Running Away With You (Running #3)

by Suzanne Sweeney

  “Jette, don’t do this,” he tells me, trying to remain resolute. “You know I can’t turn my back on you. I’m right next door, only fifty feet away. Morning, noon, or night, I’ll be there for you.”

  He’s not fifty feet away from me, he’s fifty feet away from Evan. “I don’t live there anymore,” I tell him between ragged breaths, “remember?”

  He comes around the bar and takes a seat beside me. He places his hands on the seat of my chair and swivels it around so we’re face to face. He moves the hair that’s hanging in front of my face gingerly behind my ear and waits for me to calm myself. “I’ll stay, for now.”

  I wrap my arms around him and hug him tightly. He hugs me back and I can actually feel some inner strength being drawn from him. True friendship does that. It makes each of you stronger and better for having the other.

  The bell on the door chimes as it opens, and in walks Reese, carrying a small grocery store bag. She walks straight toward the bar and smiles. “Good morning, Derek.”

  He returns the greeting with a friendly, “Good morning, Red.”

  I get no such greeting, no pleasant hellos. She simply grabs me by the arm and drags me into my office. Once we’re inside, she pronounces without question, “You look like shit. What the fuck happened last night?” Reese reaches into her bag and pulls out two pints of Häagen-Dazs; a pint of caramel cone for me and a vanilla swiss almond for her.

  In college, whenever one of us was going through a bad break-up or personal crisis, we would indulge in a pint of ice cream and bare our souls to each other. She’s seen me cry over David, panic during finals and practicals, and stress about money. But this is different, and there’s no amount of ice cream that will make any of it feel better.

  I push the ice cream away, unable to even look at food right now.

  “I know about the pictures, honey. Emmy told me everything.” I smile and a small laugh slips out. She doesn’t know everything. She has no idea that she’s the star of one of his little productions, and I pray to God she never finds out.

  “Reese,” I tell her, “you don’t know shit. This stink is so deep and so nasty, it would take a team of professionals a month to clean up the mess.” I bluntly add, “And by the way, David is probably dead. The police think Evan and I had something to do with it.”

  “When? How? Are you sure?” she asks, stunned.

  I tell her the basics and slowly try to fill in the blanks as best I can.

  “But you couldn’t. You didn’t. There’s no way,” she stutters.

  I shake my head.

  “You don’t think ... Evan? I know he probably wanted to, but he would never. Would he?” she stammers.

  We just sit there and look at each other. Neither of us says it aloud, but the doubt is there. Suppose he did?

  Reese wants to know more about Kai, and so I tell her about that too. “I was going to tell Evan, I swear. But I wanted to do it after I knew more and after the season was over. If I had only told him right away, if I’d told him everything from the very beginning, none of this would be happening right now.” I take a big, cleansing breath and wait for her to condemn me and my choices.

  “How were you able to get up and out of bed this morning?” she asks. “You amaze me. You are the strongest person I know, Jette.”

  “It’s easy to get up in the morning when you never go to bed,” I tell her. “I’m not so strong.”

  “You haven’t cried yet, have you?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I can’t.”

  “Honey, you can’t keep this all bottled up inside. Eventually it’s going to catch up to you. Something will set you off: a sight, a sound, a smell, who knows? And when that dam breaks, I promise you, it’s going to be a flood of emotions.”

  She’s right. I know they’re there, just below the surface, pushing to break free. But I’m afraid of what will happen if I allow them to surface. “I don’t even know who I am anymore,” I tell her. I have no home, no fiancée, and no reason to get up in the morning.

  “I know exactly who you are,” she tells me. “You are generous, smart, forgiving, and without a doubt the strongest person I know. You’re my best friend, and if anyone can make it through this ordeal, it’s you, Juliette Evangeline Fletcher. I’d bet my last dollar on it.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I tell her.

  “I usually am,” she reminds me. “So Dickhead might be dead,” she reflects.

  “Remember all the times I said I wanted him to drop dead? And now all I want is for him to be found alive and well so he can tell someone what happened to him.”

  “And Evan might be a baby daddy.”

  “Or Adam. If Shea has her way, we’ll never know.”

  “Is she going to get her way, Jette?”

  I call up the powers of my Magic Eight Ball and answer with complete confidence, “My sources say no.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Picking up the Pieces

  Eventually the rest of the staff rolls in, and we’re actually a little busy today. Personally I think it’s because no one likes to cook with a hangover, but I could be wrong.

  I dig deep and do my best to keep my mind and body busy. I find that I can chat with guests, talk about trivial things with the staff, and even laugh when I hear a joke. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was handling things very well.

  One day at a time. One step at a time. One moment at a time. If I can make it from one to the other, I will survive.

  Before long, Marcus comes in to relieve me. He’ll be staying to close the restaurant tonight. It’s easy to be around Marcus. He’s too much of a gentleman to bring up the painful events of last night. I give him a brief update on the staff and guests, and gather my things to leave for the night.

  My car is parked right outside. As I drive down Cookman Avenue, I stare at the Christmas decorations up and down the street. My first Christmas with Evan was picture-perfect. We cut down our own tree, exchanged deeply meaningful gifts, and joyfully celebrated with our friends and family. Christmas will never be the same for me again.

  Christmas music is still being played on the radio. When I make it to the Garden State Parkway, Taylor Swift is waxing nostalgic about “Christmases When You Were Mine”. It’s a song I’m not familiar with, so I listen closely to the lyrics, letting the words wash over and through me.

  I reach over to change the station, and as I do, something wet and warm lands on my hand. It’s a tear. The first tear I’ve shed. I know that lurking not very far under my rather numb exterior is a well of tears.

  And very slowly, one by one, they begin to slide down the side of my face and into my ears.

  As I drive, my chest constricts, more tears fall, and I choke back a sob. Soon tears are streaming down my face. I try to stifle them from falling, but they won’t stop. Tears begin to flow like a river, and I know that Reese was right. The dam is breaking and I’m helpless to stop it.

  Placing my hands tightly on the steering wheel, I let the tears fall unrestrained. Keeping my eyes on the road, blurred through my watery tears, I do my best to maintain control and focus as I drive down the highway.

  My breath comes in short bursts, and in no time at all, the tears are accompanied by gut-wrenching sobs. No longer able to see the lines in the road, I pull over onto the shoulder and give in to the pain and sorrow.

  I gasp as crippling pain slices through me and the levees burst. I curl up in the front seat and surrender myself to my grief. Through the pain, I start questioning every painful decision. I ask myself over and over, “Why didn’t I tell him?” I repeat this countless times, waiting for an answer, hoping for some clarity, but none arrives.

  I thought I was in control of my life, of my emotions. But control is a mirage, a farce. It’s nothing more than denial. The truth about ourselves will eventually surface, and when it does, it’s often painful and terrifying.

  I’m crying over unimaginable loss. I’m mourning a marriage promise that will never be
fulfilled – my dashed hopes, my destroyed dreams, and my embittered expectations. A sad and lonely melancholy grips and tightens around my heart.

  Cars whiz past me, heading toward locations unknown. Some are likely rushing home to their loved ones, others might be headed to see friends and family. But where can I go? I have no one to rush home to see and no home to call my own. Where do I go? What do I do?

  The pain is indescribable: physical, mental, emotional. It is everywhere, seeping into every fiber of my being. Grief. This is misery, and I’ve brought it on myself.

  Like a beacon in the storm, the music stops and my ringing phone chimes through the Bluetooth. I look at the display and it illuminates brightly. Auggie. I fumble to find the green accept button and wait to hear his voice.

  Booming through the darkness of my hell, I hear, “Hello? Jepetto? Are you there?”

  Between blubbering sobs, I manage to squeak out, “He broke up ... the wedding ... I’m ... it’s over.”

  “I know, sweet girl. Reese just told me. Come home. Your room is ready.”

  I cry even harder at his words. He is my home, my safe place. I try to answer, but all I can do is weep.

  “Honey, tell me where you are. I’m coming to get you right now,” he tells me.

  I tell him between sniffles and ragged breaths, “I’m. In. My. Car. On. The. Parkway.”

  His voice calm and even, he tells me, “Okay, don’t talk, just listen. Turn off the car and wait. Lock the doors. We’re coming to get you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  The phone goes silent, and then music starts up again, along with my tears. Auggie is coming to take me home.

  I have survived four days without Evan, and work has been my only distraction. The time has flown by as the team and I start making plans for our new Valentine’s menu. Derek smiles down at me, his blue eyes twinkling as he leans against the bar. “We’ve got some great drink specials here. Customers will be lined up at the door.” Somehow I manage to curl my lips upward in a semblance of a smile.

  He is very careful not to speak of Evan, Shea, or Kai. And the only way I can make it through the day is to do the same. The only topic of conversation is work, and luckily there’s plenty to talk about.

  Marcus has the wildcard game playing on the screen, and just as predicted the Texans have squeaked out a narrow victory, sending them straight into division playoffs. Their first opponents will be Evan “Big Mac” McGuire and the New Jersey Sentinels, one week from today.

  I stare at the screen, the hollow in my chest expanding. Bigger than life, an image of Evan smiles brightly as the sportscasters debate the Houston Texan’s chances against their former teammate. Marcus changes the channel, but it’s too late. I’ve seen his face. I’ll never be able to escape him. Or the pain.

  And so a pattern develops: wake, work, cry, sleep. Well, try to sleep. The first night I wore his shirt to bed, but in my sleepless mind games, I became panicked that the shirt might stop smelling like him and begin to smell like me. So I decided to wrap his shirt around a pillow and place it in the bed next to me. His scent both tortures me and pleases me at the same time.

  I can’t even escape him in my dreams. Bright blue eyes, sexy smile, hair damp and disheveled, all haunt me. And the music. I cannot bear to hear any music. I am careful to avoid it at all costs. Even the jingles in commercials make me shudder.

  I have spoken to no one, not even my mother. I have become a shadow of my former self, hiding in the darkness, smaller, weaker, and less important. I can interact impersonally at work, but that’s it. If I talk about it with anyone, I know I will break even further – and I have nothing left to break.

  I’m finding it difficult to eat. By lunchtime on Sunday, I manage a cup of yogurt, and it’s the first thing I’ve eaten in days. I am surviving on a newfound tolerance for chai and Diet Coke. It’s the caffeine that keeps me going, but it’s making me anxious.

  I sit and begin sifting through a pile of bills that need to be paid, and I’m pleased with the distraction of menial work. My phone pings, and I quickly check to see who it’s from. Holy shit. A text from Evan. Oh no, not here. Not at work.

  Tears swim in my eyes. I hastily leave my desk and close my office door so I can read his message in private.

  Evan: Tomorrow is Ryker’s sentencing. I thought you should know that I’ll be there.

  Ryker Donovan’s sentencing hearing. Shit. I’m such an idiot. How could I forget? I clutch my forehead. Can I bear to see Evan again? Do I want to see him? I close my eyes and tilt my head back as grief and longing lance through me. Of course I do.

  Torturous memories flash through my mind – holding hands, kissing, running along the beach, his gentleness, his humor, and his eyes that sparkle only for me. I miss him. It’s been five days; five days of pure agony that have felt like an eternity.

  I wrap my arms around my body, hugging myself tightly, holding myself together. I miss him. I miss him more with each day that passes. Why isn’t it getting any easier?

  I need to respond, but what do I say? That I can’t wait to see him? That I’m sorry for everything? No. It’s insufficient and pointless.

  Jette: I’ll be there too.

  My mind is reeling. I’m going to see Evan, and for the first time in five days, my spirits lift a fraction and I allow myself to wonder how he’s been. Has he missed me? Probably not like I’ve missed him.

  I cry myself to sleep at night, wishing I hadn’t been so foolish, wishing that things could be different, wishing that we were together. How long will this hideously overwhelming feeling last? Throughout the night in bed, I toss and turn, trying to sleep. I am in purgatory.

  In the large mirror on the wall, I take a long, hard look at my face as I prepare to face Evan and Ryker in court. I’m hopelessly pale with dark circles around dull green eyes that have lost their spark. I look gaunt, haunted. There isn’t enough makeup in the known world to make me look human again.

  Auggie peeks his head in to check on me. I let him pick out my clothes today, and he’s chosen a simple skirt and gray satin shirt. I bend down to zip up my boots, and Auggie takes my hand in his, eyeing the engagement ring I’m still wearing on my left hand. “Do you think this is a good idea?” he asks. “Maybe it’s time ... ” his voice trails off.

  “One week, Auggie. It’s only been one week. I swore I would never take this ring off, and I’m not breaking another promise.” Auggie says nothing. He understands. Instead he holds up my jacket for me to slip into and walks me to the car.

  Auggie and I drive quietly to the County Courthouse. The closer we get, the more anxious I become. Gavin called last night to go over my testimony. He feels strongly that I should say something about how the fire has impacted my life and what I think Ryker’s punishment should be.

  There is no amount of pushing or prodding that could convince me to speak. I’ll fall apart and break into a million tiny pieces if I even try. We’ll just have to let justice decide Ryker’s fate.

  Auggie and I push through the crowds gathered along the front of the courthouse. No one recognizes me until we reach the steps. When the first paparazzo calls out my name, all the cameras turn toward us as flashes go wild. I don’t have to wait long to hear the questions I’ve been dreading. “Where’s Evan?” and, “Why isn’t he here with you?”

  Of course, I ignore them all and make my way up the steps, gathering strength from Auggie’s hand placed solidly on my back, propelling me forward and reminding me that I’m not alone.

  One of the guards takes pity on me and directs us toward the proper courtroom. I breathe a sigh of relief when I find that we’re among the first to arrive. I wish I could become invisible and go unnoticed, but there’s no use even trying. Auggie and I take a seat behind the prosecutor’s desk and wait as the courtroom slowly fills up.

  My heart stops when I hear his voice. “How are you?” he asks, his voice strong and friendly.

  I want to answer him truthfully. “Well, I’m going bat-sh
it crazy,” is what I wish to say. But when I turn to answer him, I realize he’s not speaking to me at all – he’s speaking to Gavin.

  I can’t tear my eyes away from him. I’ve missed seeing his face and I don’t know when I’ll get to see it again.

  He looks over at us and offers Auggie a friendly handshake. The two men awkwardly exchange knowing looks.

  “Auggie,” Evan says, “good to see you.”

  “Evan,” Auggie replies, “glad you could make it.”

  Then he passively looks at me. There is no handshake for me. No kind words. He simply says my name, “Juliette,” and the sound of it leaving his lips makes me numb to everything around us.

  Everyone goes quiet when the judge enters the courtroom. He orders the defendant be brought in, and I watch as Ryker is escorted in wearing his prison jumpsuit and handcuffs. He does not look at me or at Evan. He takes a seat at the defense table, and I can see his hands are shaking.

  Judge Carmichael asks to see the pre-sentencing report and asks if either the defense or the prosecution would like to offer any last-minute changes. Both signify acceptance of its contents. The judge speaks briefly with an officer of the court, signs the report, and hands it off.

  Now the case moves into the next phase. The judge asks the prosecution if there is anyone who would like to make a victim’s impact statement before sentencing. The prosecutor turns and looks at Gavin, and then proceeds to tell the judge that none of the victims wish to make a statement at this time.

  Now we move directly into sentencing. “I see here that a plea agreement has been made and agreed to by both sides. According to the terms of the plea bargain, Corporal Donovan has agreed to a lesser charge of arson in the fourth degree, and in exchange will be serving the maximum penalty of eighteen months to be served in Trenton Psychiatric Hospital to receive treatment for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder caused by his overseas service. Upon release, Corporal Donovan will be on probation for minimum of three years, during which time he will report to the probation department, find gainful employment, and repay the victims in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars.”