Us, Again

by Elle Maxwell

  Tears gather in my eyes and quickly overflow to cascade down my cheeks. My lips tremble with the effort to keep myself from breaking down completely.

  “But you thought I wouldn’t stand by you? Thought I wouldn’t want to be with you if I knew?”

  “I was scared.”

  I squeeze his fingers in my own, wrapping them around his large hand as far as they can reach.

  “And your response to fear—again—was to shut me out, to hide things from me, to lie. To have this whole separate life going on while I was falling in love with you even deeper than before, letting myself believe this was the beginning of our life together.” A single sob breaks through my efforts to control it, and as though my emotions are connected to his, magnetized, my anguish pulls the first tear from his hazel eyes.

  “It is the beginning. I’ve been right here with you, falling so fucking deep. None of that is a lie. I still mean every word I’ve said to you. The way I love you, the life we’re planning, that isn’t a lie. Please, Z.”

  I’m crying harder now, my vision almost too blurry to make out his tortured face mere inches from mine.

  “I believe you. But you weren’t letting me in on the whole story. Even when you knew—you knew—how badly you hurt me before, how I was breaking my own rules to let myself love you again. You don’t trust me, and now I—I can’t trust you either.” My voice breaks with the force of my emotion, and I have to pause until I’m a bit calmer. “I can’t build a life with you never knowing when the next hard thing will come up and you’ll compartmentalize again, build a wall to keep me out from part of you. I can’t give you all of me when something in you isn’t willing to do the same.”

  He leans in. I close my eyes briefly at the sensation of his hands cradling my face, his big callused thumbs swiping at my collected tears.

  “Don’t do this. Baby.” There’s a desperation in his voice I’ve never heard before, so heart-wrenching that my next breath comes out on another sob. “It won’t happen again. I swear it. You have to believe me. I’ll never lie to you again.”

  I cover his hands with mine, hovering for a single heartbeat to take in the feel of our skin together. Then I remove his hands from my face. He’s so much stronger than me, he could easily resist my gentle push, but he doesn’t. He lets me move away, and I scoot back until I’m as far from him as I can get, now perched at the very edge of the bed.

  Strength, Mackenzie. Love yourself more.

  “Fool me twice,” I whisper. I try to smile, but I’m sure it looks as sad as my soul is right now. “You mean that now, but this is a toxic pattern I’m not sure you even have control over. And I can’t risk it. There’s no third strike here. I won’t survive it. I need to choose myself now.”

  “I love you,” he says in a low, broken voice that’s almost more than I can bear.

  “I love you too.”

  Then I close my eyes, breaking the eye contact. Breaking us.

  “I want to go home. To Westwood,” I whisper. Suddenly, I need my mom and dad. I need to feel safe in their house.

  “I’ll take you.”

  “Marisa could—”

  “Please. Let me do this one last thing.”

  “Okay.”

  34. MR. FUCKING CONGENIALITY

  Graham

  Seconds after I watch Mackenzie disappear through the doorway of her childhood home, tucked beneath her mother’s arm, Mike Thatcher emerges and stalks toward me.

  “This is how you take care of her?!” he roars.

  Mr. Thatcher comes at me hot. Maybe back in his active duty days he could have caught me off guard, but now I can see exactly when and where he’s going to swing. I don’t make any move to retreat or duck. I lock my legs a bit, brace for impact, and let him smash his fist into my cheekbone. He may not be at the top of his game, but his hit is still as powerful as a sledgehammer.

  My face is throbbing, and I resist the urge to lift my fingers and touch the spot. Fuck, that’s going to hurt for days. But I can’t really bring myself to care all that much. No hurt could be half as bad as the pain in my chest where his daughter ripped my heart out this morning.

  I make myself stand still, waiting to see what he’ll do next. A few seconds pass as we stare each other down on the paved walkway outside the Thatcher’s house. I keep my face and posture purposefully calm, while before me his gaze is murderous, his chest heaving with the force of his anger. When he doesn’t move closer or raise a hand to hit me again, I finally speak.

  “Mr. Thatcher, I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  His nostrils flare angrily. Smoke might as well be pouring from them.

  “What makes you think I give a damn about anything you’d have to say?”

  “I don’t, sir. But it’s about the man who hurt Mackenzie. Right now, her safety is the one thing I’m certain you and I can agree on. I have an idea, but I need your help.” He continues glowering at me. I take a slow step forward, letting him see the sincerity in my face. “Please. It doesn’t mean you have to stop hating my guts. You can even hit me again first, if you want.”

  “You have two minutes,” he finally grumbles.

  I don’t waste any time. I start talking.

  * * *

  Mike Thatcher glares over from his seat beside me, and I try to still the frenetic bouncing of my leg. I’ve been bursting with nervous energy ever since we walked through the doors of the Westwood Police Station, a building I’d hoped to never see the inside of again. Now we’re sitting in tense silence, waiting for Chief Duluth to return to his office where he left us almost twenty minutes ago.

  The door swings open abruptly. Police Chief Edward Duluth enters and immediately makes his way over to the massive chair on the other side of his desk, where he sits heavily. He drops two folders from his hands that make a smacking sound as they land on the sturdy surface. I don’t really remember him from before—so much of that night is a blur in my memory—but the man before us now is a bit overweight, with gray hair that’s well on its way to balding. These signs of aging do nothing to decrease the man’s domineering presence. He manages to carry the extra weight with purpose, and beneath thick, nearly black eyebrows, his dark blue eyes are shrewd. It’s not hard to see how he ended up in this position of authority and kept it for so many years.

  “You’ve got a pretty shiner there yourself, Wyatt,” Duluth comments suddenly. His eyes zero in on the swelling that’s encroaching on my eye, the area surely a nice purple by now. “How did that happen?”

  Not letting my gaze stray to the man sitting beside me, I give the chief an easy smile—the kind Mackenzie calls a smirk.

  “Would you believe it? I clocked myself in the face with a kitchen cabinet door! One of many reasons I should probably just stay out of the kitchen.”

  He doesn’t laugh or so much as crack a smile. Tough crowd. He brusquely moves on from the topic, obviously not too concerned over whoever hit me. He doesn’t open the folders before him, but as he begins talking, he continually pokes at them with a single raised finger.

  “Okay, so I talked to the officer who gave you his card—Schwartz—and he was willing to share the file with me even though it’s a Boston matter, out of my jurisdiction. I did a little reading to update myself on your case too.” He cuts those sharp blue eyes to me. “Seems there have been a lot of developments since my office last handled it.”

  He pauses to let his words hang in the small room. It’s not an apology. It’s barely an acknowledgement that he was wrong and far short of any recognition that he unfairly slandered my name around town. But it’s something. I nod and work to keep the muscles in my face loose. I need to be Mr. Fucking Congeniality right now, because I need these men to help me. For Mackenzie.

  “Boston’s already got a warrant out for the assault on Mackenzie. She’s a good girl, and I hope they catch the son of a bitch.” He nods soberly at Mr. Thatcher. “There’s not much I can do down here, though.”

  “We know who it was, sir
. His name is Eli Markum, brother of Curtis Markum. He’s recently vandalized my property and stalked me here in Westwood too. I wrote it all out and included screenshots of some phone messages.” I produce the packet of notes I put together a few days ago.

  His dark brows move closer together as he flips through it.

  “Why didn’t you bring this to us sooner?”

  “Would you have listened?” I shoot back before I can stop myself.

  Duluth makes a little grumbling sound that I choose to interpret as grudging acknowledgement. He and I both know damn well no cop in this precinct would ever take me seriously. The Westwood Police are not exactly my number one fans. I can only imagine the response I’d have gotten if I walked through the doors of the WPD station without Mike Thatcher at my side. Let’s just say, I wouldn’t be in this seat right now with the chief willing to hear me out. I’m only here because of his friendship with Mr. Thatcher—and, of course, Mr. Thatcher’s devotion to the girl we both love being stronger than his hatred for me.

  “I also hired a PI to get dirt on Eli,” I continue. “It’s only been a few days, but here’s what he found so far. If he comes back with anything else, I’ll pass that on to you as well.”

  Two gray heads bend over the desk. The men pore over the contents of the new folder I’ve laid there. I don’t need to look; I am all too familiar with the details they’re reading. I’ve already read it myself a dozen times and have almost memorized the veritable grocery list of shady shit Eli’s got his fingers in. Moving heroin. Dealing to minors. Drug trafficking across state lines. Likely import and distribution of synthetic Fentanyl from Mexico. Not to mention a bevy of assault charges and a suspicious number of missing persons reports surrounding him and his operation, though so far, no evidence has been found to tie them to him directly. Eventually Mike Thatcher leans back, scraping at the hint of stubble on his chin as he breathes out a low curse before pinning me with an accusatory stare. I didn’t discuss all of these details with him earlier.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, getting messed up with someone like this?”

  I grit my teeth and try to maintain a relaxed tone.

  “With all due respect, sir, I bought drugs from his brother more than five years ago. I’ve served my time for that, and even contributed evidence to the state’s case against Curtis. I never personally sought out Eli and have no ties to the shit—uh, I mean the stuff—he’s done while I was locked up.”

  Mr. Thatcher lets out a little “hmph” and sits back in his seat, appeased but not willing to offer any verbal concession or apology. Geez, these are two stubborn old men.

  Ignoring our little exchange, Chief Duluth is still flipping through the pages. For long minutes he scans the information my expensive private investigator dug up.

  “None of this would be admissible in court or enough for a search warrant.” Duluth muses. “But I think I could run it by an old buddy from the service who went to work for the DEA.”

  Now we’re talking. I’m all for setting the Drug Enforcement Administration loose on Eli’s ass. Those guys don’t fuck around.

  “The Feds have a hard-on for opioid dealers right now,” the chief says. Then his eyes flick up to me as though remembering I’m here, that he’s not just talking casually to his pal Mike. He clears his throat. “It’s something to work with. I’ll keep you both apprised if anything changes. In the meantime, be sure to give his name to the BPD so they can have Mackenzie ID him.”

  “I want to be involved,” I say firmly. “Eli wants revenge for his brother, so I have the best connection to him. He’ll come after me again.”

  “Hmm.” He eyes me thoughtfully. “I’ll get back to you after I put in that call to my friend at the DEA.”

  “I’ll hold you to that, sir,” I tell him as we shake hands. I meet his eyes straight on and think I see a small glimmer of respect. Good. I want him to see I’m not fucking around with this. If I don’t hear from him in two days, I’ll be back in this office following up in person.

  The love of my life may have just dumped my worthless ass, but it’s not time to crawl into bed and fall apart. Not yet. First, I need to make sure Eli Markum never has the chance to hurt her again. After that, who knows what the hell I’ll do with myself, but at least she’ll be safe.

  35. TIME TO GET UP

  Mackenzie

  Three vigorous knocks pull me from the comfortable half-asleep state I’ve been floating in. I hear the door open mere seconds before the bedsheet is ripped off my body. I have a good guess who it is even before I drag open my lids.

  Yep. Those are definitely my best friend’s deep brown eyes staring down at me.

  “Ris!” I groan feebly. “I’m sleeping.”

  “As I hear it, all you’ve been doing for the past four days is sleeping. Time to get up.” Marisa flips on the light switch and makes herself comfortable in my childhood room, plopping her butt down on the bed nearly on top of my feet.

  I squint in the sudden brightness and glare at her.

  “Did my mom call you?”

  “Actually, I called her when you didn’t return any of my texts or phone calls.”

  “I have a concussion. I’m not supposed to look at screens.”

  She raises a single eyebrow.

  “Bullshit. You could look for the fraction of a second it takes to see my name and fabulous face and swipe to answer.”

  “I need a little more time,” I whine, sounding petulant even to my own ears.

  “You’ve been through something hard, chiquita. I get it. Your body and your mind need to recover. But somewhere in there you know this…” she waves her hand over the bed I’ve barely left in days “…isn’t healthy anymore. You’re welcome, by the way. I’m the one that gave you four days—your mom thought I should come and storm the gates after two.”

  “I broke up with Graham,” I whisper, staring at the white dresser and matching shelves on the other side of my room. I try to focus on remembering what, if anything, is still in those drawers. The pitiful attempt at distracting myself from thinking about Graham fails miserably. Graham. One great thing about sleep is that it gives me a reprieve from thinking about him, worrying about him, missing him. My chest tightens with pain that seems to be radiating out from my heart. This pain is so much worse than my residual headache.

  “I know,” Marisa responds softly, placing one of her hands on my leg and patting me over my comfy sweatpants. “He told me.”

  That gets my attention. Suddenly alert, I turn to her so quickly it makes my still sensitive head throb in protest.

  “He told you? You’ve talked to him?” I sound a little desperate, too eager, but I can’t help myself.

  “I told you, I was worried. I called him, and he told me you were here.”

  Beyond my control, a rogue tear slips out. It tickles my face on its way down to my chin.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay. You need to talk to someone, though. A professional.”

  “Ris–” I start to protest.

  “Kenz, step outside your own viewpoint for a second—if you were assessing a patient or studying this as a test case, you know you would say the same thing. You went through something traumatic, even without the…” she stops herself from saying his name “…the McF situation. Be as smart about taking caring of yourself as you would if I was the one in that bed.”

  I sigh, and she recognizes it for what it is, a sound of defeat. Because of course she’s right.

  “Now,” she says in a brusque no-nonsense tone. “First things first, you need to shower. I hate to say it, but you look like hell and stink even worse.”

  “Gee, thanks. Your bedside manner is fabulous.” I can’t help but laugh a little.

  “Please, you’ve seen how I can soften it up when necessary. But what you need is tough love, so that’s what you’re getting, even if you hate me for it at the moment.” She waits a moment for me to respond or move fr
om my position on the bed. When I don’t, she stands up and plants both hands on her hips.

  “So, are you going to get in the shower, or do I need to haul your scrawny ass in there myself?”

  “My ass isn’t scrawny!”

  “It might be now, considering how little your mama says you’ve eaten the past few days.”

  “Seriously, how much have you two been talking?!”

  “A lot,” she says more seriously. “We’re worried. We love you. Now get out of that bed and shake it for me so we can see if you have any booty left.”