Solitude (Artistic Pricks Ink #3)

by Cat Mason

  I am a walking, talking contradiction. I complain about feeling alone. Even though I am surrounded by people who care about me, I push them away, distancing myself from the possibilities of being hurt again. My hands fall to my sides, my fists clenching tightly. I’m overwhelmed, grief-stricken; but, most of all, I am pissed off at myself. Guilt and regret consumes me like a flood. All the things I wish I had said play on a loop in my head with everything that I did say.

  When Becky died, I shut myself off from the things and people that reminded me of her. I threw out nearly everything we had in our apartment that had any memory of her tied to it and moved hours away in an effort to escape the ghosts that have haunted me since Becky died. The only thing I couldn’t part with was the truck. Now, I have lost the only physical tie I had left to her and the last words I said to him were ugly and filled with hate.

  Closing my eyes, I blow out a breath. Defeated. That’s the only word I can use to describe myself right now. I spent so much of my time in the Navy focused and determined on the victories, on achieving the goals set before me that defeat was never an option. That word wasn’t in my vocabulary. Now, when I look in the mirror, I don’t even know the man staring back.

  “We’re all here for you, if you need anything, Mitch,” she speaks. Her voice is soft, taking me by surprise. “I know you don’t see it, but you’re not alone.”

  The minute the door closes, I slam my fist through the drywall. “Fuck!” Frustrated with myself and the entire world, I see red. Rage and hurt roar through my veins, my heart beats so fast it feels like it will explode. Rearing back, I hit the wall again and again. Pain radiates up my arm, and I welcome it. Since Becky died, I have learned how cathartic physical pain can be. It’s a much needed distraction, a way to take the focus away from everything else.

  Heading for the door, I stop and look at the battered wall. I laugh to myself, thinking how much easier the three holes in the wall are going to be to fix than the ones in my chest.

  ***

  Stopping by my condo, I throw stuff in a bag and get on the road. The sun starts setting not long after I gas up and get on the highway. I welcome the darkness, but not the quiet. Scanning through the stations on the radio, I crank the volume and let Papa Roach fill the empty space inside the cab of the truck. The tires eat up the miles, the painted lines blurring. The drive is a long one and gives me lots of time to think, but that isn’t always a good thing.

  I can’t get the things I said to Frank out of my head. I refused to listen to anything he said, too absorbed in my own grief. It didn’t matter that he had lost her too; no one else’s feelings meant shit to me. Now, I will never be able to right that wrong.

  Pulling onto the gravel road, I park beside his old Ford pickup truck and shut off the engine. Staring out the windshield at the property, my mind goes back to the last time I was here. The surprise on Beck’s face when I gave her the invitation to our wedding, the happy tears in those beautiful brown eyes. I smile at the memory, then wince at the ache it causes in my heart. It feels like a lifetime ago, a different life. It was. Back when I believed in love and endless possibilities for my life. Before they were taken by a bullet.

  The porch light comes on and the front door opens. Micah steps out onto the screened in porch, scanning the yard and driveway. Opening the door, I take a breath and climb from the truck. “Mitch?” he shouts. Flinging open the screen door, he jogs down the steps, meeting me halfway down the drive. “Holy shit, it is you. How the hell you been, man?”

  This isn’t the kid I taught to shoot hoops years ago. He is a far cry from the punk with golden hands that lead his team to two state championships in high school, only to get a full ride to Duke. Micah has grown into a man. Even though I know we are seeing each other on sad circumstances, I have to admit I am proud of the man I see. “Hey, what are you doin’ out here?” I ask clapping him on the back.

  Pulling back, he kicks at the gravel with his sneaker. “Just didn’t want to go home,” he mutters, looking down at the ground. “Doesn’t seem real, you know? Old man died in his chair, right on the river bank. Fishin’ pole in one hand, jar of ‘shine in the other.” Micah shakes his head.

  “Died doing what he loved,” I reply, smiling sadly.

  “Well, get your shit and come on in,” he says, jerking his chin toward the house. “We can have a beer and catch up.”

  “Beer, huh?” I ask, heading toward the truck for my bag. “How ‘bout we have this conversation in two years, when you’re twenty-one?”

  “Some things never change,” he laughs, “I’m glad you’re back, it’s not the same without you.”

  “I’m not back,” I say just as Micah disappears into the house.

  Grabbing my phone from the dash, I dial the shop, wanting to let Luke know I made it so he doesn’t act like a nagging ass wife and start texting me smiley faces or some shit. “Artistic Pricks Ink, this is Shelby.”

  She yawns into the phone, her voice raspy from sleep. Closing my eyes, I can see her mouth moving in my mind as she speaks, those plump red lips forming each word. I know what those lips feel like, what they taste like. How they swell from the heat of my kiss.

  Jesus fuck, Mitch, focus.

  “Hey,” I force out before she accuses me of being some perverted, heavy breather and hangs up.

  “Hey, sorry I didn’t look at the screen. You woke me up,” she answers, her voice cracking. “Where are you?”

  “Didn’t mean to wake you. I’m in Fallon.”

  “No. It’s fine,” she sighs, sounding relieved. “You okay?”

  “Uh, yeah. Fine.” Scrubbing a hand over my face, I grab my bag from the back and close the door. “Tell Luke I’ll call him tomorrow after I’ve made the arrangements. Just wanted him to know I made it safe.”

  “Oh,” she replies, I can hear the disappointment in her voice. Why do I keep hurting her? “Yeah, okay. I’ll let him know.”

  “Shelby?” I start. Leaning against the porch, I steady my bag on the steps.

  I’m sorry… I wish I wasn’t such an asshole… You deserve better than that…

  “Yeah, what do you need, Mitch?” she asks, when I don’t say anything.

  You…

  There are a million things I want to say right now, but I don’t. The right words won’t come; anything that comes to mind just doesn’t feel like it’s enough. Instead, I thank her and end the call. Shoving the phone in my pocket, I contemplate banging my head against the side of the house. I have never felt so conflicted in my life. I opened a box by kissing Shelby, by giving in to what I selfishly wanted. Now that I’ve done it, there’s no closing it again. It’s so much more than want now.

  Stepping into the house, I drop my bag by the door and head into the kitchen where Micah stands, going through the fridge. “Only two more beers left and everything in town is already closed,” he says, holding out a bottle. “That’s one for each of us.”

  Grabbing it, along with the one on the counter, I smirk at him. “Nice try.”

  Twisting the cap off one, I toss it into the trash and take a long pull from the bottle. “There was an envelope in the desk with your name on it, Mitch,” Micah says, taking a lemonade from the fridge before closing the door. “Left it on the table for ya. Looks important.”

  “Thanks.”

  Walking over, I take a seat at the old, oak table. Sitting down the bottles, I pick up the large clasp envelope, reading my name printed neatly on it in blue ink. Opening it, I retrieve the paperwork. The deed to the house along with the title to his truck are paper clipped to a thick stack of papers titled Last Will and Testament of Franklin Edwards. A folded piece of paper falls free. My name scribbled in Frank’s handwriting catches my eye instantly.

  Dropping everything else to the table, I grab the letter, holding it between my fingers. I stare at it, debating whether I should open it or not. Do I want to know what he had to say to me after the last time I saw him? Pushing to m
y feet, I take the letter and step out onto the screened in front porch that I spent so many times shooting the shit with Frank, while he rocked in his chair and sipped moonshine. In the years I knew him, he taught me so much about life.

  Wanting to feel closer to him while reading his words, I sit in his chair and unfold the paper.

  Mitchell,

  If you’re reading this, I’ve been given my final orders. Nothing to be sad about here, son. I’ve been waiting a long time to see my girls again. Do what you want with the house, it’s not like I’ll need it where I’m going. Everything is yours now, except my truck. I’d like that to go to Micah.

  I’ve never been one for anything fancy, so don’t go to a bunch of trouble putting me away. Bury me in the plot between Joyce and Becky, or cremate me and scatter my charred ass down by the river. Do whatever you feel is best, it’s not like I’m in any position to argue.

  You’re a good man, son. Was proud to have you with Becky. What happened wasn’t fair, but life never is. I know why you left and I understand, but time moves on and demands we move on with it or be left behind. I gave you time and space, but I’m a stubborn and persistent man, Mitchell. I’m going to get the last word even if it’s in my god-damned will.

  Don’t spend your life mourning the dead. No one truly wishes to die, Mitchell. But once you’re gone, you don’t want to come back.

  I’ll take care of the girls until you get here and save you a seat beside me, facing the water.

  Frank

  Folding the letter, I tuck it into the front pocket of my jeans. Sitting back in the chair, I stare out at the yard, barely making out the path in the moonlight that leads down to the river. It’s hard to believe that I’ll never see Frank stepping out from the break in the tree line carrying his catch again. I guess the old man was right; no matter how much we refuse to face it, time moves on, whether we are ready or not.

  Chapter Eleven

  Shelby

  “Thanks for ridin’ up with me,” Luke says, signaling to turn into the cemetery. “I didn’t want to make the drive alone.”

  “It’s no problem,” I reply, looking out the window.

  When Luke said that Kionna was sick and unable to attend the funeral with him, I couldn’t help volunteering to take the day off and ride up with him. Mitch’s phone call left me unsettled. With Becky’s grandfather passing away, nothing between us has been resolved; but that isn’t what has me anxious. It has taken everything in me not to drive the nearly four hundred miles several times, since he hung up the phone the other night.

  I can’t get the way he looked in the storage room out of my head. His eyes looked so empty, so sad and lost. The minute I pulled the door closed, I heard him shout followed by the crash of what I now know was his fist hitting the wall. He could have ripped my heart out and it wouldn’t have hurt that much. I have never felt so small, so in over my head in my life. I don’t know how to help him. Hell, I don’t even know what to expect when we see him.

  The more time I spend with Mitch, I learn exactly how little I really know about him. He is like a puzzle that I am trying to put together. I find a piece here and there, but they are all edge pieces. I feel like huge parts of the puzzle that is Mitch Taylor are here in Fallon. I also know that this is the place he is most vulnerable, which only makes him more unpredictable.

  “Have you talked to him today?” I ask as Luke parks beside an old truck.

  “I’ve called, but it went to voicemail,” Luke replies, his brow furrowing. “Look, I know that things between you two are…”

  “Complicated?” I ask, trying to finish his sentence for him.

  “Sure; I was gonna say on the verge of homicide, but let’s go with complicated.” Shutting off the engine, he shifts in his seat. His blue eyes meet mine, softening sadly. “I just…”

  “Don’t worry,” I assure him. “I’m here to be supportive. Alphabetical torture tactics are off the table today, boss. I promise.”

  Climbing from the car, I straighten my simple, black halter dress. I curled my hair, pinning it so that it cascades down my back. Vehicles line the paved road that lines the cemetery. Six men in uniform walk by, carrying a casket draped with an American flag. Mitch, and a boy who looks barely legal, both dressed in black suits, walk just behind them. A small crowd follow, holding flags and little paper memorial cards, all heading up to where more men in uniform stand holding guns. Taking Luke’s arm, I allow him to lead me toward the crowd that has gathered.

  Noticing that the service has already started, we hang back a little and watch. I have never been to a funeral, especially not a military one; I had no idea what to expect. I thought I would feel uncomfortable, like an outsider who didn’t belong here while everyone around me grieves the loss of a man I didn’t know. Instead, in this moment, I find myself in awe. The respect shown by the men in uniform as they pay tribute to one of their own is very humbling and emotional. Every part honors a man who was a part of something bigger than himself, but that’s not all. The respect for the family, for those who lost a loved one, has me fighting back tears more than once.

  Mitch sits up front, his eyes covered by sunglasses. He seems fine on the surface, but when his jaw ticks, I see the cracks in the mask he wears so often. I hate watching him hurt, especially having seen how deep his scars really are. I want to go to him, but I can’t, not yet. I don’t want to cause a disruption.

  Once it’s over, Luke and I wait for everyone to shake their hands and extend their condolences before making our way over. By the time we reach the front, I see Mitch step away and head toward the road.

  “Sorry for your loss, Micah,” Luke says to the kid when we reach him. “Frank was a good man.”

  “Thank you for coming; it’s Luke, right?”

  “Yeah,” Luke nods, “Shelby, I want you to meet Micah, a friend of Mitch’s. Micah, this is Shelby Winston, she runs the shop. Without her we’d be lost.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Micah shakes my hand, but my eyes are on Mitch. Facing away from us, he leans against a tree. People walk by, glancing at him, but don’t approach. It’s funny how his body language wards everyone else off, but at the same time, draws me in.

  “Excuse me.”

  Unable to help myself. I slip my arm free of Luke’s grip and make my way over. I don’t know what to say to him, but I know now isn’t the time for some meaningless words. Slipping my hand in his, I lace our fingers. “Is the word of the day cremation, sweetness?” he asks, clearing his throat.

  “Hi,” I whisper, not knowing what else to say.

  Turning me to face him, Mitch releases my hand and pulls me into his chest, burying his face in my neck. “Hi,” he chokes out, squeezing me tightly.

  I can feel the tension begin to leave his body. My fingers slide up his biceps, coming to rest on his back. When he pulls back, he presses his lips to my forehead. The tender gesture causes a shiver to run down my spine. “I know that you didn’t have to drive all the way up here, but thank you.”

  “Told you that you weren’t alone,” I reply. Releasing him, I straighten his tie and smile up at him. “I meant it.”

  “There he is,” a woman calls out behind me. “See, Maddie, I told you he wouldn’t take off without saying hello.”

  “Wow.” Stepping around me, Mitch removes his sunglasses and takes in the women walking over with Luke and Micah. The older of the two has olive skin and long, black, wavy hair pulled up into a clip to keep it off her neck. The other is petite, blonde, and very pregnant. Both are in black dresses, and even though I almost can’t believe it, the blonde has on what has to be six inch silver heels. Mitch hugs them both, before his eyes lock on her belly.

  “Maddie, look at you.”

  “Mhm, it’s somethin’ huh? You’ve missed a lot, you know?” she asks, fanning herself with her pink clutch purse. “I’ve got some things for you at home. I’d have brought them but sometimes we tend to forget who died,” she snaps. />
  Oh my God. Who is this woman? Pump your brakes, Maddie. You’re slamming right into a train wreck!

  “Madison!” the other woman says, slapping her on the arm. “You promised you wouldn’t do this here. Not today.”

  “Sorry, Diya, did I say that?” Maddie asks, swatting her away. “We’ll be blamin’ that on pregnancy brain and my upcoming outburst on the hormones.” Her eyes harden as she glares at Mitch. Stepping forward, she jabs him in the chest with her finger. “You’re not the only one who lost Becky. She was my best friend,” Maddie chokes out, her blue eyes filling with tears. “Then we lost you, too. We got a shit deal, buddy. You moved away with no warning. Don’t visit, won’t answer calls… Shep is deployed, did you know that? We all used to mean something to you. When Becky died, it’s like you died right along with her.”

  Oh no she didn’t…

  Mitch’s jaw ticks, angrily, as he stares her down. “I. Did.” Slipping his sunglasses back over his face, he shakes his head. “I don’t wish it on anyone, Mad. Thanks for coming. Congratulations on the baby. ”

  Not waiting for anyone to say anything, Mitch stomps away. My eyes go to Maddie and I shake my head. “Totally classy. Today of all days.”

  “You don’t know shit about me or what any of us have been through,” she bites out, a tear slipping down her cheek.

  “I don’t need to,” I fire back. Stepping up to her, I jerk my chin in the direction Mitch just took off in. “He’s who I’m here for.”

  I glance at a smug looking Luke before turning to go after Mitch. I stumble in my heels, trying to keep up with his much longer legs. “Mitch, if I break my heel, I’m kicking your ass,”

  He doesn’t slow down, or even acknowledge me following him. Digging in his pocket, he stops at an old brown truck and yanks open the door. “For fuck’s sake, would you stop?” I shout, grabbing his arm.