Wicked Torture

by J. Kenner

"Yeah? That's great." He lines up his ball and shoots.

  Across the way, some kids at a birthday party squeal when someone gets a hole-in-one by a giant bunny.

  "And that reminds me," he says, after he's finally sunk his ball seven strokes later. "You never answered my question. Why marketing? And what happened to Pink Chameleon that you have to get it back together?"

  "You really didn't pay attention." I look up from where I'm about to hit the ball, and see that he's looking hard at me.

  "Attention?"

  "To me," I clarify. "All these years between us, and you never tried to find out what I was up to?"

  His expression takes on a hard edge. "I wanted to," he admits. "Pretty much every damn day."

  "Why didn't you?"

  He leans on the end of his putter. The intensity has faded from his face, and when he meets my eyes, I'm struck by a sadness so palpable it's all I can do not to walk to him and take him in my arms.

  "Do you have any idea how hard it was walking away from you?" he asks. "Do you think I don't know how much it hurt you?"

  "Did you?" I hate how needy I sound, but I am. Hearing this is like a balm for my soul, healing the wounds I'd inflicted on myself, believing that the connection between us had been an easy one for him to break, and that he hadn't suffered the way I had.

  "Oh, God, Kiki, I hate that you can even ask that. It was fucking torture. But I had to do it. I couldn't walk away from my child. You know that. You know why I left."

  I press my lips together, willing myself not to cry out to him. To tell him that maybe he could have. Not abandon the child, but provide for it. Monetarily and emotionally. To scream that we should have talked about it--really talked about it. That we'd been a couple, and I'd deserved to be part of his decision, not the unhappy recipient of a horrible pronouncement.

  "I don't know," I admit. "I guess it seemed so easy for you. The way you came to me once she told you about the baby. You already had a plan. It was all mapped out like a goddamn math equation."

  He winces, but doesn't argue. All he says is, "It was hard. Walking away from you was the hardest thing I've ever done. And even though there were times when I craved just a hint of you--just the tiniest glimpse of your life--I never looked. I thought it would hurt too much.

  "So there you go," he says. "That's why I didn't poke into your life until yesterday, when I looked you up to find out about your marriage. And I'm guessing that you didn't try to find out what I was up to for similar reasons."

  I swallow--he's so very right--then hit the ball. I miss the cup by a mile.

  "What's the story?" he presses, as I line up my putt again.

  I want to tell him it's none of his business. I don't want to admit the truth to him. The truth would be a confession of weakness. More than that, I'd have to reveal just how much power he had over me back then.

  "I'm sorry," he says, obviously understanding my hesitation. "You don't have to tell me anything."

  Part of me wants to stay quiet, but a bigger part wants to clear the air. And without conscious decision, I start talking again. "After you left, I couldn't write. I couldn't sing. I was numb. Everything creative in me died."

  I hit the ball, and it goes straight into the cup. I barely notice. "I dropped out of the band," I tell him. "And after a while the girls went their own ways, too."

  "Celia?"

  It touches my heart that he still remembers my best friend's name. "She understood. It sucked, but all the girls got it. It wasn't fair, and I told them to bring in someone else, but . . ." I trail off, then lift a shoulder. "They didn't, and it fell apart, and I've always hated that I didn't have the strength to work through it for them. For the band."

  "Hated me, you mean." There's no accusation in his voice. Just guilt.

  I shake my head. "No. Really, no. I understand why you left. She was pregnant, and you couldn't stand the thought of being an asshole like your dad. I hated you at the time, yeah. But I understood. I thought you were wrong, and I was pissed as hell. But I understood."

  I pull my ball out of the cup. "And I should probably say that now that you're divorced, I also feel weirdly vindicated. I knew you shouldn't have married her, and I was right. But like we already said, that was a long time ago."

  I lift my shoulders in a combination of apology and what can you do, and am struck by the odd, unreadable expression on his face. "Noah?"

  He shakes his head. "Just thinking." His voice sounds unusually hoarse. "I'm glad to know you didn't hate me," he adds, and I decide that his odd tone is a reflection of deep emotion. "Go on. You were telling me about the music."

  "Right. Well, it took me a long time to get over that. Honestly, I've only been writing again for about a year. After you went to Darla, I moved home and got my MBA in marketing. I love it. I really do. But I love music more."

  "Which doesn't explain why you're not touring with Ares, now that you're not blocked anymore."

  This time, he sinks the ball in two shots, and as he comes closer to retrieve the ball, I reach up and he high-fives me. Except he doesn't really, because when his hand hits mine, he doesn't then pull it back. Instead, he holds on, squeezing my hand for just a moment, before releasing me.

  I frown, not sure what that was for, but knowing that I liked the sensation of my skin against his.

  "Kiki?" he asks, as if he has no clue that his touch has scattered my thoughts.

  "Oh, right. That's because of Pink Chameleon." I explain how the girls and I have been working on our songs, and how I plan to use the money from the Stark gig to live on while we give the PC reboot a go. "Do you think that's foolish?"

  "Hardly, I think it's great. Watching you on stage the other night--it's your element." His mouth quirks into a grin. "Not that I want you to back out on the Stark contract. We need you. On the whole, I guess you're just too damn talented."

  I laugh, enjoying his teasing more than I should. And, more than that, I'm relieved and flattered by the fact that he seems to genuinely mean what he says. And that he doesn't think that following this dream so late in the game is foolish.

  There's a bench nearby, and he goes and sits down as a couple with three little kids start to play through. "Listen," he says. "You mentioned me being divorced . . ."

  My gut twists as I nod. Surely they're not still married? I'm certain he said he wasn't with her.

  "You should know we never got divorced. I'm widowed."

  "Oh." The news is like ice water. I'd thought he left her. I'd thought that he realized it was a mistake to be with her. "I see."

  I suck in air, trying to rearrange my thinking. Honestly, what difference does it make? She's out of his life. And I'm not in it, either. Not like that, anyway.

  "Do you have custody of the child?" I realize I have no idea if he'd had a boy or a girl.

  "Diana." He swallows, and an expression that looks like pain cuts across his face. "She's dead, too."

  "Noah . . ." I take his hand and hold it tight. "I'm so sorry. Was it an accident?"

  "She was murdered. They both were."

  A cold feeling washes over me, so intense that for a moment I actually think that a November cold front has blown in. "That's horrible." The word is completely inadequate. "I--I don't know what to say," I admit.

  "I almost didn't tell you. It shouldn't be your burden. But . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "I meant what I said. I want us to start over. That's in my past. That's a huge part of my past. And like it or not, it's tied to you, too. So you needed to know."

  "I'm glad you told me. Do you want to tell me what happened?" I'm not sure I want to know, but I'm glad I asked, because he tells me the story, and I think it's cathartic. For both of us.

  He lays out the whole thing, his voice monotone, and I tremble as the story turns worse and worse. The trip to Mexico. The afternoon that Darla and Diana didn't come back to the hotel. His fear. The news that Diana had been found.

  "I shut down, that day," he says. "For a long ti
me, I was sure I'd never heal. Honestly, I'm not sure I ever did."

  I don't know what to say, so once again, I just hold his hand as he continues talking about the investigation and how helpless he felt. About the search for Darla. And how, much later, he got involved with a covert vigilante-style organization called Deliverance that helped locate and rescue kidnap victims. Not because he thought he would find Darla--he looked, yes, but by then, he was almost certain she was dead--but because he wanted to help other families. Other victims.

  And, ultimately, about how he had to quit Deliverance. Because even though he knew he was helping others like himself, the constant memory was making him feel dead inside.

  "I never had a chance to let the wounds heal," he told me, and I tried to imagine what it would be like to constantly relive your pain.

  "And they never found Darla's body? That must make it so much worse."

  He nods. "She's been pronounced legally dead, so that's some closure. But it's hard." His eyes meet mine, then cut away quickly. "It wasn't a great marriage." His voice is low, like he's sharing a secret. "But we were both trying. And it was getting better. Diana was like a talisman that made us closer. We'd gone to Mexico so I could go to a conference, but they came with me because we'd been doing so much better, and we wanted to be a family."

  He looks back at me, and I see the apology in his eyes, as if that confession hurts me.

  "Don't." I clutch his hand tighter. "Do you think I wished a horrible marriage on you? I didn't, I swear. I told you I understood, and I meant it. I felt sorry for myself, and I was angry, but I never wished that you were stuck in a bad marriage. And I sure as hell would never wish something like this on you. On anyone."

  "I know," he says, then reaches out and brushes my cheek, wiping away tears I hadn't even realized I'd shed.

  I manage a watery smile. "You know what? I'm hungry. You want to just cede my victory and let's go get some lunch?"

  "You're clearly the victor," he says, standing and holding out a hand to help me up. "The victor gets to decide on lunch."

  "Good," I say. "Then we're going to Sandy's. Burgers and fries and custard for dessert. It's the perfect meal to brighten a day. In case you're feeling a little blue at the way I just destroyed you on the golf course." I add the last with a smile, and am rewarded with his smile in return, full of understanding and appreciation for my not-so-subtle efforts to turn our mood around.

  Sandy's is just a few blocks to the east on the same road. It's another Austin institution that's been around since the 40s. It has the look of a dive, and the food to match. And by that, I mean cheap and awesome.

  It has a drive-through, but we park and stand in the line at the window, then take our burgers and fries to the picnic tables in the back to chow down. This time, the conversation is lighter, with me waxing poetic about my hometown, especially this area that's so close to the river, which has always been one of my favorite places to spend a weekend.

  "I'm getting to know this area pretty well," he says, pointing to his building on the other side of the river, which flows just about a block away. "But this place is a new find." He holds up the remnants of the burger he's wolfed down. "It's pretty life-changing."

  "I know, right? Come on," I add, finishing my own food. "We need ice cream."

  It's actually frozen custard, and we each get a cone, then eat it as we walk the relatively short distance to the river. We spend another hour on the path before returning to his car, which fortunately wasn't towed from Sandy's parking lot.

  "I'll get you home," he says, as the afternoon winds down. "From what you've said, you have some writing to do."

  I almost argue, but he's right. Besides, it's been a great day so far, despite--or maybe partly because of--the revelations about what happened during the years we were apart.

  I navigate over surface streets so that he doesn't have to get back on MoPac, the North-South freeway that runs on the west side of town. Instead, we take South Lamar, and I point out some of my favorite places to shop and eat. Funky retail shops, consignment stores, bakeries, and, of course, Tex-Mex eateries.

  When we reach my South Austin house just off Brodie Lane, he walks me to the door.

  "Thanks," I say, once I've unlocked the place and am standing on the threshold. "I honestly wasn't sure when I saw you on my porch, but this was fun."

  "I'm glad you enjoyed it. It was a toss-up between Peter Pan or Hippie Hollow," he says, referring to the clothing-optional park on the shores of Lake Travis.

  "And you chose the golf," I say, raising my brows. Then I flash him a flirty grin, before dipping my gaze down toward his crotch. I'm playing with fire, I know, but I can't help myself. "Too bad for me."

  "Well, it's November," he says, his voice deadpan. "I figured the chill wouldn't show off my assets."

  I snort with laughter as he winks, then turns his back and walks to his car.

  I go inside, smiling happily.

  All in all, it was a really good day.

  13

  "I flirted with him," I tell Ares the next morning, as we sit on the back porch, sharing the Sunday paper. "I shouldn't have done that."

  He glances at me over the comics page, which he habitually reads first before diving into the actual news. "Why not?"

  "Why not?" I repeat, my voicing rising with incredulity. Because, hello. Most obvious thing in the universe. "Because we're not together. Because it's a bad idea. Because therein lies the path to madness."

  He studies me for a minute, then folds the paper and puts it on the small wooden table that sits between us. "You're serious."

  "Don't I sound serious?" But he just shakes his head, and I sigh. "We talked. We both acknowledged that things have changed. We're different people now. And the whole idea of spending some time together yesterday was to just get to know each other again."

  "Right. Still not seeing the problem."

  I take a sip of my coffee, then sigh loudly. "Never mind." Clearly, I'll have to deal with my angsty, post-date remorse by myself. I glance at my watch. Only eight. Which means it's six in LA. Which means Celia will kill me if I call her for some BFF handholding.

  "I'm going to get a fresh cup and a donut," I say. Donuts are Ares' Sunday morning vice, and being at my house isn't sufficient to change his routine. He actually got up this morning, jogged to the donut store a few blocks down on Brodie, then jogged back with a dozen warm, assorted donuts. I would call him out on the irony, but I'm afraid he'd banish me from Donutlandia.

  I return with a fresh coffee and the entire box. I figure it's my duty to help him eat them, thus saving him from one of his vices.

  "I thought you used to be so in love with this guy that the world stopped turning," Ares says, plucking a chocolate-covered donut from the box.

  I grab a glazed. "I was."

  "Then why are you fighting it now?"

  "I--"

  I pause, the donut not quite to my mouth. Because he'll hurt me. Because he'll leave. Because we don't even really know each other anymore.

  Because I'm scared.

  A million familiar reasons rattle around in my head, and each one is real and true. But for some reason, after yesterday, none of them are quite as scary as they used to be.

  But that's a problem, too. Because I need to be smart. I know what happens when you let your guard down, after all.

  "Because we're working together," I finally say, then shove half the donut into my mouth so that he can't interrogate me anymore.

  "Uh-huh." He manages to convey worlds of disbelief in just his tone. So much, that I regret stuffing my mouth.

  "Es nofa goo dea," I say.

  "Not a good idea?" he translates.

  I nod and swallow. "Really not. We're going to be working close together on this one, and with the compressed time frame, we'll be working late hours, too."

  "Interesting," he says, then reaches for another donut.

  I frown. "What is?"

  He's chewing, so he simply shr
ugs. And since he's not as uncouth as me, I have to wait for him to swallow.

  "I didn't realize you had so little self-control," he says. "Or is Noah the one who doesn't have a handle on himself?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm just surprised to learn that you both have so little self-control that you're afraid you'll end up going at it like bunnies on the copy machine if you even suggest to each other that you're interested in that way."

  "Ares . . ."

  "Don't say my name that way."

  "What way?"

  "As if I'm being unreasonable or unfair."

  I cross my arms and sit back in my chair. I know I'm being huffy, but I feel justified. "Fine. I'm listening."

  "Look, all I'm saying is that you slept with the guy, right?"

  "Yes, but--"

  "And then you went out with him and had a good time."

  I can hardly deny it.

  "And you told me that you flirted with him, so in the--what?--thirty-six hours since you guys boinked like bunnies, you haven't lost interest. I mean, he still gets you hot."

  "What is it with you and bunnies?"

  He stares me down, and I sit back, my hands raised in surrender. "Yes. Still attracted." Understatement, much? That, however, I don't say out loud.

  "And so I ask again, what's the problem?"

  I try to think of what to say. Some magical words that will make Ares understand. Except he already understands--I know he does. He's known me all of my adult life. So I tell him the truth. "I don't think I can survive the hurt when he leaves again."

  "How do you know he will?" His voice is gentle, and that makes it worse. Because he's being nice, and I just want to run from everything he's saying.

  "Look," he continues, when I remain silent, "I get what you're afraid of. I do. And, yeah. Maybe you were dealt a shit hand. But your dad didn't leave you. He left your mom."

  "Bullshit," I say. "He divorced my mom, sure. But I'm the one he left. Regular visits from the time I was four until I was seven, and then he remarries and I never see him again. Just Christmas and birthday cards, and even those stopped when Mom remarried. With my mother at least, he did it the way you're supposed to, with a judge and a court order and all that. With me, he just crept off into the shadows."

  "You're right," Ares says. "I'm sorry. But he's the asshole. Don't let him paint your life."

  I swallow. "Maybe so. But I seem to be a magnet for assholes. Look at Cameron's dad. And my mom, for that matter."