by Frankie Rose
I finish dressing, dragging my heels, not wanting to leave the apartment. I feel completely struck down, completely without energy, completely lost and alone, and I have to head into Columbia to turn in an assignment, when all I want to do is hide in my bed. I pick up my phone from the counter and hold it in front of my face, clicking onto the text conversation I’ve shared with Luke up until last weekend. The last entry is mine. It’s from three hours ago, when I told him Luke he was a selfish bastard and demanded he call if he wants to break up with me. I shouldn’t message again. I know this, but I can’t help wanting to do it. I’m angry, so fucking angry, but I’m also still painfully in love with him. I just want him to let me know he’s okay.
The screen on my phone remains blank. My heart contracts painfully in my chest, warning that this gut wrenching hurt is only just beginning. It sure as hell isn’t going to get any better any time soon, that’s for sure.
“Fuck it.” I dial his number. The phone rings three times as I move to the large window at the front of his apartment. I open the curtains and glance out to find spring in full effect. Sunlight pours into the living room. It’s a glorious day. Feels like it should be cloudy and gray, like my mood. If I hear birds fucking chirping, I’m likely to lose my fucking mind.
The call goes to voice mail. Surprise, surprise.
Grabbing my bag, I throw it over my shoulder and storm out of the apartment. My anger isn’t even about his rejection, though that does hurt. It’s about the fact that he knows what I’ve been through recently. I nearly died. That he would just leave me like this, without any sort of communication from him about what’s happening in his head, is almost more painful than him denying me his voice, his kindness, his reassurance.
Well, guess what, asshole? Yours isn’t the only phone number I have. I growl softly as I find Cole’s name in my contacts and hit call. This is not my finest moment, calling a guy’s best friend to check up on him, but at the end of the day my resolve is shattered. And Luke isn’t just some guy. He’s Luke.
The phone rings twice before Cole picks up. “Hey, strange New York number. What’s up?”
“Cole. It’s Avery.”
“Oh...” He pauses, and the silence is just another wickedly sharp knife in my back. Cole and I are meant to be friends now, too. We got pretty close after everything that happened. “Hey Avery,” he says. “How goes it, girl?”
“It’d be better if I knew Luke was alright.”
“He’s good. He’s not here right now, but I can have him call you later?”
I lock my jaw, my teeth grating together as I push back the slow burn of tears. So Luke is alive and fine. Then the mystery of the missing boy is solved—he just doesn’t want anything to do with me. So, what? Funny, the last words Luke spoke to me—words of love, as he was fucking me—were nothing more than what? A lie?
“No. You know what? Just tell him to lose my number, Cole.”
“Oh. Did something happen between you two?” Cole’s such a bad fucking actor. I can hear the awkwardness in his voice a mile away. I don’t call him out on it, though. What would be the point? I’ll end up looking like a child. I shouldn’t expect anything but this kind of behavior from Cole. He’s a good guy, but he’s Luke’s best friend. Of course he’s going to close ranks.
“Nope. Not that I know of. I’ll catch you around.” I hang up the phone as tears blind my vision. No way am I letting them fall. I’ve cried enough to fill a river over the last ten years. I’m not crying any more. Luke doesn’t want me. Plain and simple. Somehow, I’ll have to swallow that bitter pill and digest it.
Out on the street, my best-laid plans go to waste. A tall guy in a navy blue suit with a sad smile stops and asks me if I’m okay.
“Yeah, sorry. Teenage crap.” I try to give him a smile, but I’m sure the watery lip wobble I manage instead looks pretty pathetic. I don’t care anymore. If I’m not worth enough to Luke for him to at least call me to dump me, then I’m sure as hell not worth much of anything at all. Crying in front of a perfect stranger is the least of my worries.
I walk to Columbia in a haze. I don’t see anything. I don’t hear anything. I feel plenty. It takes me three seconds to drop my assignment in Professor Langley’s pigeon hole—god knows why we can’t just turn it in via email—and then I’m walking off campus when I see someone I never thought I’d see again. A ghost.
Noah.
The walls suddenly feel like they’re closing in. He’s standing there, wearing the same beanie he always wore, laughing as he talks to some cheerleader type in the hallway. He hasn’t seen me yet, and he can’t be allowed to. Fuck, I have to get out of here.
I collide with another student as I spin around and try to make a clean get away. Casting a brief glance over my shoulder, I see that it’s already too late. Noah’s turned around and he’s staring at me. He looks…sympathetic.
I literally want to run and hide from him, but instead I give up, stopping in my tracks and he quickly says goodbye to the girl he was talking to, then makes his way toward me.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hi.” God, this is awful. A slow, sad smile spreads across Noah’s face.
“So, I guess you’re wondering why I’m here and not in Ireland,” he says.
“Should I be?”
He looks wounded, a real kicked puppy expression. “I guess I deserve that. I just…I do think about you sometimes, Patterson. When I heard what happened to you in Wyoming, I…” He shakes his head. “I was so fucking worried about you. I wanted to come to the hospital. I wanted to make sure you were okay, but Morgan told me to stay away, so I did.”
This is news to me. Morgan never said that Noah had been asking about me, but then again at the time I wasn’t thinking about Noah. I was worried about Luke, worried about what he’d told me. All of the awful things his father did to him. The fact that my father had put a stop to it once and for all. “Well, as you can see, I’m doing okay now. Thanks for thinking of me, though.”
I turn, wanting to leave now. I thought maybe I could do this, but I can’t. I don’t have the energy to be dealing with conflict from the past when the conflict in my present is weighing me down so heavily. I take three steps, but Noah jogs in front of me, hands held up like he was going to touch me but thought better of it. “Avery, I know you’re probably busy but…I just wanted to apologize. I’m not a violent guy normally. I would…I want you to know that I would never have hurt you. That day when you told me you’d slept with Luke, I was…fuck, I felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest and ground into a pulp. I didn’t know how to deal with it. The way I acted was inexcusable, but I would never have hit you. I want you to know that.”
I stand there, staring at him, looking into those gray eyes of his, and I find that I can’t even muster up the energy to be mad at him anymore. “I do know that. Thank you for apologizing.”
Noah looks stunned. “You…forgive me?”
“It feels like the sun has exploded at least eight times since then, Noah. I really don’t have room in my life to be holding grudges. So sure, I forgive you.”
“Thank you.” Noah hugs his arms around his body, shifting from one foot to another. Seems as though this isn’t how he pictured this conversation going. Likely, he thought I was going to scream at him and start throwing things in the corridors. I’m not that girl, anyway—public displays of anger aren’t my modus operandi.
“I have to get going now, Noah. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again once we’re back in fall.”
He nods. “For sure. Take care of yourself, Patterson.” He opens his mouth, clearly about to say something else, but then he seals his lips shut, looking at the ground.
I step around him, the skin all over my body prickling and uncomfortable. I don’t rush as I walk away. He won’t follow me now. He’s said his piece and I’ve said mine. That’s enough for the both of us.
M. J. Rafferty MD, PHD,
Suite 8, 2365 Wellbeck
Beachwood Canyons
CA 90068
Patient: Lucas Andrew Reid
D.O.B: 10/06/1989
Past treatment files: XXSEALEDXX
Permissions: Granted
Current Medications: None at this time.
Session Record
Initial meeting with patient is tense. After questioning, Lucas has informed me that his primary purpose for seeking treatment is to resolve issues relating to anger management. He’s reluctant to discuss his past, though did imply that his father leaned toward violence on occasion. More to this, I’m sure.
Recently Lucas has severed ties with a girlfriend, whom he professes to still love deeply. Concerns for safety were discussed. I advised him to speak with his ex-partner about the worries he harbors, however this made Lucas frustrated.
Lucas displays clear signs of stress and anxiety. We discussed his sleeping routine, which appears to be compromised, and I have requested that he keep a record of how many predicted hours of quality sleep he receives each night.
Patient has requested multiple weekly sessions, however I have advised against this. Patient requires time to decompress before intensive treatment can begin.
Michael Rafferty.
SIX
LUKE
SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO
I press my fingers to my mouth as I whimper, the back of my index finger a pressure point for my teeth to sink into. The pain focuses me, leaving me in control as I work to gain hold of my panting. If I’m too loud, he’ll hear me. I feel the burn of tears and force them back. No. Crying leads to whimpering and whimpering is too much, too messy. It’ll call attention to me.
I taste blood and realize I’ve bitten my finger too hard. I release it from my mouth and wrap my shirt around it, the sharp sting of the wound helping me to forget my fears for a moment. This has become a way of life. I need to survive it. Fighting against the old man won’t work. He’s too big. Mom’s not here. She never is.
I should be outside playing with my friends like all of the other kids in the neighborhood. But I’m not. I can’t. He won’t let me.
He’s drunk again. I saw the empty bottle by his chair as I crept by him earlier. He was snoring, and that sometimes means he’ll stay asleep. Maybe tonight’s one of those nights.
I shift slightly, the wardrobe I’m hiding in much too small for me, and yet I’ve managed to squeeze myself down into it. I get creative. I never hide in the same place. That would be stupid.
Time passes.
I hear him moving around the bottom floor. So he’s awake. He’s awake. He’s awake.
“Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Just don’t cry.” I chant, praying I’ll be able to convince myself. Sometimes, if I’m as quiet as a mouse, he doesn’t find me. Mom will be home before too long, and he will go back to sleep. I should tell her. She loves me, she’ll protect me. He’ll kill her, though; he told me he would. ‘I’ll slit the bitch’s throat if you breathe a single goddamn word of this to anyone.’
I’ll just hide.
“Where are you, you little shit?” His voice booms out into the silence. From the echo it sounds like he’s still downstairs. If I hear the creak of the fourth step on the staircase, then I’ll know he’s heading this way.
“Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.” Tears burn at my eyes. I’m too scared to breathe.
“Lucas Reid. Get your ass out here and I’ll go easy on you, boy. You have ‘til the count of three and then all bets are off.” He’s screaming now. His anger’s worse than ever. He usually likes to play with both me and Rosa together, but my little sister’s friend is on vacation. It’s just me. I don’t have to protect her from him, but that also means that I’m alone.
“ONE.”
Something heavy and metallic crashes into a wall downstairs, making me jump. I whimper, screwing my eyes shut, clamping my fingers over my mouth. I taste blood again—my finger’s bleeding worse than I thought.
He’s going to find me. He’s going to find me, and he’s going to tell me to do things. Touch places I shouldn’t touch. My breakfast rises in my throat. Mom made eggs and bacon, my favorite, but now I feel sick. I shouldn’t have eaten.
“TWO.”
The stairs creak, the fourth step, and my heart beings to race. I can’t help it now. Fear grips hold of me, and I vomit all over my mother’s carefully stacked shoes. I try to be quiet but it’s hard. I can’t catch my breath. Every time I drag air into my lungs, I cough and splutter.
I can hear my father walking down the hallway, his heavy boots thudding with each step. “I’m going to give you one more chance, you little bastard. Get out here and I’ll not kill you for disobeying me.”
He will kill me. I’m sure of it. Some things are worse than death, though. I’ve seen them. He’s forced me to do them. My stomach heaves again. I cover my mouth with my hands, as if I can hold back the urge to throw up again, but I can’t.
The bedroom door opens.
“Are you in here, boy? Such a fucking pussy. You’ve done it again, huh? I can smell your rat shit puke from here.” He laughs, but then a weighty silence falls over the room.
I want to die.
I wrap my arms around my head, bracing for it. For the pain and humiliation to begin.
“THREE!” my father shouts.
I scream, my throat burning as the wardrobe doors fly open, and then there he is, my father, standing there, his shoulders hitching up and down way too fast as he glares at me, panting.
SEVEN
LUKE
I sit bolt upright, the bed sheets wrapped around my body, hyperventilating like I’ve just sprinted a goddamn marathon. The dream was so fucking real. I run my hands over my skin, grateful my fingers touch a man’s chest and not a boy’s. No one can hurt me like that anymore. No one can treat me that way. Not without me beating the ever-loving shit out of them, anyway. I move to the edge of the bed, kicking out of the sheets, fighting to calm my heart rate.
When? When the fuck will this end? I blow out a deep breath, shaking my head. Back when I was a kid, I assumed this was normal. I knew I didn’t fucking like it, but I thought it was just something I had to deal with. That all the other kids at school were going through the same things. That their dads were alcoholic perverts, too.
As a cop, I saw plenty of abuse in New York. The fathers of those children always had the same violent, angry streak in them that mine did. But still…a kid of eight years old? Five? Even younger? How does a grown man end up doing things like that? It twists my stomach just thinking about it. Fuck. I should be back on the east coast doing my job, doing something to stop the monsters and the demons from destroying their own children.
The amount of times I’ve come close to taking matters into my own hands, though…
How easy would it be to slip back to an apartment after night falls to put a bullet in the back of someone’s head? How easy would it be to dump their bodies in the Hudson and never think about them again?
The answer to those questions is scary, because it is this: all too easy.
And Max did it. Max did it for me. When Avery’s dad discovered what my father was doing to me, he flipped. He told me he would fix things—that he would make sure I never had to deal with my dad’s unwanted attentions again.
The next day, my father was dead, and I was free. I cried for days, the relief too much to bear. No one ever knew. No one ever suspected a thing. Misfiring rifles are a common occurrence at the best of times, and during hunting season in Wyoming, there are always one or two accidents. Max shot him with his own rifle in the face, and then left him there in the woods to rot. When his body was discovered the next day, whispers traveled quickly across Breakwater. They weren’t whispers of murder, though. They were whispers of suicide. My father was not a well-liked man; no one cared enough to dig too deeply into what took place out there.
After I told Avery what Max did for me back in the hospital all those weeks ago, we didn’t discuss it again. She was still too traumat
ized by what had happened with Chloe. It didn’t matter, though. I didn’t need to talk with her about it. I was scared to.
Now, I’d give anything to say more than two words to Avery. It’s been a month since I’ve heard her voice, and I swear I’m fucking rotting from the inside out. All those years wanting to be near her, needing to make her mine, were torture. They were torture and yet I managed to survive them. I could handle seeing her and letting her go because I hadn’t overstepped the line. I hadn’t reached out and pulled her close, breathed her in, tasted her lips, sunk deep into her body.
I hadn’t known true happiness back then. Now that I have, I’m pretty sure I’m never going to experience it again.
******
I arrive at Cole’s place around ten, which happens to be an hour late. The guys are in a crappy mood. While I’m usually okay with putting up with everyone’s shit, today isn’t one of those days. I pour myself a cup of coffee and run my fingers through my wet hair, trying like hell to shake off the remnants of that dream. It’s only one of many that I have, but that particular incident haunts me the most. I’m just lucky it stopped where it did. If it had played out in full…
A hand slaps down on my shoulder. I jump so hard my coffee spills over onto a pile of papers on the table in front of me. Cole, owner of the hand, growls.
“Fuck, dude. Those are the notes we’ve been putting together while your ass was sleeping in.”
I set my drink down, snatching up one of his discarded t-shirts to try and sop up as much of the spilled liquid as I can. “Sorry, dude. Don’t sneak up on me. You know I hate that shit.”
