by Jaimes, Cole
And then I see her.
Essie, hitching in the middle of nowhere. It can’t be true. She’s walking on the side of the road, thumb out, her back to the traffic. How? How is this even possible?
I slow the car down, pulling up alongside her. My heart feels like it’s stumbling out of my chest. I almost kill the engine and jump out so I can slide across the hood of car and crash tackle her, but then she turns around and I see that it isn’t her after all. Same figure. Same hair, but she has a very different face. In the dark and the rain, it was easy enough to mistake her for the woman I’ve been obsessing over for the past few years, but now, closer, with the headlights of my car bathing her in light, this girl is clearly much younger, can’t be more than twenty or twenty-one. And she’s drenched to the bone.
And she’s getting into my car.
“Whew, thanks,” she says, breathless, as she climbs into the passenger seat. “Some old guy picked me up a mile back and immediately tried to stick his hand down my jeans. I had to punch him in his nut sack. I’m not gonna have to do the same with you, am I? Oh. Hello.” She turns and looks at me, and her entire expression changes. “You know what? I probably wouldn’t have minded so much if the last guy had looked anything like you.”
Looks like I just picked up a hitcher, and looks like she’s apparently into me. I’m still a little disappointed by the fact that she’s not Essie to say anything in response, so I just pull back out onto the road and stare out of the windshield.
“My name’s Jen,” the girl says. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Are you going to tell me your name?”
I take a deep breath. “Aidan.”
“And where is Aidan heading?”
I point my index finger down the long, dark road ahead of me. “This way.”
“Hmm. Good thing I’m going this way, too.”
I glance at her. She looks back at me. “Where are you heading?” I ask.
“I don’t really know. Just away from where I was three days ago. That’s all that seemed important at the time. Now…” she shrugs. “Now, I’ll come across a motel at some point and I’ll sleep there tonight. If the rain hasn’t totally ruined my laptop, I’ll get online and see what’s what from there. This is a really nice car, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“You must make good money to have a car like this.”
“I guess.”
“What do you do?”
“Bible salesman.”
“Interesting.”
“How so?”
“You look more Lucifer than Gabriel. Just saying.” She’s definitely hitting on me right now. I’m fairly well practiced at graciously declining the advances of women, but I’m not feeling very gracious right now. I want to be perfectly blunt and perfectly clear. If I can do that without being a rude asshole, then great. If I can’t, then so be it. “Look, I’m flattered. But I’m not really in the market for romance at the moment. In fact, quite frankly, romance can go fuck itself.”
Jen makes a fake surprised face at me, which I see out of the corner of my eye. “I’m not interested in romance fucking itself. I’m interested in you fucking me.” She places her hand on my leg, the tips of her fingers curling around the muscle of my thigh so her hand is almost in between my legs, and I have to fight the urge to smack her on the wrist. Back in Hawaii, this situation would have been a no-brainer. I may not have fucked her—god knows where she’s been—but I would certainly have flirted like hell with her. Maybe made out on the back seat. Now, all I want to do is kick her out of the car and burn off into the night. I can’t do that, though, because it’s still raining out and there are no damn lights on the road. In the dark, with so much water hitting windshields, someone’s bound to accidentally hit a hitchhiker wearing black jeans and a black jacket with dark hair.
Her hand is warm through the fabric of my pants. I glance down. Her fingers are slender, fingernails short and clean. Maybe that is the sort of release I need right now. Maybe that would help things. These are thoughts the guy part of my brain hopefully presents to me, but I haven’t been paying attention to that asshole for a while now.
I pick up her hand and gently place it back on her lap.
“I think I’m going to have to pass,” I say.
She raises her eyebrows. “That’s a first. Not that I’m offering myself up to every guy who comes along and gives me a ride, but I usually get a better reception than that.”
“Don’t take it personally.”
“I won’t. You have a girlfriend?”
“Yes.” Weird that I don’t even think about this before answering in the positive. Essie isn’t my girlfriend; not even close. There’s no denying we’re connected. Girlfriend seems like such an inadequate term, though. It feels like, after everything we’ve gone through and all the shared painful experiences we’ve battled through, we’re somehow more than that.
“Where is she?” Jen asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Huh. She not answering her phone or something?”
“No, she’s not.”
“You guys have a fight?”
“You could say that.”
Jen sits back and turns her head to watch the dark landscape race by the window. “She’ll come back to you,” she says.
“Part time psychic?”
“Trust me, if I were psychic, I wouldn’t have ended up with Roy as a boyfriend. I would’ve steered clear of that whole mess from the get-go. You just seem like a good guy is all. You’re doing ‘the lord’s work.’” She puts this in air quotes, clearly still not believing me. “You have a nice car. A nice smile. Nice manners. Why the hell wouldn’t she come back? Oh, wait. Did you cheat on her?”
“No. I wouldn’t do that. I’m not that guy.”
“All guys say they’re not that guy.”
“I’m really not.”
Jen makes a sound that indicates she doesn’t believe me for a second. “So what, then? You must have done something.”
I stare at the road ahead of me, not blinking. “Not me. My brother. He’s the one who did something.”
“Oh boy. Family drama. How White America of you. Is your brother a raging dick?”
“Yeah he was. But this thing was an accident. It wasn’t really his fault.”
“So you’ve forgiven him?”
I think about this for a while. Road signs fly past the car. The rain hammers down on the glass. My hands grip the steering wheel tightly. “Yes,” I finally say. “Yes, I have.”
I drop Jen off at a Pit Stop Deluxe—doesn’t look very deluxe—about twenty miles down the road. She tries to kiss me before she leaves, one last-ditch attempt at kindling something between us, but I knock her back again. I drive back into the city, thinking about Alex and all the shit he caused both before and after he died. The shit he’s still causing now with the money that he stole from the business. I know he fucked up a great deal, and I hated him when he was alive. A lot of the things he did were unforgivable, but I don’t want to bitter and twisted inside when I think about him. Forgiveness isn’t easy. Forgiveness often isn’t deserved. But most of the time, it’s more about releasing the pain and hatred from your heart than it is about allowing someone to wrong you.
I’ve done that. I’ve let it go. It cuts me down to the bone that Essie hasn’t managed to do the same thing.
Chapter Eleven
Essie
That evening, Max and I are sitting in the living room. The news is on the TV, turned almost all the way down, and I keep glancing over at the screen, expecting them to play something else about Sam, but there they don’t. There’s nothing new on the Internet either, though I suppose an investigation like this will take some time. After everything I’ve been hoping and praying for over the past five year, it feels strange that I’m now hoping his company won’t be irreparably damaged. That his name won’t be completely tarnished. That the sacrifices he made to come back here and ensure ev
erything his father built won’t be for nothing.
It’s like I’ve woken from a terrible, five-year-long nightmare and I’m finally seeing things clearly for the first time. And I do not like
I look up from the magazine I’ve got in my lap, from the same sentence I’ve been reading over and over again, and Max is looking at me.
“What’s up? You’ve been fidgety all night,” he says.
I smile, partially relieved that he’s just come out and asked me. I’ve spent the past few days thinking about everything, and I do want to talk to him about it. I take a deep breath.
“Yeah. Sorry. I guess I have a lot on my mind.”
He smiles. “The farm life can do that to a person. There’s a lot to do during the day, but when it’s so dark outside, the nights can be long. Sometimes there’s too much time to think. Things play on your mind.”
I tap my fingernails against the worn dining table. “I’m glad I feel this way. If I weren’t here, I might not have come to the realization that I’ve had things wrong for so long. If I’d stayed at home, I might have decided to send that information after all. I’m glad I didn’t. Aidan doesn’t know that, though. It’s all over the news and he’s probably sitting in his office at the Callahan Corporation, thinking I that I did exactly what I set out to do. He probably thinks I’m the worst person on the face of the planet. He probably hates me, and that hurts more than I can comprehend.
I don’t think I’ll ever go back to Chicago, but I know I can’t stay here forever. Maybe it’s time for somewhere new. A fresh start.
Chapter Twelve
Aidan
When Preacher tells me he’s found Essie, my heart leaps. I actually feel lightheaded. This feeling lasts for all of three seconds, because Sam then informs me that she’s staying with a guy.
“A guy,” I repeat, hoping he’ll follow it up with something like, Yes, he’s her grandfather, or, Yes, but he’s clearly just a married friend. Instead, Sam gives me a nod that looks a little grim. He gives me a piece of paper with the address on it. Some little town out in the sticks. I give him another envelope with cash, his final payment for a job well done.
I hold the piece of paper, looking at the address as though the writing on it is in some sort of secret code. All I need to do is put the location in the GPS and the car will get me there no problem, but now that I have the information, I feel wary. Or nervous. Or nervously wary. I need to see Essie more than anything. I need to see her wrapped up in the arms of another man like I need a hole in the head, though.
I’ve envisioned the day Sam returned and told me he’d found her, and I’ve also envisioned running off to find her immediately afterward, to tell her that we can overcome our issues and we should at least try, but now I don’t know what the fuck I should do. I know exactly where she is. I know it won’t take me long to get there, and I’m suddenly paralyzed and unable to do a single thing about it.
Fuck.
I let a few days go by. It’s agonizing, but I don’t know what else to do. I can’t sleep. Every time I start to drift off, my consciousness is overwhelmed with images of Essie and this unknown guy. She’s all over him. He’s all over her. I lurch awake, sheets tangled at my feet, heart thumping. Even when I go running now, regardless how hard I push myself, image of them together are right there, flashing behind my eyelids like a movie on a loop, playing over and over again.
I’m not used to losing sleep over anyone, nor am I used to being the guy who feels jealous. But I do. I feel this awful rage coursing through my veins, no matter what I do to distract myself. I’m only capable of thinking about one thing—Essie—and what she’s doing with this guy. I hate not knowing who he is. I could have pressed Sam for more information about the guy, but at the time he seemed irrelevant. Who cares who he is? Except I do. If Essie’s with him instead of me, then yes, I very much care who he is.
It’s a true testament to Preacher’s skills as a private investigator that he was able to locate Essie all the way out there in the butt fuck middle of nowhere. It’s one of those vast places, a family farm, fields of corn and soybeans stretching for as far as the eye can see. Dotting the landscape are buildings: silos, barns, and dilapidated farmhouses. And that’s where Essie is.
It is something of a slap in the face. Not that I think money can buy happiness or anything, but she would honestly rather be living out there? If she’s truly in love, then it doesn’t matter where she lives, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. She must really care deeply for this guy to want to be out here with him. She probably wakes up every morning in his arms. Sure as fuck doesn’t make a mad dash for the door like she did with you. The whole time she was talking to you, having dinner with you, fucking you, she was thinking about this farmhouse guy, who she really loves. She only did all of those things to get close to you. So she could hurt you more. Not because she gave a shit about you.
I spend most of my time dealing with the audit on the business, but in between staring at spreadsheets and receiving disapproving looks from Royston, I’m sick to my stomach thinking about Essie’s ability to lie to me so convincingly. I knew without a doubt that something was going on when she sent me that first email; she was on edge and fairly hostile when we met for the first time in my office. I had no idea she was hiding something like this from me, though. Can it be true? There’s no other explanation for it.
Preacher tells me not to bother driving out there, and I don’t. For another week, I stay where I am and I deal with Royston. I can’t leave Chicago until the audit is complete, anyway. Not without it causing me some serious stress. By the following Friday, though, Royston says they have all of the information they need to go away and discuss their findings. Despite the slight drop in the corporation’s shares and the recent controversy surrounding the Callahan name, the GFS acquisition goes through smoothly. Once that’s been dealt with, I’m left sitting on my own, eyes locked on my desk in front of me, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do now.
I can’t take it anymore. I have to know. I have to find out whether she’s been with this guy all along. It’s macabre, this need to know for sure if I’ve had the wool pulled over my eyes this whole time, but I need to have an answer. My brain won’t stop worrying over the problem until I have an answer.
So finally, I drive out there. I drive slowly and I take the long way around, and I feel like shit the entire time my foot is on the gas. It would be easy enough to turn around and head back the way I came, but that’s not who I am.
It takes me three and a half hours to complete a two-hour drive. I see the farmhouse below in a valley as I make my way down the mile-long driveway toward the property; it looks small and quaint, with smoke rising from the chimney. It has a chimney, for crying out loud. It looks so damn rustic and romantic that it could well have been cut from a Jane Austin novel.
My palms are slick with sweat when I pull up outside the main house and kill the car’s engine, which is still ticking when the heavy wooden door opens and a guy steps out. He doesn’t look like your typical farmer; he’s probably around my age, well-built, clean cut, and though I hate to admit it, good looking.
A million questions explode through my mind, all in the time it takes the guy to fold his arms across his chest, shoot me a hard look, and say, “Who are you?”
“I’m Aidan. I’m looking for Essie Floyd. I’m sorry for turning up out of the blue. I just need to speak with her for a moment.” I think about just calling out Essie’s name, but then I realize how absolutely crazy that would be. Instead I say, “And you are?”
“I’m Max. I’ve known Essie for a long time.” His tone is a little frosty, but not downright hostile. “I was a friend of her brother.”
I nod. “Then I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“That you lost your friend.”
Max gives me a long look, like he’s sizing me up, and I wonder if we’re going to brawl. I haven’t been in a fight in a good long time. The last time s
omething like this happened, I was astonishingly drunk and so was the other guy. Max does not look drunk. In fact, he looks like a very capable fighter, someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. I have no interest in throwing down right now, but if I have to, then I will.
This Max surprises me, though. He doesn’t square up to me. “Why don’t you come inside?” he asks.
I’m sure surprise is written all over my face. “Inside?” I was pretty sure he was going to tell me to get the fuck off his property.
“Yeah. We need to have a little chat, you and I.”
“Is Essie here?”
But he’s turning, going back in, as if he didn’t hear me. He disappears inside the house, leaving me standing alone. I should just get back in the car. Maybe he’s trying to get me inside to give me the beating of a lifetime; maybe he’s luring me inside and he’s going to knock me out, throw me into a vat of acid he’s had just waiting for me down in the basement. A dozen other dark possibilities flicker through my mind, but I ignore them all. I go up the porch steps and into the house. If he knows something about Essie, if he has any idea where she is—maybe she’s even here in the house?—then I need to find out. Even if it means getting the shit kicked out of me in the process.
I find myself in a homely, lived-in kitchen, where Max is pouring himself a cup of coffee. “You want some?” he asks, his back to me.
“No, thank you.”
“Have a seat, then.”
I sit at the kitchen table and look around, trying to sense Essie’s presence. There’s no sign of her, though, no sign of any female presence, actually. Max puts the coffee pot down and comes over and sits across from me.
“So you’re Aidan Callahan.”
