Cuffed

by K. Bromberg

  It doesn’t matter, though. My heart still races from another dream. Another piece of my past unveiled. Another part chipped free.

  I shift away from him, needing some space.

  As if the distance will help me understand the constant dreams I’ve been having. Combat the fear that comes with each one of them. Untangle the nightmares where I’m Keely or she’s me and my dad is coming down the hall. Things—little things—I hadn’t remembered but that are now so vivid and terrifying that I can’t breathe around them. I wish they would stay dead and buried.

  But the fear reigns. It has owned me every day for the past few days and has taken a toll on everything in my life. I’ve messed up entering figures on my loan application paperwork, I’ve given misinformation to students during a class, and I’ve been scattered when I jumped.

  Yet, even with all the distress and all the memories, the one I fear to recall the most remains silent. The blank spots in my memory that hide them taunt me and promise to reveal everything and destroy me in the process.

  It’s why I don’t trust myself.

  It’s why, when I look at Grant, I know I need some space, and more than the foot of still-warm sheets I just put between us. Some time to think. A few days to clear my head and figure out where to go from here.

  I slip out of bed and stand beside where he lies. The moonlight comes in through the window, dashing light across his abdomen but leaving his face in shadows. I take in the beauty of him, the kindness in him, and I know without a doubt I don’t deserve him or the patience he has afforded me.

  My heart hurts.

  For so many reasons. It’s why, when I lean over and press the softest kiss against his stubbled jaw, another tear slips over and down my cheek.

  He thinks the ugly in me is beautiful.

  I don’t understand how he can. I don’t understand how anyone could look at me and see beauty when it’s edged with so much pain. When beneath the surface, I’m a disaster waiting to implode. The notion confuses me. The realization tells me I need to take a breather for myself.

  To get perspective.

  To figure out if Grant is the remedy or the cause of all the current unrest in my mind.

  “Goodbye, Grant,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

  And as I click the front door closed behind me, the tears continue to flow. I’m not sure if I feel vulnerable because I’ve finally opened up or because I fear I need to say goodbye.

  “Hey, Grant. You finally decide to take the plunge?” Leo asks as he leans back in the chair behind the desk and gives me a knowing grin that challenges my manhood, but I’ll fucking let it.

  “Nah. It doesn’t feel like hell has frozen over yet, does it?” I laugh as I look around for any sign of her in a place where there is always a trace. “Is Em around?” The phone on the desk between us rings, and I make the go ahead motion with my hand.

  Leo just glances at the caller ID and rolls his eyes. “The guy’s an asshole. He can wait. And to answer your question, no she’s not here. She took off for a few days.”

  Before I can ask where she went, the voice mail picks up and Emerson’s throaty voice fills the space around us. “Thanks for calling Blue Skies. We’re currently out jumping and can’t get to the phone, so please leave a message, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. Head up. Wings Out.”

  “Sorry, but the damn volume is broken or I’d turn it down,” Leo says as the recorder beeps.

  “You’re not returning my calls, Emerson. I have a few more things to go over regarding the loan docs and need you to meet me for a late dinner tonight. There’s nothing like a little wine to set the stage for success. I expect a call back within the next hour or else your follow-up paperwork might just get lost in the shuffle, if you catch my drift. One hour, Emerson. I don’t like to wait.”

  Every part of me seethes at whoever the prick is on the answering machine. I mean, I know he’s the loan guy and it’s clear as fucking day what he wants in exchange for loan approval. It’s just that he’s using his position to try to take advantage of Em, and his boldness makes me think she isn’t the first woman he’s done this to.

  “Fucking asshole,” Leo mutters as his face reflects how my temper feels.

  “Is this a typical thing?”

  “The slimy bullshit? Yeah. It is. The guy’s a grade A prick.”

  “Who is it?”

  Leo stares at me for a moment, and I can see him gauging whether to tell me. “Emerson has him under control,” he says after a prolonged second, not giving me the answers I fucking want. “If she needs help, I’m sure she’ll let you know.”

  I give him my best cop beat-down stare, but it doesn’t faze him. On one hand, I like knowing he has her back, on the other hand, I wish he’d have it a little more so that he’d tell me and I could help her.

  “So she has the day off?”

  “A few days off.”

  “Where’d she go?” I ask, hating that the fucked-up feeling I had in the pit of my stomach when I woke up to an empty house is back.

  “She said she needed to get out of dodge for a while. She’s probably jumping somewhere else for a change of scenery. According to Desi, she’s known to do that from time to time when she needs to clear her head. I’m surprised it took this long, actually. With the pressure the Blue Skies owners are putting on her to get loan approval and this asshole holding it for ransom, I bet she just needed some space.”

  “Huh.” His explanation does nothing to explain why my calls and texts to her have gone unanswered. “I thought she never left this place.”

  “It isn’t often, but it does happen.”

  “Thanks. If she calls, can you let her know I was looking for her?”

  “Yeah. I will. But don’t expect her to. When she goes off the grid . . . she goes off the grid.”

  Fucking great.

  I walk out of the office and stand with my hands on my hips as I look across the parking lot to where her car should be but isn’t.

  I have my interview to prepare for and cold case files to go through.

  I have a life to live.

  So, why I am at Miner’s Airfield, wondering where in the hell Emerson is and why she left? I have no idea where she might have gone, but if I were a betting man, I would put money on her leaving having something to do with what happened last night.

  Waking in an empty bed sucked.

  The worry that followed was even worse.

  “I met a guy—well, not really met, but more like saw him again—and I think you’d approve of him, but while you would, he’s really screwing with my head. I don’t know what to do.”

  My voice carries on the breeze as it whips through my hair. I tilt my face to the sun, close my eyes, and try to feel her presence beside me. One hand rests on her marker and the other twirls one of the wild daisies between my fingers that cover the top of her grave.

  “It’s Grant Malone.” I smile at his name. “Yeah, I know. You always had a soft spot for him even though I wouldn’t acknowledge him or the Malone family when you brought them up. But I ran into him again, Mom, and I’m really struggling like never before.”

  I watch a hawk soar through the blue sky over where I sit on the hill that overlooks my mom’s hometown of Miltonville. She picked her resting place because, according to her, if she were on the top of a hill, she’d be able to watch over me no matter which direction I decided to wander.

  “Things I don’t remember, I’m remembering. Good stuff. Bad stuff. You were always so proud of how strong I was, but I don’t feel so strong anymore, Mom. I feel like I’m losing my grip on reality. One day, all I’m trying to do is keep Blue Skies, get the loan, and keep on top of Travis’s to-do lists, and the next day, Grant Malone comes barreling into my life, and it’s as if none of that matters anymore.”

  “Why is that a bad thing?” I can hear her asking, just like she always used to, and the common refrain makes my heart twist in my chest because I miss her so damn much.

  �
��It’s bad because I need rules and structure and control, but all of that goes out the window when it comes to him, and I can’t have that. Without the rules, my mind wanders, and it can’t wander, Mom. I can’t remember any more than I already do. I just . . . I can’t . . .”

  I can close my eyes and see her smile as she asks me, “But why?” while looking at me above the rim of her beloved cup of tea. If I hold the image long enough, I can even see the way the steam twirls up around her and her hazel eyes squint just a bit, as if she is trying to will the right answer into my mind.

  “Because I can’t need anyone. I can’t trust anyone. You know that. It was you and Desi, and now it’s just Desi.” I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then admit, “I’m scared. I’m so scared because I don’t know how long I can keep up the façade that I’m normal and strong when lately I feel like the little girl I used to be. The one who fell apart any time a stranger looked at her for too long and who just wanted to take a knife to her arms to prove that pain was all she ever knew . . . and is all she’ll ever know.”

  I look down and play with a daisy as I struggle with the lie I just told her. How I pretended that taking a knife to my arm was more of an urge instead of a recent reality . . . and then I realize she already knows. Her wings were out that morning. That was why I was able to stop myself from cutting the second time.

  Dropping the daisy, I trace the engraved letters of her name and know if my mom were still alive, she would tell me that I didn’t mean any of what I said. That I was strong and resilient and beautiful, which was something he saw even if I didn’t. She would tell me that was why I was really scared, and that it didn’t matter if I remembered some of my past because we always knew it was a possibility.

  She would set that tea cup down, reach out, and grab my hand before telling me that maybe I was starting to remember because I finally had someone strong enough to stand beside me and help me through it.

  The words I imagine her saying hit my ears but don’t grow roots. They’re scary and unwanted and against everything I ever thought I’d allow of myself.

  To let somebody in.

  To share that part of my past.

  One of the last things she said to me resonates with me in the moment.

  Would she tell me that letting him in doesn’t mean I have to stop being resilient and strong?

  I smile because she totally would.

  “I miss you, Mom. I miss you more than you could ever imagine,” I whisper, tears falling as I lie down on my back atop of her grave and think of nights snuggling up in our van while we were between towns. The gypsy girls making an adventure for ourselves.

  I stay there for a long while with the blue sky above me, the comfort of my mom around me, a map of possible jump sites circled in purple Sharpie beside me, and my mind fixated on the past and the two men who were such an integral part of it.

  “Stop crying, Emmy.” He’s irritated and keeps looking at the clock on the wall, but he won’t look at me.

  “I want Mommy.” My hands shake, and my body hurts, and I’m scared and just want my mommy.

  “Knock it off. You’re fine. Stop crying and get back in bed.”

  “You hurt me.” I stare at him and watch that funny bump on the side of his jaw get hard as he bites his teeth together.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  My heart feels like it’s in my throat again. The same way it did before I threw up and wet myself. I tell myself not to do it again. I think of the bath he put me in after. The warm water. The weird way he used the washcloth to clean my privates instead of letting me use it myself.

  I feel like I can’t breathe. “Yes, you did. Mommy would put you in so much trouble for what you did.”

  “No. You are the one who is in trouble. I don’t think you want me to tell your mom about the phone call I got from Mrs. Gellar today about how you keep acting up in class. You know how much she hates when you act up.”

  “Mrs. Gellar called?”

  “Mm-hmm. You and Grant weren’t listening again. Do I need to ground you from seeing him anymore? Is he becoming a bad influence?”

  Panic hits me. No Grant? He’s my only friend. And . . . I don’t understand, I didn’t get in trouble today. I was good. I’m always good. “Dad, I didn’t get in trouble today at school,” I barely whisper.

  “And I didn’t hurt you tonight, now did I?”

  “But you—”

  “You were dreaming, Emmy.” He looks at me for the first time, and his eyes look black to me. Black like the ghost in the Halloween book that Grant let me read that gave me nightmares last week.

  Was I dreaming?

  “I don’t think I—”

  “You were screaming. You had a nightmare. You were fighting against me when I woke you because I was holding you to calm you down. Then you peed the bed like a baby. Again.”

  I blink my eyes and know what he’s saying isn’t true, but I can’t remember it all. I can’t remember . . .

  “You fell asleep on the couch while I was watching television. I should have put you in bed, but I thought you were sleeping, so I didn’t . . . the nightmare you described was the exact same as on the show. You must have heard it when you were asleep, and then turned it into a dream.” His voice is getting angry like it does when I don’t do what I’m supposed to do.

  I shake my head. I fell asleep in my bed. With my Strawberry Shortcake doll under my arm and my rainbow nightlight on the ceiling above me. I never get to fall asleep on the couch.

  But my blanket is there. Next to him. Did I bring it out here?

  “Mom would be so mad at me if she knew I watched that show with you when you were supposed to be in bed. She’s going to be home any minute, and you know how mad she gets when you stay up late on a school night. Do you want me to bring you back to bed?”

  “No.” I can barely say the word. I don’t want him in my room.

  “Okay. Come give me a kiss.”

  I stare at him, my feet feeling like they weigh more than an elephant’s. He reaches out and pulls me into him and presses his lips against mine. My tummy feels like it’s going to be sick. The feel of his whiskers reminding me of earlier.

  Not a dream.

  “’Night, sweetheart. Do you love me, Emmy?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Say it.”

  “I love you.”

  “How much?”

  “With all my heart.”

  His smile makes me feel like ants are crawling on me. “Get to bed, now.”

  I hurry to my bedroom upstairs and shut the door. Then I open it because the darkness brings monsters.

  But the monster is downstairs . . .

  I struggle for air as I lie in bed and pull the covers tighter around me. The strange surroundings of the hotel room I’m in only add to my discombobulation.

  I replay as much of the dream as I can in my head, and one thing stands out above all the rest.

  With all my heart.

  How could I tell a person who just molested me that I love him?

  How could I spend years of my life cutting my arms to deal with the pain a man who was supposed to love me unconditionally caused me?

  It all comes back to trust.

  The gypsy girls.

  I think back to how, while we were on the road, my mom didn’t trust anyone. If someone showed the slightest interest in me—even in the most benign of ways—we moved on to the next city. To the next adventure. To the next place where no one would notice us for a while.

  It all comes down to trust.

  She didn’t trust anyone with me.

  And now? Now I don’t even trust myself.

  “You’re slacking on the job, Officer Sexy.” Desi’s voice comes through the phone loud and clear. It causes me to perk up in my seat at the end of a monotonous day and a monster hangover after a few too many beers with my brothers last night.

  “If it isn’t my favorite nosy best friend,” I say with a laugh, but I am relieved
to hear from her. Maybe she’s heard from Emerson since she sure as hell isn’t returning my calls.

  “You got that right. Nosy is better than nonexistent. Have you talked to our girl lately?” she asks, switching topics to exactly why I was drinking heavily last night. Worry does that shit to you.

  “Not for seventy-two hours.” More like seventy-eight, I mentally correct after I look at the clock on the wall. “But she’s like that . . . when she feels like she’s getting too close to me, she backs off a bit.”

  “So is she? Are you? I mean, she just up and took off for three days, should I be worried that you did something to her that I’m going to have to put your balls in a vise for and torture them until you beg for forgiveness?”

  “Ouch.” I shift in my seat and remind myself to never piss off Desi.

  “Well?”

  “No. I didn’t do anything to push her away. She came to the house the other night upset about . . . a few things, and when I woke in the morning, she had taken off,” I explain, not sure how much Desi knows about Emerson’s past. If she didn’t know anything, there was no way in hell I would be the one to divulge it to her.

  “And you just let her go?”

  “I was sleeping . . . so I didn’t know she’d left.”

  “I’m going to be nosy here and ask, what are your intentions with her?”

  “She’s always been the one, Desi.” My own answer stuns me. I say it off the cuff and before it’s even out of my mouth, I know it’s the complete truth.

  It’s always been Emerson. Every woman was a substitute, a way to pass time, because deep down, I knew she and I would meet again.

  God, the fucking woman is gone three days, and I’ve turned into a sappy, sackless wonder.

  Silence fills the connection, and I’m not sure if it’s because Desi is letting me process my own epiphany or if she’s just as stunned by it as I am.

  “Well, it’s about goddamn time you realize it. Jesus H. This whole dance was getting old. So, now that you know, what are you going to do about it?”