Cuffed

by K. Bromberg

  “It isn’t that bad—” The lift of her eyebrows stops my response. “Okay, it is.”

  “Admission is half the battle.” She laughs, but it’s her eyes flashing and that mischievous smile sliding across her lips that gets my attention.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Cue her cat-ate-the-canary grin.

  “What?”

  “You saw Grant, didn’t you?”

  And here we go again . . .

  “Why would you say that?”

  “No reason.” She shrugs, but I don’t believe her. “But you want to see him again, don’t you?”

  “Why would you say that?” I repeat.

  “Because if you didn’t want to see him again, you would have gotten rid of this.” She lifts his card between her two fingers and hides her victorious smile.

  “Uh, look around my place, Des, I obviously keep things I have no use for—case in point, Shawn’s underwear. It’s the same thing with Grant’s card.” I lift my eyebrows and hold her stare because I know she won’t back down from this unless I do.

  “I disagree.”

  “Great. Good for you.” I rise from the chair, needing to move and think. My place is small, and all of a sudden, it feels like it’s closing in on me. “He stopped by that airfield a few weeks ago. Gave it to me. If I cared, I wouldn’t have thrown it in a pile of junk mail, now would I?”

  “And if you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be so aggravated right now.”

  She’s right, and she knows it, but I try to play it off as I grab a pile of clothing and toss it into the laundry basket. “I’m irritated because you won’t leave this alone. He’s become the main topic of conversation between us for the past few weeks. Why? Why is that?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Don’t give me your calm psychosomatic bullshit, Des.”

  “Remember when I came out to visit you on the skydive-my-way-around-the-country-I’m-a-gypsy tour you took?”

  Her change of topic gives me whiplash. “Where are you going with this?” Annoyed with her and this conversation when Grant already bothers me enough.

  “We went to that bar in Podunk, Maryland. Remember that place?”

  Of course I remember. Too many drinks and constant laughter. How good it was to see Desi again after meandering around the country for a few months while I got my head together after the death of my mother. “God, yes. We had fun that night, didn’t we?”

  She nods, her smile growing. “There was that bachelorette party there.”

  “Oh my God. Yes. They were so raunchy. And then the stripper showed up. We laughed so hard at how cheesy his moves were.” I can still hear the hoots and hollers in my ears. “We thought he was a police officer coming to kick them out, and surprise, surprise, he was the entertainment.”

  “Yep. But he was sure nice to look at.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Remember when you saw him and said that there was something about a man in a police officer’s uniform that you found super sexy and couldn’t resist?”

  Bingo. She just got to the point of this detour in conversation.

  I stare at her from across the space where I’ve started to collect some of my clothes strewn about. “Desi,” I warn.

  “What?” she asks, voice feigning innocence as she blinks rapidly. “You can’t resist a man in a police officer’s uniform. Grant is a police officer. In a uniform. And yet, you’re resisting him.”

  “There are a shitload of issues with your statement.”

  “Like?”

  He lied.

  And just like that, everything I’ve been fighting when it comes to Grant—every excuse, every bit of irritation, every bit of wanting him near but push him away—is summed up in those two tiny words. They have never before crossed my mind, but now they make perfect sense of why I’ve acted the way I have.

  I’m immediately brought back to the pinky promise he made me. The tears in his eyes when I looked at him before I walked out of the classroom. The pressure in my chest that felt as if an elephant was stepping on it as I made my way to the principal’s office.

  Feeling like I’m suddenly lost in a fog I should have seen coming, I forget that Desi is sitting there staring at me and walk a few steps to sit on the edge of my bed.

  It’s stupid really. To hold that much resentment for so long over something. It’s ridiculous to think that of all the shit I’ve been through, that is the one thing I’ve harbored subconsciously.

  But it is.

  He lied. He was the one person I trusted in that whole teeny, tiny world I had back then. He was the one place I felt safe. And normal. I believed him when he said he’d keep my deepest, darkest, most shameful secret, but he didn’t. Instead, he told and tore my whole world apart.

  Sitting here at the age of twenty-eight, I know what he did was right. Sitting here a survivor because of him, I know I should actually seek him out and thank him.

  But it’s so much easier to blame him.

  It’s much more palatable to pretend that he was the one who hurt me instead of the man I was supposed to trust above all others, my dad. It’s so much simpler to blame my lack of trust or want for any kind of intimacy on the little boy I left behind.

  “Em?”

  The softness of Desi’s voice is enough to make me blink. I’d been sitting and staring blankly at the dirty pair of Shawn’s underwear for I don’t know how long, and I look away. Panic claws its way up my throat as I try to process my epiphany without letting her get a glimpse of the past she knows only the gist of.

  “Yeah. Sorry.” I shove off the bed and begin collecting the rest of the clothes and shoving them into the hamper like a mad woman as I try to hide the trembling of my hands. “I just was remembering when we were kids is all. How his hair used to stick up all the time and how much I loved hanging out at his house after school.”

  “Hm,” she murmurs, and I don’t look up because I haven’t quite gotten ahold of my unexpected emotions yet.

  “I lost the train of thought. Where were we?”

  “You were going to set me straight as to why you’re resisting the hot guy in a police uniform. Then I was going to reiterate just how damn good he looks in said uniform and how if you’re not going to let him get frisky, er, frisk you, then I’m willing and able to take your place. Then you were going to roll your eyes and tell me I’m jumping to conclusions and that he only wants to be friends, which we both know is a load of horseshit. I’d tell you when he looks at you, it’s obvious he wants more than to meet you for coffee at Starbucks. You’d tell me I’m making it up, that you’d never meet him at Starbucks because you can’t imagine spending that kind of money for a cup of coffee, but you know damn well you’ve thought about him in that way too and when he walks into the room your lady bits go all tingly . . . even though you won’t admit it.” She takes an exaggerated breath. “What have I forgotten?”

  I laugh. Somehow, she has given me exactly what she didn’t know I needed, her quirky and lighthearted sense of humor. It’s drawn me back to the world I created for myself. One where the past is black, and day by day, I make my own future.

  “Then I’d ask you why you’re so invested in this person you just met and why you keep pushing him on me, your best friend, who prefers to keep shit with the opposite sex simple.” I lift my eyebrows to challenge her.

  Desi purses her lips and shrugs. “I’d tell you that he’s nice and obviously safe. Besides, why is it so bad for me, your best friend, to want you to have another friend to count on should I walk out the front door and, I don’t know, get struck by lightning.”

  “And out comes the guilt card,” I say with gusto. “You forgot something, though, there isn’t a cloud in the sky.”

  “It could be heat lightning.”

  “Whatever,” I laugh. “You’re just as irritating as he is.”

  “Oh, he’s irritating, is he? That’s a good thing. Pray tell.” She props her chin on her hands like an eager child. />
  “A good thing? I call it a pain-in-the-ass thing,” I say, playing along even though I’m the one who has been creating the friction with Grant. Then again, he did do the whole CVS stunt . . . so, I’ve earned the right to be pissed at him.

  “But why does he irritate you?”

  “Because he’s a man. Because instead of writing me a damn ticket for going ninety miles an hour he called my bluff when I told him I was speeding because I was having a feminine emergency and took me to CVS to buy Tampax for me,” I explain, fully expecting her to understand. When I look up, the sympathy I expect on her face isn’t there. Instead, she’s grinning ear to ear.

  “Oh. Wow. So the guy saves you from a reckless driving ticket, a possible trip to jail, and is considerate enough to buy you tampons when he thinks you’re having period problems. Man, he sounds like a real bastard.”

  “I assure you, it wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart.”

  “You know what they say about boys who pick on you . . .”

  “No. What?”

  “It means they like you. And be careful, you’re rolling your eyes so hard they just might get stuck there.”

  I do it again for show. “You forget, I knew him in third grade. He was much sweeter then.”

  “He still looks pretty damn sweet to me,” she murmurs, her lips sliding into a mischievous smile.

  “I told you, I’m not disagreeing with that . . . but he’s Grant.”

  “Yeah, and I’m sure Grant,” she says, mimicking the way I said his name, “wouldn’t say no to a little fun with you.” She rises from her seat and makes a show of tossing his card on the table before resting her hands on her hips and sighing.

  “Uh-oh, should I assume you’re going to finish the rest of our conversation for me?”

  “You mean the one where you start making lame-ass excuses about why you can’t call Officer Sexy back? Like how you think it’s creepy to go out with a boy you knew in third grade, to which I’d counter with how there is nothing boyish about him now and who fucking cares? Is anyone keeping tabs? So what? You guys hung out, colored pictures of rainbows during class, and swung on the monkey bars together. None of those things matter when we factor in his hotness, his uniform, and his handcuffs, which I’d put a million dollars on him knowing exactly how to use. I reject that argument. It’s moot. Next?”

  I use a pair of tongs to pick up Shawn’s underwear and put them in the trash while hating and ignoring the fact that everything she said makes perfect sense. But she doesn’t know about how he fits into my past or the particulars. My mom is gone, my dad is out of jail and somewhere I don’t care to know, so that leaves Grant and his family as the only ones who do. What about that? How does that make me feel?

  I just don’t know.

  “I think you’ve pretty much covered the bases.” I turn to face her.

  “Good. Then my work here is done.” She dusts her hands off as she grabs her purse, picks up the bag she set beside it, and holds it out to me. “I cooked for you.”

  My face lights up and my tummy growls. She really loves me. “Is there dessert?” I ask, skeptical as to why she had the forethought to bring me bribery. She nods. “You’re forgiven for the inquisition.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Emmy, sweetie, your parents had to cancel their plans. Your mom was called in to work. Your dad said he’d be by to pick you up in about an hour.”

  That icky, weird taste fills my mouth at the sound of Mrs. Malone’s voice. “Okay.” The word barely makes a sound when I speak it.

  Grant nudges me. “That stinks, but at least we have another hour to play.”

  “You okay, Em?” Mrs. Malone asks from the porch. She has a funny look on her face that makes me want to cry and get one of her awesome hugs. But I know that will cause questions. According to Daddy, questions cause trouble, and trouble is punishable.

  I don’t like his punishments.

  “Yeah. I was just looking forward to spending the night.”

  “I asked if you still could, but your dad said no. I guess you now have plans early in the morning, so it wasn’t going to work. I’m sorry.”

  “’Kay.” I shrug and lean back against the tree trunk next to Grant as she disappears inside.

  My tummy doesn’t feel good, and my hands are sticky with sweat.

  “C’mon, Emmy, we can finish making our wine before you have to go.”

  I look at the mess we’ve made. The two bowls are full of smashed grapes Mr. Malone let us take off the vines growing in the backyard. My fingers ache from trying to mash the juice out of them. They made it look easy on our field trip to the grape vineyard last week, but for some reason, I don’t think the clear juice will taste anything like the red stuff my mom drinks from her bottle.

  “Nah, I don’t want to make anymore.”

  “How come?”

  Because I don’t want to go home.

  I close my eyes for a minute and just feel the cool breeze on my cheeks. I fight back the sting of tears burning against my eyelids and the sound of my heart beating in my ears. “Just cuz. I’d rather hang out with you.”

  “You never want to go home.” He knocks his knee against mine. “How come?”

  “This is our little secret, Em. You can’t tell anyone or else it will hurt your mommy very badly.”

  My dad’s whispers fill my ears and make my throat burn. I try to swallow over it, but I feel like I have one of the grapes stuck there, and it hurts.

  “Just cuz.” I pick up one of the rocks on the ground beside me and absently rub it against the inside of my arm until my skin starts to turn red. “Your house is much more fun than mine. You have brothers and a dog and stuff.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Stop it, will ya?” He takes the rock from my hand and tosses it. “We could always play at your house next time if you want. I’m sure we could find fun things to do there.”

  “Thanks, but . . .” I take a deep breath as I run my fingers over the red mark. “My house is kinda scary.”

  “You’re just a girl. Girls are scared of everything. What’s so scary about it?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t need to be scared, Emmy. I’m taking karate now. I could protect you.”

  There’s laughter from inside his house, and we can hear it from where we’re sitting in the backyard. The sound makes me smile even though my eyes are blurry with tears.

  “My mom’s drinking wine,” he says. “You know what that means.”

  “Uh-uh, What?”

  “Kissy, kissy.”

  “Ewww, gross.”

  “Yeah,” he says as he picks up an escaped grape and throws it into our bowl. “She gets all giggly and then my dad will dance with her in the family room and sing horribly and then the grossness happens—they kiss.”

  “Ick.” I giggle but hate that feeling in the middle of my belly that loves the idea of dancing and laughing. “My parents never kiss.”

  “They had to have kissed at least once because that’s how babies are made and they have you, right?”

  “True.” I lean forward and grab a bowl as I try to forget what will happen when I go home in a bit. “But if your mom and dad kiss now, doesn’t that mean they’re going to have another baby soon?”

  “That’s not how it works, silly.”

  “Then how does it work, then?”

  “I’m not quite sure.”

  The asphalt bites into my shoulders as I lie down on the tarmac in the chilly, early morning air. I needed to escape the loft and the fear that hung in the air from first my nightmare and then from the confusion I felt after the memory resurfaced of Grant and me as kids in his backyard.

  “You don’t need to be scared, Emmy. I’m taking karate now. I could protect you.”

  Guess I should have known he’d end up like his dad, protecting and serving—being the hero.

  It suits him. The question is, does he suit me?

  It’s a tricky questi
on, and one I’m not sure I’m ready to know the answer to. I’ve lived my life escaping my past, hiding it from anyone and everyone so that no one can ever look at me and blame my lack of success on it. Or just plain look at me differently.

  But he knows.

  He knows more than I might even know, and that’s scary as hell to me.

  So yes, I’ve blamed him unfairly, but it’s so much easier to believe that truth—that he is more at fault than my own flesh and blood.

  I’ve always thought of myself as a fair person.

  There’s no reason not to believe he isn’t a good man.

  And, as I sit here on the closed runway with the sun slowly rising in the east, I know I need to step outside the box I’ve carefully constructed and fortified around myself. I need to listen to Desi and her whacked logic and remember what Grant said to me when we were nothing but kids.

  I need to do the one thing I do every day in my professional life but can’t seem to ever do personally: Leap before looking.

  I need to follow my motto: Head up. Wings out.

  Me: For the record, I still think it’s a bad idea, but you’re right. You wore me down. Maybe we can get together sometime for a few drinks. Your call.

  Grant: I knew you’d see my ways. How about tomorrow at six at McGregor’s?

  Me: That works.

  I stare at the string of texts and feel as if my throat is closing up on me. At the same time, I’m excited and nervous and more than anything, afraid. My interactions with men are fleeting. I don’t use them for their conversation skills. Sure, we go out and have a good time, but on my part, things are superficial. The first time they lie, they’re gone. And if they can make it past that first test, then when they start wanting more . . . when they want to talk about our pasts and have that kumbaya moment where we realize we are meant to be together forever, they stop being of interest to me.

  I only live in the now. I only live in tomorrows. I can only cope with the future I make for myself.

  But there is something about agreeing to meet for drinks with Grant that is making me nervous.

  “You are not chickening out. I will not let you,” Desi says as she applies another coat of mascara to my eyelashes.