask and make a face.
She looks all over the living room quizzically. “Um, nadir optimum,” she says, before bursting into a fit of giggles. When Aubry Clark laughs, everyone laughs. She has an infectious air about her.
When I stop laughing, I mock seriousness. “Fine.” I cross my arms over my chest. “What’s your nadir?”
“Ugh, the new manager at the burger joint. He is so crude.” She pouts and shakes her h
ead.
“Okay,” I say. “And the optimum?”
Aubry’s eyes light up. “My bestie is going to a party with me tonight. Woo!” She jumps up and does a little victory dance, causing me to laugh all over again. I clutch my stomach because it’s too much to attempt keeping a straight face.
“Okay, girls, dinner’s ready,” Angela, Aubry’s mom calls from the kitchen. Anton and Aimee start arguing over who has to set the table, while Aubry stares at me.
“Stay.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Especially nope if you want me to get ready for a party.”
She lolls her head back and groans. “Fine, turd. I’ll see you at eight.”
I call out goodbye to Angela while walking to the front door.
It’s warm out. Summer has just started and I can practically smell it in the air. My walk home takes me down quiet side streets. I like to look into people’s windows as I pass by. Families gathered around tables, passing food to each other. It makes me smile while simultaneously causing a pang of loneliness in my gut. There will be no family dinner for me.
Most of the time, it doesn’t bother me. I prefer to be alone. I prefer books to parties, fictional characters to live friends, music to concerts. I’m a little antisocial. I’m also a little laser-focused on my goal of going to college. Aubry and I graduated a year ago and I have until August to save up enough money for my second year’s tuition. I sigh and jam my key into the lock. The door clicks open quietly. I flip switches on as I walk through the house, illuminating it room by room. Tossing my purse onto the kitchen table, I purse my lips and deliberate what to make for dinner. I haven’t gone grocery shopping in a week and the pickings are slim. I settle for an apple cut up, paired with some slices of cheddar cheese. I take my plate to the living room and curl up in the oversized arm chair. Pulling my book from the side table, I open to the dog-eared page and dive back in while popping apple slices and cheese into my mouth occasionally.
The doorbell startles me out of my fictional escape and I let out a small yelp. My empty plate falls off my knee onto the floor. I curse under my breath, while stepping over it. I swing the door open, ready to tell who ever it is to just go away and see Aubry.
“Dude. Really?”
I wrinkle my face. “Sorry. I was . . .”
“Reading. Yeah? I know. I’ve heard it a hundred times,” she says. Her hands are on her hips and she looks annoyed.
“I’ll grab my bag and we can go,” I say.
She shakes her head no, sighs and marches past me into the house. “No. Nope. No can do. You need to change,” she says.
I cock my head right and widen my eyes.
Aubry crosses her arms over her chest and with a smug expression says, “I’ll wait.”
When I wake the next morning, I am left with a feeling of disorganized nostalgia and terror that stays with me all day, like a vice grip around my ribcage. I’m a wreck. Aubry calls multiple times and I send each one to voicemail. I shower three times and wish I had a mother to talk to, to hold me, to tell me what I should do, but I don’t. I feel dirty and used. I’ve been betrayed.
I grab the paper from the front porch that the paperboy tosses every Sunday morning, despite my not having a subscription, close the door and lock it behind me. Skipping my morning coffee, I grab a yogurt and open the classifieds. As I pour over them, one jumps out at me.
OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS
Seeking live in summer tutor
for 11-yr old girl. Great pay.
Room & board included. Interested
women leave message at 555–774–0854
Pocketville
I could tutor. And I most certainly could stand to get out of town for the summer. I don’t think I could stomach seeing Anton any time soon and Aubry will wonder what’s up if I just stop coming over. I pick up my cell and dial the number. It rings once and goes straight to voicemail.
“This is Nora Robertson. Um, I’m interested in learning more about the tutoring position in the classifieds, if it’s still available.” I leave my number and email address and hang up. The rap, rap, rap at the front door startles me and I fling yogurt on my pajama pants. Muttering curses, I peek out the kitchen window. Aubry. Tears prick my eyes. I want nothing more than to let her in, but I can’t. I can’t face her. Not yet. She will know something is wrong and there is no way in hell I’m telling her what happened last night. I duck down before she sees me and head to my room.
I huddle in the corner, knees pulled up under my chin, eyes closed, holding a picture of my parents to my chest as I let out my hurt and disgust in silent sobs.
Monday morning, I have twenty-six unread texts, four voicemails and six missed calls, all from Aubry. I blow out a breath and force myself out of bed. I pick up the plates and cups scattered by my bed and drop them in the kitchen sink. Today I have to function. I gave myself twenty-four hours. I gave him twenty-four hours. Now it’s time to dust my shoulders off and move forward as best I can.
The Girl
The excitement I feel is inexplicable as I come to. It’s more like hysteria. I push my emotions back, until they are as small as possible. I blink stars away until I see Nora. I beg her not to leave me alone out here, but she only lies there in the broken glass and metal of the truck. A stiff wind whistles through the pines and kicks up dead leaves.
“Nora,” I whine and jostle her again. Guilt eats at me for lying to her, but the threat of what he would do to me if I told her the truth, was enough to keep me quiet.
There is a crunching in the snow near me. I turn my head too fast and a wave of dizziness claims me. I clutch Nora’s shirt and tug at it urgently. “Wake up. Wake up.”
She doesn’t move. I look up and try to wiggle from the wreckage. I hurt everywhere. A boot lands in front of my hand. My eyes bug out. When I look up, I want to die. Holden reaches down for me. The sound that follows is like the sky being torn in two. It ends with a soul-deep scream that rattles bones. His eyes darken; his scowl grows more intense as he yanks me from the totaled truck.
It is my scream.
Nora
“What’s your name?”
“Nora,” I whisper. My throat feels sunburned. Sweat soaks the hair covering my neck. Wind gusts hair across my face. Something drips from my head. Or onto my head. I can’t tell which. A blurry face appears over mine. Too close. “Nora, we’re going to lift now.” I stare at the grey sky. I shudder and worry about what might be watching from the thicket of woods nearby. I can’t nod and my mouth makes no sound. For a moment, I feel weightless. Free. I imagine it’s how birds feel soaring through the sky. Gravity quickly reminds me that something’s amiss. My leg feels like it’s on fire. I wince when I’m jostled into some kind of metal box. An ambulance. The sterile, hygienic odor hits me like a brick in the face.
Everything is a watery blur from behind the rain-streaked windows of the ambulance doors. People have a deep-seated craving for a sense of family, belonging, identity. I squeeze my eyes shut. Looking back, I realize that he probably interviewed lots of different girls for the job and picked the one he thought would be easiest. It wasn’t just the girl he chose but the life she came from as well. “Nora, stay with me.” The paramedic’s voice is deep and oddly soothing. It pulls me from my thoughts. I open my eyes, slide my gaze from the ceiling to him. I want to know what he looks like but my eyes won’t focus enough to get a good look. He pokes at me with something, as if I am a large bug to be inspected. My body screams with pain. It feels like there’s a noose around my throat so tight, stars dance in my eyes. I’ve experienced this before though. I can survive. Life’s made me numb. I squeeze my eyes shut again. “Nora, can you hear me?” “Nora . . .”
I jolt awake—disoriented. Lotte? Tubes snake in and out of me. I’m covered in soft blue and don’t feel gritty with dirt anymore. The steady beeps of nearby monitors hurt my ears. So much white noise. A symphony of electronic background sound that’s headache inducing. I’ve been too used to the quiet of nature for
too long. The door to the room is closed. I don’t like closed doors. Panic jumpstarts my heart. I’m trapped. Again. My leg is hoisted up and in a cast. I squint, trying to recall the proper name for the contraption. My sternum aches and I have white lights dancing in my peripheral vision.
The door opens. Please be Lotte. A man in a gray suit enters the room. I lift my head slightly. “Hello, Nora.” I don’t know who he is. I squint at him as he surveys me, while chewing a nail. It’s strange to think of the unexpected turns a person’s life can take. “I’m Detective Salve. And I need to ask you some questions.” I feel my face wrinkle in confusion. “Do you remember what happened?” he asks.
I drop my head to the thin pillow; stare at the ceiling as he pulls a chair next to the bed. “I was in a car accident.” My voice is a raspy whisper. When I chance a look at him again, he’s nodding.
“Yes. That’s good. Do you need anything?” he asks. Not from you.
“Water,” I answer. And Lotte.
“Sure thing. Hang on.” He stands, the chair legs scrape across the floor and I cringe at the noise. When he returns, he holds a small cup of water out at me, a straw plunged into it. He’s younger than Holden by maybe a few years from the looks of it. I wonder how long he’s been a detective. His brown hair is close cropped and his nose has a bump in the bridge. He has nice eyes and an easy smile. A nice face, Angela would say. I take the cup from him and chance a small sip. It’s hard to swallow but I manage. I set the cup down on the table next to the bed.
