I throw my hands into the air. "I thought the secret line would be fine to cross if it was literally a life-or-death situation."
"It's always a bad idea," John says. "If there was a villain with a gun to your head, and he said, 'Tell me your girlfriend's secrets or die,' you would be better off dying."
"What if the villain's gun is pointed to her head? And I should mention that the killer has aimed his gun at her multiple times."
He shrugs. "Keep the secret and save the girl at the same time. Didn't you ever watch any of the princess movies?"
"No," I grumble. "My parents had me watch the Discovery Channel as a child."
"How is your dad?" he asks.
"He's doing all right. He got out of the hospital. My mother is talking about possibly coming down for Thanksgiving, which would be a miracle, because they have never gone out of their way to be together as a family and when we were together, dinner was usually delivery pizza."
"You should probably learn to cook then."
I groan, covering my face with my hands. "What am I going to do?"
"I think this is the part where you're supposed to apologize," he says. "And not any of that half-assed apologizing either. The kind of apology that's sincere and you don't make any excuses for your behavior."
"You mean the kind I suck at?"
"Yeah, that kind."
"Do you remember the time I tried to apologize to Alicia?" I ask him. "She was breaking up with me for not supporting her and—"
"And your excuse was that you found interior decorating boring." He raised an eyebrow. "I remember. I was at your house at the time. She threw her stiletto at you. There's still a dent in your wall."
"I should fix that."
"You should fix your relationship with Grace first," he says.
"I don't know how."
"I'd start with flowers," John says, taking another sip of his beer. "And then I'd eventually escalate to groveling and begging."
I take a swig of my beer.
"Am I taking romance advice from a divorced man?"
He claps me on the back. "I'm your only option, Sam. May God have mercy on your soul."
"May God have mercy," I repeat, finishing the last of my beer.
~~~~~
Grace, 2014
I VOLUNTEERED AT the food bank and participated in Habitat for Humanity all through high school. I didn't attend school sports events or dances. My single-minded focus on community instead of high school didn't make me popular with most of my classmates—they thought I was the holier-than-thou type that looked down on their activities of sports and gossip. I wasn't like that. I understood their need to connect and the feeling of solidarity that came with sports, I just couldn't muster up the same amount of enthusiasm. Regardless, I didn't date at all during high school. I spent my prom talking to a Korean War veteran at the food bank.
While I was an undergraduate at Ohio State, I tried dating. The farthest I got was with a guy named Travis, who I went on three dates with before we slept together. I thought I was falling behind on my social development and people made such a big deal about sex, so I figured I should just get it over with. Honestly, I regret it. I don't want to regret it because I want to pretend that it was meaningless, but it was uncomfortable. He finished within a matter of minutes, and then told me that I should go because he had to get up early. We decided to not see each other again. The fact that I was a commuter student who worked almost a full day on my family's farm before driving to campus made it so I was too preoccupied to even think much about dating. After graduation, I moved to Cincinnati to take a job as a social worker in a community resource organization, a job I held while I was getting my master's degree in education.
To make a long story short, Sam was the second man I had slept with…and the only one I'd had a strong connection with. Sex with him was more than two bodies weaving together—it was passion personified.
But now, I feel worse than when I had slept with Travis and felt only disappointment. Now I felt like something more than dignity had been taken from me—by giving away my secret like any other piece of information, he had also thrown away the last part of me that I had felt I had control of. Tate had taken over my dreams and made me fear even the most mundane things, but at least I could keep the memory of his attack concealed. If no one else knew about it around me, I could pretend that it never happened. Now I can't.
I sit on a swing at Waycroft Elementary School, barely swaying, with a cigarette between my lips. I haven't lit the cigarette—at least I know the immorality of doing that in a playground, but with the stress of everything, I need something to calm my nerves and this is the best that I can do…convince my mind that I'm smoking by going through the motions. I watch two little girls chase each other around the seesaw. I try to imagine who they will grow up to be. Ballerinas, teachers, cardiologists, killers. It makes me miss interventional education. There was always so much potential in all of the students, and I always felt like they had a chance to be better than those who succeeded with ease, because they knew how to continue to fight even when they were struggling.
The blond girl tags the girl with black hair. They both fall onto the shredded rubber mulch, giggling. They clasp their hands together as their laughter fades and they look up at the sky with big smiles on their faces.
Oh. That's what I missed when I was busy trying to be a community leader and studying. Relationships. Finding people you could look at and think this is where I belong. This is home.
The swing next to me sways. I look over to see Sam standing behind it, his fingertips touching the metal chain. A black sports jacket is slung over his other arm.
I glance back to the girls, but they're both running toward their mothers.
"How did you find me?" I ask.
"I figured you'd want to be alone and I was trying to figure out where you could walk to from the hotel. For a teacher, an elementary school made the most sense. Where's your protective detail?"
I nod toward the jungle gym, where the police officer is leaning against the metal pipes. He's either texting or playing a game on his phone. I'm not sure he even noticed Sam come over.
"Well…that's not reassuring," he says. "Maybe we should sneak away and see how long it takes for him to notice."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
He steps over the swing and kneels in front of me. I look down, surprised by the vulnerability in his actions. He stares straight up at me.
"Grace," he says, my name pronounced with tenderness that I've never heard before. "I messed up. I was selfish and stupid. I didn't think about your feelings and that was wrong of me. You opened up to me and I betrayed your trust. I am sorry. And I don't mean sorry in that Hallmark card kind of way. I mean, I regret hurting you and being an asshole. I wish there was something I could do to reverse what I did, but there isn't. So, all I can do is apologize and try to be a better person. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He stands up, finally breaking eye contact, and digs something out of his jacket pocket. He takes out an anatomical heart shaped out of clay.
"I noticed that you had clay in your hotel room, so I thought you might need some more…but I got nervous while I was coming here, so I played around with it. I'm sorry. I'm really bad at apologizing."
He's giving me his heart. He placed it in my hands.
He turns to leave, but I grab his wrist. He stops and glances over at me.
"Can you walk me back to my hotel?"
He smiles. "Of course."
I stand up and we walk together. As we reach the sidewalk, I lean against him, wrapping my arm around his waist. He slips his arm around me, too.
This is where I belong. This is home.
~~~~~
Deke, 2014
I TIGHTEN THE LUG NUTS on the Chevrolet Sonic. When I stand up, I notice Trevor standing on the other side of the car. Trevor is the weird kid that every class has. His slick blond hair seems to be glued to his forehead and his skin is s
o pale that white shirts seem less vibrant against it. He's skinny enough that when he leans against the car, I can clearly see the bones in his elbow.
"Hey," I say.
He sets down three cases of shotgun shells in front of me.
"I brought shotshells, buckshots, and slugs," he says. "I wasn't sure what you needed."
"Not the shotshells," I say. He takes the case away and puts it back in his bag. I take out one of the buckshot rounds.
"Those are the kind the police use," Trevor says.
"What would you use?" I ask. "The buckshot or the slugs?"
"I like the buckshot rounds," he says. "But it depends on what you're shooting."
"Bear," I say.
"Buckshot, then," he says, taking the slugs and sliding them into his bag. "For the record…so you don't think I'm a dumbass…I know that you're lying."
"About what?" I ask, standing straight.
"Shooting bears," he says. "You wouldn't have been asking for unregistered guns before if you were shooting animals."
"Maybe I'm just doing it for sport and I don't want to pay for tags."
"Bullshit. Who are you killing?"
A door creaks. I open the Chevrolet Sonic's door and throw the bullets in. I slam the door shut as Albert walks over toward us.
"What's goin' on?" He barely glances at Trevor, but indicates toward him with his thumb. "What's this kid doin' here? I didn't think you guys hung out anymore."
"We don't," I say. "He was just asking about what kind of engine he should get for this old Cadillac he has."
"We don't sell engines," Albert says to Trevor.
"I know," Trevor says. He yanks his bag up over his shoulder. "I was just getting Deke's opinion. I gotta go. My dad wants me to cut up some wood for the fireplace. We never seem to have enough before winter comes. I'll see you later, Deke."
I give him a halfhearted salute as he walks away. I pick up the wrench and put it back into the toolbox
"I don't like you hangin' around that kid, Deke," Albert says. "That kid is bad news. I'm surprised he isn't serving life in prison yet."
"He's not that bad, Albert," I say. "He just likes grungy clothes and loud music."
"He's a troublemaker," Albert says. "You know you can't associate with those folks if you want to join the military."
"I know. I won't let anything get in the way of joining, Albert. The only reason I wouldn't go is if you needed me here."
"Nonsense," he says. "I got along fine before you came around, and I'll get along fine when you leave."
I nod, shoving my hands into my pockets. I just need him to leave, so that I can hide the bullets better. He stares at me as if trying to read my thoughts.
"Deacon," he says. "You need to stop worrying about me. You're going to drive yourself crazy."
I shrug, but he's already walking away. I watch his rounded shoulders as they disappear into his office. I open the car door, take the bullets, wrap them in my sweater, and walk out of the garage. Crazy doesn't seem like such a bad thing. It feels a lot like freedom.
~~~~~
Deke, 2014
THE U.S. ARMED FORCES Recruiting Station has the seals for the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines on the front of the building. When I walk in, there's three military officers in their combat uniforms. Two are talking to each other while a third one eats a burrito out of a Styrofoam box.
"Hey," the third one says, setting down his burrito. "Are you interested in joining the military?"
I nod. There's a large display with eight photos on it. The words "FUTURE SOLDIERS" is displayed on top. I imagine my father and brother would come in here just to see my photo on this board. I pick up a pamphlet about the Army.
"Any questions?" the third soldier asks. I glance at him. The front of his uniform states U.S. Army.
"Yeah," I say. "Once I sign up, how soon does basic training begin?"
"Well, first you need to qualify by taking the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery, also known as the ASVAB, and you would need to take a physical. If you pass both of those tests, you pick your job and swear in. After that, we just need to know when you're available to leave for basic training. You look like a high school kid, so we would need to know what day you graduate."
I nod. I'm not sure if Albert is prepared to take care of himself yet. There are still a few other companies he's competing against, and I'm not sure if the two that I already scared are shutting down. I can't leave him without knowing he has job security, but as soon as he does, I'm going to follow in the footsteps of my father and brother.
"What else do I need before I can join?"
"Well, you need a government issued ID—for most people that's their driver's license, your Social Security card, high school diploma or GED, birth certificate, your medical history, and if you have broken the law…we need to know. Even traffic tickets. And don't assume you can't get in if you have a misdemeanor or felony. A commander could grant a waiver or make any legal issues you have disappear. But we would need to know about it first."
"What if I'm a serial killer?" I ask with a small smile. The term rolls of my tongue in a strange way because I know it's what I would be considered, but it's not how I see myself. I'm defending my own like a good soldier would. I hope, at the very least, my tone makes it sound like I'm kidding.
"Well, then, I'd know you were good with a gun," the soldier says. He picks up his burrito again and takes a large bite. I pick up a pamphlet for the Navy and Marines, too. I'm not too interested in the Air Force—I've never been a fan of planes.
The man sets his burrito back down and wipes his hands on a napkin. "Can I ask why you're interested in joining? It might help you decide which branch to sign up for."
"My father and my brother both served," I say. "And I just want my life to matter. When I die, I don't want to wonder if I made a difference in the world. I want to know I did something for those I care about."
The soldier nods. "That's honorable. It's a good reason. Hmm. Well, the Army is the ground force and the largest branch in the military. The Air Force does air support during missions, obviously. The Army and the Air Force tend to work together. The Navy is our sea force, but they also support the Air Force in the skies by providing them with the planes and a sea runway. The Navy works with the Marines, who are also mainly a ground force. The Marines are different from the Army, though, because they are trained to attack from the water and gain control of beachhead. After the Marines have done that, the Army takes over and the Marines leave."
"Do you like the Army?" I ask.
"I like serving my country."
I nod. I slide the pamphlets into my bag.
"Not going to sign up yet?" he asks.
"I'll be back," I tell him. "I just need time to decide."
"Just remember the military isn't like a job," he says. "You can't quit when it gets tough."
"I'm not a quitter," I say. I slip out the door. I need to ensure that Albert will be fine when I'm gone and that his business will not fail because of big corporations that couldn't care less about Murray. Albert is all I have left in this world, and I will not fail him.
I am not a quitter.
~~~~~
I ride my bike to Albert's shop. As I turn into the parking lot, I see Albert's Ford F-150, a Lancia Dedra, and a Buick Regal. The Buick Regal is not the kind of car that is usually left here to be fixed—usually the cars are clunkers and lemons. I peek into the Buick's window. The passenger side has a laptop on it and a folder with the FBI seal on it.
I have a feeling as if my stomach is turning inside out. I sneak around Cochrane's Repair Shop. As I duck my head under the window of Albert's office, I hear Albert yelling. I stop moving.
"The news mourns these animals like anyone gives a shit! You're tryin' to tell me that the FBI is involved? Don't you government workers have somethin' better to do? Aren't there actual problems in the world?" Albert demands. "First a Muslim couple and then some other city low-lifes? They wer
e probably killed by their own kind! Why are you wasting time on them! Those Muslims killed by son and my grandson! And these city idiots are takin' all of the jobs! Who cares if they're dead?"
"So, Mr. Cochrane," a man's voice says. I peek into the window. The man is faced away from me, so all I see is his kempt black hair, broad back, and his black suit. He looks like a douchebag federal agent. "I'm just here to ask about your grandson, Deacon Cochrane—"
"What?" Albert snaps. "What do you want with Deke? He's a good American boy that hasn't done shit wrong, so you can take your badge and shove it up your ass."
"Mr. Cochrane, I'm just here because we believe that someone from Waycroft High's Senior English class may be involved with those murders," the agent says. "We want to question all of the students, but first we wanted to get permission with the student's guardians."
"You should question the foreigners first!" Albert growls. "They probably planned this whole thing! They want real Americans locked up, so they can take over the country…wait a minute…are you Hispanic?"
"No, sir, not that it matters."
"Of course it matters!" Albert shouts. "Those Mexicans are always cutting off each other's head. How am I sure that you're even an agent? Maybe you're just here to cut off my head and take over my shop!"
"Mr. Cochrane, please stay calm," the agent says. "Can I ask where you were two nights ago?"
"No…you look like you're a Muslim…they cut off each other's heads, too."
The agent crosses his arms over his chest. Every muscle in my body tenses. Something is going to happen. I try to see if there is a weapon on the FBI agent, but all I can see is his back.
"Mr. Cochrane, were you angry when all of these so-called foreigners moved into Murray?"
"Of course, I was! My son and my grandson didn't die so that they could come over here and change America!" Albert cracks his knuckles. "They need to work in their own stupid countries and their own damn cities."
Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1) Page 11
