by Dylan Heart
I lean down to retrieve the cup, if for no other reason than to toss it into the trash. It’s a pleasant surprise that the cup remains intact, and half full. Crouched down, and hovering above the ground, I swipe the cup into my hand and take notice of someone sitting underneath the bleachers. The soft light from the field beyond the bleachers filters through the spaces in between seats, casting an angelic shadow around a blank silhouette.
For a second, I think about running. The memories a year out are still all too fresh. The pain, as sharp as a needle, threads around the four corners of my heart, but I’m drawn to the shadow. Drawn to the pain. Drawn to someone that’s hiding from the game the same way I am.
I begin a slow march to the figure, with no set game plan once I arrive. A part of me hopes it’s him, the guy that was with Nathan the night before his life was shattered into a million tiny pieces. The wreck destroyed me and it destroyed Nathan. I wonder how it affected the other him.
I duck under the first row of steel bars, and the shadow’s features become more prominent. Young male with dark hair, wearing nothing but a dark black cut-off and jeans. Basically, the probability that he’s trouble is astronomically greater than the odds that he’s who I’m looking for.
Still, I continue my slow approach from behind until I see him raise his hand to his mouth and take a sip from a can. That makes sense. Back in high school, the bleachers were where all the action was.
A loud horn sounds. Someone has scored a touchdown. From the feet stampeding against the steel above me, and the fibers of dust billowing through the thin strips of light passing through the bleachers, I believe it is The Chiefs—our team—who’s scored. The all-too-familiar voice over the busted speakers confirms it.
“Bravo,” the stranger in front of me claps one hand against a can in the other.
“You’re not supposed to be drinking on school property,” I yell from behind him.
“Oh, shit.” He throws himself to his feet and tosses the can to the ground. He twists to face me with a shit-eating grin. “You caught me.”
White Lies, Chapter Two
When a light is shone upon a deer, they’re known to freeze in place. It’s a reaction on the exact opposite end of the survival instinct spectrum. Whether it’s fear or confusion, the deer remain frozen until you accelerate. That’s the point at which they charge headfirst into your car in a failed attempt to escape your car.
I’m waiting for the man before me to dart.
The finest features of his face—including his eyes—are hidden in the darkness. I squint in a failed effort to get a better view. With the light shining on my face, and the shadows falling on his, he possesses the clear advantage.
“You’re not going to—“
“Snitch on you?” I question with a tilt of my head. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Don’t do that.” He chuckles and scratches a finger against the back of his head.
“Are you a student here?” I take a measured step toward him, asserting my authority. “And don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
“Then I don’t care.” I shrug and pass him to take a seat on the bar he had been seated on prior.
“What are you?” He twists on his foot to face me, his white sneakers digging into the dirt. “Safety patrol? Neighborhood watch or something?”
“I’m just a girl trying to hide from the world for a quick second while I finish my coffee.”
“Interesting.” He raises his arms to the rafters above, and wraps his palms around the cold metal. “I’m just a boy trying to hide from a bunch of rednecks, while I watch the game on my own terms.”
“If you wanted to get trashed and watch the game, you could have watched it from home,” I point out and take a short sip of coffee. It doesn’t burn my tongue again, but it’s still too hot to drink comfortably.
“They show that on the TV?”
“You’re really not from around here, are you?” If he were, he’d know that. It’s nice to be around someone who doesn’t know me though, or think they know me. It’s nice to be around someone who only knows me as that girl sipping coffee from a soiled Styrofoam cup. “Out of towner?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Something like that.”
“If you’re rooting for the other team, I might have to turn you into the authorities.”
“Team Chiefs!” He pounds his fist against the air, but connects with the rafters above. “Fuck,” he cries out and shakes his fist.
“When two objects collide—“
“You’re a science teacher,” he accuses with a pointed finger.
“That’s an accusation I won’t tolerate.”
“English?”
I look up to him, standing tall above me, and scoff. “Who says I’m a teacher?”
“You’ve got the look.” He twists on his foot and takes a seat beside me.
“The look?” I duck my head to get a glimpse of the game between the rafters. The players are lining up on the field in a team versus team faceoff. The other team, The Scioto Eagles, has the ball and they’re too close for comfort to the end zone. Ten seconds left on the clock, and I find myself praying they don’t scare. It’s not that I care about the game, but I do care about my husband’s temperament.
A whistle is blown, and then from the speakers, “Coach Taylor calling a timeout for The Chiefs.” The players break from their positions and rush off the field. My free hand, the one not holding coffee, drags across my face as I groan from exhaustion. I just want to go home.
“About that look,” he says with a chuckle.
“What about it?” I sigh and crane my neck to face him, taking notice for the first time the way the field lights highlight the sharp contours of his face. “What about my look makes you think I’m a teacher?”
“Tired eyes that are filled with wonder.” He drags a finger across chapped lips and tries to be sly as he scoots closer to me, but I’ve got my eyes on him. “You’re young.” He shrugs and slides another careful inch. “Maybe the job’s still fun for you, but you’re tired.”
I swallow a nervous lump of air. My eyes are torn between his eyes and the thick metal bar we are both seated on. I’m eyeing him and I’m eyeing the makeshift bench. I’m eying the distance between us, and trying to justify in my racing mind why exactly I’m still sitting here. “I’m not a teacher,” I say softly and as convincing as a third term politician.
“Then what are you?” He bumps the crux of his elbow against my arm. “I’m kind of getting a janitor vibe.”
An honest-to-God chuckle is thrown to my throat, burning a hole in my esophagus as it’s launched into the thin space between us. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to laugh. “Tonight, I just want to be nobody.”
“Nobody works.” He nods in approval before extending his hand to shake mine. “Hi, I’m nobody. And you are?”
“What a coincidence.” I can’t help but smile as I take his hand and shake it. I lean in close and whisper to him, “I’m also Nobody. What are the odds?”
“I’m not the math teacher,” he says with a sly wink.
He thinks he’s finally got me figured out, but little does he know he was right the second time. Still, I don’t want to be her right now. I want to be somebody else.
There’s an unspoken rule in relationships, and especially in marriage. It’s the whole, you can look but you can’t touch mantra. My sister always told me the unofficial rule was that if you’re staring for more than three seconds, then you’re already one foot out the door. Advice she must have forgotten somewhere along the way between high school and the trailer park.
Three seconds are long in the rearview mirror as each consecutive second ticks by. He stares straight ahead, looking out between the rafters at the field while I’m lost in a study session of his entire being. I know he knows I’m watching.
Dark, hollow eyes hanging over a heart-shaped face with a sharp jawline, and cherry flush lips. Broad shoulders, and voluptuous biceps
. Strong forearms, and he turns to me with a smile that provokes an unfamiliar reaction out of me.
My coffee falls from my hand, upside down and onto the ground beneath us as I shift one hand over the other, shielding my wedding ring from sight.
“You’re beautiful,” he says softly, followed by a drawn-out bite of his lip. “I just thought I’d point that out.”
“You should see me in the light,” I joke, trying to delay what I know to be inevitable. “It’s not a pretty sight.”
He shifts closer and presses his palm against my face. “Absolute malarkey.”
I should pull away. “Meaningless talk. Nonsense. Malarkey.” Why can’t I pull away? Why don’t I want to?
“I knew you were an English teacher.” He runs his fingers through the hair above my ear, stroking me and touching me in a way I haven’t been touched in what feels like years. It should feel like a violation, but it’s freeing. It’s dizzying. It’s wrong.
I ball my hands into fists and flinch away from his touch. “What are you doing?”
His lips fold against each other, and he pulls back. Confused. “Is whatever I’m doing a problem?”
“I should get back to the game,” I say and tighten my fingers currently occupied with concealing my ring. “It was nice meeting you, nobody,” I rise to my feet, and flash him a quick smile before turning to flee.
“You too, nobody.”
Nobody. That sounds like the perfect existence at this point. I dream. No, it’s more than that. I long to live a life far away from this small town, in a bustling city where I’ll be nothing more than a stranger in a vast sea of souls. Everyday would be a new day with a new slate, meeting new people who will only forget me as days fade into nights.
I make it back into my seat right as the band, outfitted in the same hues of purple and white as the people in the packed bleachers, marches onto the field for a stirring halftime show that could rival the SuperBowl. Sarcasm indeed.
I just want this night to be over with. And then the night after that. Winter break can’t come fast enough. Not because I’m excited for the Holidays. I’m not. Rather, because once that last bell rings, that’s the part of the tragedy that’s become my marriage where I break free.
Also by Dylan Heart
Standalones
Summertime Sadness
White Lies (August 2018)
Small Town Blues
Make You Miss Me (2018)
You Stupid Boy (2018)
Steal My Kiss (2018)
Bad Reputation
Wicked Games
Dangerous Games
Imitation Games (TBD)
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Faithless: Full-length Standalone, Available Now
Love The Way You Lie: January 2019
