No answer, no movement, no noises, no sign of life inside. Since I am technically the landlord, I let myself in.
The house is dark and empty. Stark. Barren. The structure represents me. The plans I had for the next couple months, plans that V had no idea about, are destroyed.
All except for one.
I’m doing away with her father, then she won’t have to run around changing her name all the time. And maybe, we’ll have a real shot at being together. I don’t care how long it takes, I’ll make it happen.
I walk along the empty halls, and into Valley’s bedroom. It’s evident that they left in the middle of the night, gone in a hurry. From what I can tell at first glance, all that’s left is her pillow, and I swear I can still detect the indention where her head lay there.
Carefully, I pick it up, being mindful of not messing up the divot in it, and I carry it into the living room, sitting it by the door. I return to my perusal of the residence.
Maybe she at least left me a note, telling me her plans, where they were headed next, that she would contact me as soon as she was settled so I can come get her. I realize these are just dreams, because there is no note. I’ve searched the house high and low, and since there’s not much else other than empty cabinets and closets, I’m certain there’s no note to be found.
She never made me any promises, only said she didn’t want to leave. She never even told me she loved me, I remind myself. I put myself out there, by admitting it to her, and she didn’t even say it back.
All I have to go on is the look in her eyes and that one last kiss, the one that said “this is goodbye” even though I didn’t want to believe it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Valley
I throw the last of my belongings into the suitcase, for what seems like the hundredth time in my life. Only this time, there’s no excitement over where we’ll be going next like I sometimes develop, knowing I’ll be leaving a place I’ve hated, and being hopeful of where I’ll land next. No, this isn’t one of those times.
My mother and I argued the whole way home from the Knightley’s. She made it clear that she was disappointed in me and shocked over the fact that I’d lied to her, engaged in a sexual relationship in a generalized fact, but more so that I’d engaged in a sexual relationship with someone six years my senior. Not to mention, I had told him EVERYTHING there was to know about my life, that I’d spilled the beans on all the minute details as to why we lived a life in hiding.
I knew how she saw me: The young and confused girl who go too close to the first man to show her attention. It was evident in the way her voice would go soft and soothing at times when we were arguing, like my heart was about to break from my misconceptions of reality, from my case of puppy love. The way her facial expressions evolved from clear disdain to a look of pity aimed in my direction.
I didn’t care what she thought. I was eighteen and I was staying. Or at least, I was, before she told me the news we were always on the edge of our seat over. The news that had never came before, but were always expecting, like the monster waiting in the wings to seize you when you’re happy and completely unaware.
My father had finally found us, pinpointed our exact location, and was moving in preparation to snatch us up and bring us in. Hell, he was probably planning to torture us too, but I’m not going to dwell on that right now. The closest we had ever come to experiencing this, was when Mom walked up on a man ransacking one of our previous apartments. She backed away before he even noticed, and picked me up early from school that day. We lost nearly all our possessions, aside from things she typically kept in the car. From what I could pick up from Mom’s end of the conversation. If it weren’t for Uncle Jameson being on our side, being our only source of counter-intel, we’d have been caught completely unawares two days down the road.
So, here I am frantically throwing everything in my suitcase as quickly as I can get it in there. Mom is currently packing everything into our SUV like a can of sardines, and then, we’ll both do damage control. That’s what we refer to getting rid of any and all evidence in the house of our having been there, making sure that he won’t get much to go on in reference to where we might be going. No pictures can remain, for instance.
He’s not laid eyes on us since we first left, to my knowledge, so I have a better shot than Mom does of him not recognizing me. She, however, looks about the same as she did when we first left those years ago. She’s a walking fountain-of-youth in the flesh… Not necessarily something to work in her favor at this point.
“We’ll be out of here in 30,” she pops into my room to give me an update, and I nod in acknowledgment.
That’s when it hits me. I never told Gray I loved him because I was too damn scared to admit it, even to myself. I’m admitting it to now, but what’s that going to do if he’s not here to hear it? It could be years before I’m able to reach out to him, and that’s highly likely if I don’t want to put him or Lyra in the line of danger, let them fall prey to the path of destruction my father always brings when he doesn’t immediately get what he wants.
By then, Gray could be married and have a family of his own. He could be settled down with someone who isn’t such a hassle, as I am. Someone who’s safe, like Grace Laurent, his old childhood friend. I need him to know how I feel, even if it never amounts to anything more than that.
All of this back and forth fighting our attraction, wasting a few months before giving in. Wasting even more time because of the misunderstanding over my involvement when Lyra tried to set him up with Miss Laurent. Him obsessing over our age difference. He was older, but that didn’t matter. He made me feel things. A renewed vigor for living. Hope for the future. Contentment in the now. And knowledge of the beauty within.
I pull a piece of paper out of my journal, and quickly scrawl one final note to him, placing it somewhere where Mom won’t find it when we do our final sweep-through.
“Ready,” I yell.
XoXo
Gray
One week later…
Thunder claps outside, shaking the house. The ominous impression of gloom and doom brought on by the dark skies, lacking even a sliver of light breaking through. Befitting. This week has ranked up there with the worst days of my life. There’s the days after learning I lost my mother, and then there’s this past week.
I’ve not heard from V, but I keep waiting to. Each time the phone calls, it’s me who gets it. Each time there’s a knock at the door, I’m there to open it. I carry the house-phone and my cellphone with me each time I go and feed the animals outside. Every day at four in the evening, I meet our Mailman at the box… Nothing. Just every day mail, bills and such save for the envelope from Nana Rose yesterday. It contained prints of my sister’s prom. I kept all the photos of with V in them, knowing my sister would likely trash them anyway. Her anger still hasn’t dissipated at all, but I can tell she feels guilty that her friend has basically just dropped off the face of the earth following their falling out.
The photos couldn’t have come at a worse time. I’ve been depressed the past few days, moping around and dragging my feet. Lately, I’ve felt the calling to pick up my journal and get lost in my drawings. But, I know it’ll all be dark subject matter. I also don’t know if I can stand to look at all the other pages, filled with drawings of V, especially the last entry. It’s the one drawn in the cabin, her watching me with a burning intensity through the mirror’s reflection as I drink in her nudity, creating her essence on paper.
I’m a grown ass man, but right now, I really feel like I could fucking cry. It would be the second time in my life, off the top of my head. I know I cried as a small child, but the only time since then was when Mom died. I didn’t cry when Pockets died. I didn’t cry when Grace walked out on our friendship, when I was hurt and confused, and needed her most. But it wouldn’t surprise me if I broke down at any minute and did so now. I’ve fixed everything in our house that was in need of fixing, my theory being that keeping my hands bus
y will keep my mind busy. Now I’m all out of things to fix.
My hands shake as they grasp my journal, unable to hold off on finally reading the poem from V. I end up grabbing both journals, the new and the old, begging for misery I guess.
Starting with the original, I flip through it. As I study older drawings, I get to relive the pain of losing my mother all over again, on top of my emotions being all over the place from losing Valley. My soul is being scored, giant painful slits with each page I view. It’s the reason I never really go back and view the first ten or so pages anymore. Today, I do. Finally, I get to the pictures of my girl.
Although, I’m not sure if she ever really was at this point.
I flip two pages, studying each sketch as I go, replaying each memory in my head as vividly as if it were a movie. When I come to the third page, one of my favorites, I find that it’s missing, ripped from the seams. Paper nearly tears as I frantically flip through the remaining pages, but it’s nowhere to be found.
The missing image is the one of Valley as she lay on the ground beneath my childhood swing, surrounded by grass and ironically, buttercups. That image is forever imprinted in my brain and was shamefully easy to replicate later on that evening. I should have known then, just how deeply I was going to fall.
Stumped as to where the drawing went, I grab the journal V gifted me, opening it. About ten pages in is the sketch from the cabin. My fingers gingerly trace the outlines made in lead, remembering how her skin felt beneath my hands, remembering how hopeful and in awe I felt. It was during this exact moment that I grasped the fact I was falling for her, I think, the first time the thought did more than just cross my mind in passing. Prom night it may have been revealed I couldn’t live without her, a mere few hours before she was ripped from my life, but the weekend at the cabin was pivotal.
Millions of questions bounce off the walls of my mind, incessantly begging to be answered. How could I have done things differently? How could we have spent our time together more wisely? Would it have helped, if we’d have been honest from the beginning? With my sister, and with ourselves? What if she would have just stayed at prom that night? What if I never would have succumbed to her charming game of seduction? Would it be better to have her in my life, but not be able to hold her?
No. I don’t regret anything.
Every decision we made brought us together. I fell for her, and it was right and true and good. Surely something so right, the only thing in my life that’s ever made sense to me, can’t be wrong. Things didn’t work out, and as the saying goes, “everything works out in the end, and if it hasn’t worked out, then it’s not the end.”
I’ll make things right.
I scan her naked, beautiful form one last time before moving on. That’s the last entry I made. The last drawing. Blank pages fill the book afterwards, at least until you flip smack dab in the middle, to her poem. So many times I had begun to read it, but stopped myself, wanting to hold out and waiting for what would prove to be the right time, a time when it would mean the most to me.
In reality, I wanted to wait until it could hurt me the most, as if I always knew she’d be leaving and this was the final piece of her that I’d get. Taking a deep breath, my eyes roam over her scrawling writing, realizing that these just might be the last words of hers I ever read.
To: Gray
What can I say? You put some fan-fucking-tastic moves on me, in the kitchen. I felt the need to write, like I so often do. I retrieved this journal that’s your Christmas gift, happy that I put it in a gift bag instead of wrapping it like I’d initially wanted. Everything happens for a reason, right? I just shared my life story with you, the first person I’ve ever and will ever do so with. I also gave you my V-card. Wink, wink. So, I might as well give you everything, right? My words, for instance. So, yeah, here are the words you inspired from me during our midnight romp…
The first line, “Give me your most sincerest fuck; a remedy and solution when we’re down on our luck.” God, upset as I am, I’m getting worked up thinking about the words she wrote. By the time I read the last lines, “The sky could be falling, but it doesn’t matter; when everything around us shatters,” I can’t help but smile, knowing that I was the muse for the poem, that our prior actions that night created the scene. We had, no, have something amazing.
I heard it through the grapevine that having sex while taking ecstasy is so good, that you’ll never again experience anything of the same caliber. You’ll want to keep taking ecstasy every time thereafter just to reach that same intense level of satisfaction. I guess you could say V is my ecstasy. She’s my drug, my downfall, my purpose, and everything in between. Without her, I’m left unsatisfied.
As I begin to close the book, another scrawling page of her writing is revealed. One I was up until this point, unaware of. Flipping it back open, my eyes land on a note. At the top is written a date of sorts. It’s not the actual calendar date in which the note was written, per se, but it clearly says PROM NIGHT. The paper is wrinkled in spots, stained with her tears.
It reads: Sorry for taking your drawing of me… It’s my favorite. It’s been my favorite since I snooped through your things the morning after we first made love. Sorry about that, too.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Folding the page lengthwise to mark it, I snap the cover shut, just in time too, because a loud and incessant banging starts up at the front door. Vertigo nearly overpowers me as I spring from the bed, practically sprinting down the stairs and skipping more than one step at a time. The anticipation is unbearable, my muscles so tightly wound in preparation to launch myself at her, to bring her into my arms where I’ll never let her go. The longest week of my life is finally over!
Eagerly, I place my hand on the doorknob and slowly begin to turn, pausing for a moment to say a silent prayer of thanks for sending her back to me. The door flies open under my overenthusiastic yank, and I brace myself for the onset of heart palpitations always brought on from being in her presence, ready for the long overdue hit of adrenaline she gives me just by saying my name.
But it’s not her moonlit color of grays that meet my own.
Not my girl.
These are the wrong color of gray, and they belong to a man who reeks of violence and hard living, despite his appearances of being a man of means. Looks can be deceiving, and I’m sure he deceives like it’s in his job description. He’s tall, broad and domineering, built, and at least two inches taller than my 6’ 3” frame.
I’ve never seen him in my life, but something about him is familiar, something that pricks the back of mind but not long enough for me to hone in on it. My gut instinct tells me to be cautious. My intuition perks up to remind me of the fact there’s a gun hidden nearby, loaded and ready to go, not three foot from my current location.
His cold gaze regards me, up and down, sizing me up and attempting to assess my character by looks alone. I had expected my girl to be outside, to have come back to me, but I hardly have time to dwell on the fact. He’s here for something, there’s a reason.
This is the South and you don’t just come to someone’s home on a Sunday, you don’t impose on their sanctuary unannounced without a damn reason to do so. I don’t fucking like it, showing up on my doorstep uninvited, looking at me like I’m beneath him, and not even having the gall to introduce himself or the decency to state what the hell it is he wants.
“The fuck are you? You sure as hell ain’t a bible salesman, so what do you want?” I grit out.
His lips settle into a grim line before he answers me. Three words that cause me to launch at him full force, tackling him to the ground so hard it knocks the wind out of the both of us. “I’m Valentina’s father.”
Epilogue
As the miles on the dashboard climb higher, my view through the SUV’s rear window shrinks to nothing, finally merging to a different scenery altogether. The time I left Michigan, the way I felt and the gloomy mood over leaving the best place I’d yet to live, is called to the front
of my mind. This time though, it’s not only like I’m leaving a place that I liked, but as if I’m leaving half of myself behind. Like I’m being ripped from the place I call home by sheer, brute force, and I’m powerless to fight against it.
I’m a different person than I was yesterday. A clone, having transferred all of my memories but having failed to receive the personality, soul, and essence in the process. Because I left my heart and soul 30 miles in the rearview.
This is not the end….
Titles by Gemini Jensen
AGAINST ALL ODDS SERIES
Love on the Run
Love on the Rise-Valley and Gray part 2 (Coming Winter 2018)
Rivalry of Love-Althia’s Story (Coming Spring 2019)
Recompense for Love-Lyra’s Story (Coming Fall 2019)
Acknowledgments
To my family, for hanging in there with me and taking on extra chores so I could have more time to write. K&J you two are some hardcore, awesome, badass kids. The best I could ask for. Thank you for allowing me to follow my dreams, and being understanding when you hear me wake up at 2 a.m. to start my day…. Just so I can get a few words in uninterrupted.
PJ, thanks for taking over cooking duties for the past few months. (Really, it was better this way because you’re a much better chef than I am.) More importantly, thank you for pushing me to finish the story I started a few years ago and for your input on the male POV.
Mom, you were my first champion for my writing. And, the reason I love romance novels!
To my betas: Bianca, Angela, Linzi, and Cheyenne. Thank you for your time and all of your help. Your input is valued more than you’ll ever know.
A special thank you to Robin for not only being a beta reader, but for your inspiring words and personal advice from your own experiences. You rock!
To all the bloggers; the PA’s; and the book lovers who promote new books, not to be compensated, but because of their loyalty to their favorite authors and favorite genres. You do more for the indie book world than you get credit for and I know I’m not just speaking for myself when I say, we as authors couldn’t do it without you.
Love on the Run Page 31
