Months later and still not a single lead, no fingerprints, no motives, no eye-witnesses; my parent’s lives evaporated with no one to blame but me. After all, it was my selfishness that had begged them to come visit me on my birthday up at Stanford so I wouldn’t have to celebrate alone, me who’d chosen the ill-fated restaurant where we’d all been met with a 9 millimeter and destiny, and me who’d ordered dessert and wasted away another hour at the restaurant.
If I’d only resisted my sweet tooth we’d have been out of there earlier and still together today. Sure, the gunman had been the one to pull the trigger, but I’d loaded the gun. That day I awoke parentless, I made a sacred vow that I would never again let my selfishness compromise another person I cared about. Never again.
I heard the newspaper fold back into place before he kneeled beside me. He replaced the article at the bottom of my drawer, grabbing my hand in his. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he said, the last thing I imagined him saying given the information he’d just been privy to.
The surprise of it broke me out of the snare of remorse and guilt I got caught in every time I revisited that night. I looked at him and his eyes were victorious, not sad, or doling out pity like the multitudes had.
“Here you are,” he said, gesturing at me. “Fighting like there’s no tomorrow. Fighting to make them proud, even in death.” He smiled, it was all teeth and fondness.
“Come again?” I asked. He had to be joking. Me, a fighter? Yeah, and elephants fly.
“You can act as humble as you like,” he said, pulling me up. “But anyone else would have given up on their dreams and let fear and sadness cripple them.”
Did he realize that was me? Fear, sadness, guilt, remorse, self-loathing . . . take your pick.
“Your parents must have been incredible people,” he said, drawing his fingers over my cheek.
“They were the best,” I said, and instead of trying not to think about them, I let my memory bank fill with them. Summers on the Oregon Coast, strawberry crepes Saturday mornings, my mother’s perfume that was like walking through a lavender field, the way Dad’s favorite polo shirt would smell after mowing the lawn. I let the memories overtake me, and unlike what I’d thought, they gave me strength instead of flat-ironing me to the ground.
“I’ve upset you,” he said, watching a tear skid down my face. “I didn’t mean to.”
I nodded. “No. You’ve made me happy,” I said, sniffing through a laugh. “Strangely happy.”
“Are you alright?”
I eyed him.
“Given the circumstances?” he edited.
Attacked by a couple men that were as mysterious as they were terrifying, letting the skeletons topple out of my closet onto a man that was so near perfect he should have taken off in the opposite direction from me, but here he stood, firmly rooted to the shoddy carpet in my dorm room. I should be anything but alright, but I felt nothing but. “I’m the most alright I’ve been in awhile,” I said, knowing he was the reason for this.
“The article said you went to Stanford,” he said, looking strangely amused. “Why did you transfer?”
I waved my hand in the air. “I needed a change, and had heard such wonderful things about rural Oregon, and there was this little thing”—I pinched my thumb and index fingers together—“called academic probation I was put on.” After my parent’s had been murdered and a bullet had run through me, my mind was on everything but study sessions and declaring majors.
“A change,” he repeated, the only thing he’d pulled from my explanation. “I wonder what it would take for you to make another change.”
I looked back at him, and I already had my answer, but it shouldn’t have come so quickly or without doubt. It defied everything I knew of this world, this couldn’t exist . . . but at the same time, I couldn’t deny what was taking place within me. Thankfully, I didn’t spurt out what the very core of me knew. “Something pretty big, I guess.”
“Pretty big like what?” he pressed.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, stepping back and removing my hoodie, glad I had on a tee-shirt that was clean, fitted, and didn’t have some fill-in-the-blank fun-run sprawled across it. “But I’ll let you know when I find it.” I smiled and tossed the hoodie in the garbage; there was no amount of stain remover that could ever wash tonight off it.
“Okay, so something pretty big then,” he quoted me as if committing it to memory. His eyes outlined my figure, although I could tell he was trying not to let them.
Feeling self-conscious, I fidgeted with my shirt, pulling, twisting and smoothing, not able to meet his gaze.
“What are you doing Sunday?” he asked suddenly.
I took a step back and gripped the footboard of my bed. “Not much. Homework, laundry, chess club”—I said in a joking voice (sadly, I actually did have chess club on Sunday afternoons)—“exciting stuff like that.”
He swallowed, looking like he was working up some courage. “Would you like to spend part of it with me?”
I hoped my face didn’t scream, duh, too loudly.
A rapping on the door jolted both of us. I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand; it was way past courteous visiting hours. It had been a good month since I’d had a knock on my door, and had no reason to be expecting one now—especially given the hour. I started towards the door.
“Don’t.” He grabbed hold of my wrist. “Just pretend you’re not here.” There was something urgent in his voice, which only further piqued my interest to discover who was standing on the other side of that door.
Another knock. This one longer and more impatient sounding than the first. I pulled free from his handcuff-like hold and pulled the door open, peeking out, praying I wouldn’t find a duo of men sporting suits and malicious smiles.
A painted-on sweaterdress had replaced the orange and black pleated skirt, and the ribbon had been pulled from her hair, showcasing shampoo-commercial shiny hair shimmering over her shoulders.
“Sorry to wake you”—she eyed my outfit and make-up free face—“but is Will here? Paul said he might be,” she asked eagerly, like a golden retriever anticipating the toss of a tennis ball.
I felt my mouth twisting. “I don’t know about a Will,”—I turned the word out like biting into a tart apple—“but I’ve got a William I’ll give you.” I shoved the door open so hard it banged against the closet, revealing him.
Her brown eyes went all starry. “Here you are. How long were you planning on keeping me waiting?” She tapped her wrist where a watch could have been.
“He was caught up with me,” I said, crossing my arms. “I had to go and bust my head open, bear my soul to a misogynist . . . you know, that kind of thing.” I said, starting to bite my lip, although I couldn’t tell if I was trying to hold back tears or a tirade.
Her eyes turned to me for a second, her expression saying TMI, before looking back at William. Before she could say anything else, I backed away from the door, careful not to look at him.
“Have a fun night.” It was pathetic how weak my voice sounded.
“Thanks,” she said. “You have fun sleeping too,” she said generously, now she was sure I wasn’t any threat. “You look like you need it.”
I wanted to stick my tongue out her, but chose to act my age.
William didn’t budge, in fact, he hadn’t said a thing. I guess he didn’t have a carefully rehearsed speech prepared for when two of his love interests found out about each other. Seemed cavalier given his obvious reputation.
“You can go now,” I said, turning towards him, focusing on the rainbow of blues in the industrial-type carpet.
I noticed his head finally turn to the auburn-haired vixen in the doorway, what had taken so long? “I don’t want to leave her”—he nodded his head towards me—“with the head injury she’s sustained.”
Before his eyes could go regretful or she could volunteer some other schmuck to sit vigil for the poor handicap recluse girl, I looked up at him. I immediately wished I hadn’t.
“Just go,” I mouthed at him.
His face twisted, as if I’d hurt him. Only another tool in his arsenal, giving the other woman the pained face before he rode off with someone else . . . just in case this one didn’t work out and he needed a back-up plan. I certainly wasn’t one of those used goods girls, damaged goods for sure, but I wasn’t going to be anyone’s back-up plan.
For the second time that night, he listened to me. I wanted to take back the words as soon as he took the first step towards her and away from me. I wanted to shout, choose me, pick me. How pathetic was that?
I couldn’t resist the urge to gaze through my window, despite knowing it would only bludgeon an already bruised heart. I watched them walk into the parking lot side-by-side, drifting away in the darkness together. I told myself I didn’t care; I didn’t want that kind of man, anyways.
My mom had always said the heart wants what the heart wants. For the first time, I understood what she meant.
CHAPTER FIVE
SURFING
I was dreaming, it this is what you can call a dream. I knew that, but the harder I tried to wake up, the deeper I fell into the dream, the more vivid the images and sensory stimulus came. I finally gave up trying to wake up and let the dream be the driver.
A liquid white nightgown skimmed my ankles (it was out-of-place since I lived in tanks and boxer bottoms) as I padded through a cavernous room that was the kind you’d expect to be filled with millions of bats. A burst of fire erupted from the ground around me, trapping me in a ring of flames. The flames reached at me like long, boney, fingers, scorching and burning their way through me. The only word I screamed was his name—William—before the flames engulfed me and my body exploded into a confetti of ash.
When I finally woke up, it was with a jerk, like I couldn’t get out of that nightmare fast enough. I took a census of my room, making sure I was back in real life.
The alarm said it was way too early for me to be up on a Sunday morning, but since the thought of what would be waiting for me if I did manage to fall back to sleep scared the snot out of me, I popped out of bed.
I pulled out my running shoes that had long ago expired the five-hundred mile maximum suggested usage, and fretted over tying them like they were old friends. Developed as an outlet for stress back in high school, I looked forward to the peace and quiet my daily runs invoked; if only for a handful of minutes. I wasn’t picky these days.
My dad hadn’t been thrilled about my solo outings (which normally took place when most were tucked away for the night), but in comparison to what I could have been doing during these hours, I suppose you could say he succumbed to the lesser of two evils.
His worries had been needless anyway. I’d never once been in a stitch of danger back home in Santa Cruz, and now residing in rural Oregon, the danger was laughable in comparison.
I threw on a clean hoodie and headed out the door, reciting lines of Shakespeare to keep me from thinking about the man who’d inundated my waking and sleeping hours since last Friday.