Ache for You (Trapped in Three Hill Book 1) (12 page)

              I don’t know what my first scheduled class is. I just kind of kick a door open and strut through it. I turn a few heads on my way in, blondes, brunettes and redheads. All chicks. All hot. Is this some sort of feminist power rant class? That would be excellent.

              I grin.

              I sit in an empty seat. Near the back. An aisle seat so everyone has to climb over me to get in. Rows and rows of auditorium style chairs with desks that barely double as an arm rest. Everyone in the same row has no choice but to get acquainted fast. When a cute blonde slips past me I take the chance to brush my hand against her firm ass. The blush of her cheeks has me squirming in my seat.

              Other people start piling in, and I watch the old dude down at the front of the class, the bottom of the mosh pit. The professor. He’s dressed in a sweat vest and dark denim pants.  He has an iPad in his hand and turns to pull down the projection screen, with boredom.

              Why does he deserve my attention? The answer to my question, of course is quite obvious: He doesn’t.

              I enjoy my first class, even though I don’t understand any of it. I spent the rest of my morning as a shut in, waiting for the afternoon and for the incoming thunderstorm to kick in.

              When it rained, I felt her again.

              That’s how it had always been, even before her death. Ruth was and is the only person in my life who had ever made a difference. I use her birth name now because that’s what her headstone says.

              Ruthie Jane.

              Loving friend.

              Daughter,

              I will forever wait for us to be together.

              I hate those words. I don’t know who chose them or who put them there but there they are. Forever. I stay inside until the storm starts, and then I head out to my car. I should have worn my jacket, something warmer than a t-shirt.

              I get into my car but roll the windows down just so that I can still feel the weather. I turn on the radio. I want something soft to linger and maybe draw us together? As if I can get lost in the world if I only try harder. I miss her. I need her. I can’t do this without her.

              I start to drive and even thinking hurts. Breathing in glass shards of memories that have been torn apart and shattered.

              Is this what it feels like? Being forced to start over? How does this work? Is it supposed to hurt? Would it be easier if I just tried to forget her? Does that make me a jerk? Honestly, right now I would be up for anything that didn’t hurt. I guess I just always thought that we would end up together you know? Even if she wasted her time dating some random fucktard, I would be able to get through the next ten years, as long as I knew that someday we would end up together.

              That was how this was supposed to work. Instead, she’s dead and not having her hurts to much for words.

              I don’t want to start over.

              I decide to head to the grocery store. Mostly because I’m out of beer, and I know that they sell it there. I don’t even like beer. To me, it tastes bitter. I drink it because I’m bored, something to get me numb and tide me over for the next few hours.

              I get drunk because I’m bored. It’s the only time I ever feel alright anymore. Even if everything I do while hammered ends up being things that I can’t remember.

              Making mistakes is hard. It’s even harder when you’re sober.

              I have momentarily forgotten how to get home from here, not the grocery store. It feels like it’s been a few days since I’ve been there. I know that in reality, it has probably only been a few hours. I’m at a plus sized bitches store.

              Why? I can’t remember. I’m wearing the same clothes that I remember pulling on before, I lift a hand and realize that my hair is still everywhere. I’m standing in the back of a store.

              I glance into a mirror and hate what I see there. I look tired. My brain hurts. I keep trying to remember how I got here but so far, none of my usual reminders work.

              I have my car. Good car. I’m wearing my bracelets. My elastic band reminder than I snap whenever my heart hurts. The stinging on my wrist is a good distraction. It almost always works. Not today.

              All I can hear is the rainstorm pounding against the windows and the roof, it’s peaceful. I want to go outside and stand between the parked cars. Letting my clothes become soaked and tattered. I want to feel. I want to feel like I matter, like I’m really here. I haven’t felt like in forever.

              There was one moment, one small almost meaningless moment when I woke up on my kitchen floor, when my lungs didn’t hurt anymore. One moment when my body wasn’t sore, when it didn’t feel like I had murdered my liver. I blinked and no sooner had the moment disappeared. I felt empty after, left with only a strange anger that lingered, drawing me towards a stranger, his lean body offered comfort even from a distance.

              As soon as Mal was near I felt better.

              I couldn’t touch him of course, or utter a truthful word and this made me feel worse. I look around the store. There’s a lady at the cash register. She’s dressed in comfortable formal wear: a purple turtle neck sweater, her light hair cut in a fashionable peacock style—kind of like all those women on TLC. The one with eight kids and a nasty divorce? Yeah, she’s got crazy-eight hair.

              The cashier fearfully looks me over. I realize how strange I look standing here, trembling fingers. I secretly want to burst into tears, but I also don’t want to be forcefully kicked out of here.

              I grab a sweater off of the hanger.

              “Can I try this on please?” I ask a little too loudly, the woman cringes, ducking her ears between her shoulders before eyeing the counter. She picks up a key and starts towards me, manoeuvring herself around displays and security features. The change rooms are in the back of the store. I keep my head down, waiting to follow her. I’m nervous.

              More self-conscious than ever before, I want to have another shower. I want to stand outside and cry to be run over.

              “You’ll have to leave your purse at the cash counter.” The sales woman nods, quiet but assertive with her assumption of me.

              “I don’t have my bag, I don’t think,” I say, looking around me with what feels like a heavy worry on my face. I feel the fake pockets on my pants for my wallet but the fabric lays flat.

              The cashier doesn’t step back.

              I can hear the thoughts screaming from inside of her head:
poor girl, she has no way to pay for that. I wonder what happened. I can tell that she hasn’t had a bath. Maybe she’s homeless.
I just want to put the stupid sweater back.

              “I’m sorry I bothered you, I think I forgot my purse at home or in my car I don’t know.” I put the sweater down on the ground, kneeling to keep her from seeing my tears that have started spilling down.

              How did I end up here? How did I drive here completely zoned out? For the first time in a long while, I’m actually afraid of myself.

              I’m watching her. The orange-haired girl.  I caught a random glimpse of her through a store window. I pulled over.

              I had to.

              Even as I pulled over I knew that I would eventually have to get out. It felt wrong staring at her while I sat in my Chevy™. I felt like someone on a stake out, only without any true motive at all. I had no urge to figure this girl out; getting close to someone new wasn’t what I needed right now. It wasn’t something that I could handle. I watched her anyhow, with all four of my windows rolled down, my arms getting totally soaked.

              I folded myself out onto the road and stood, tall and hallow. I moved around to lean against the passenger side door and cross my arms against the rain, even though I’m not cold.

              I can’t fight a chill I don’t feel.

              I took a shortcut home, through downtown.

              This is not the way that I normally go. There are a dozen little shops, lining each side of the small and narrow road. All in a row. I don’t even know the name of the one that she’s in right now. The orange-haired girl.

              Cadence. I take a look around, the store is small and it seems to cater to luscious women such as her. I watch her curves as she moves, her bottom lifted up by the clingy material of her denim leggings. Guilt wedges its way into my heart, I shouldn’t be checking this girl out.

              I can feel Flo tugging at my soul.

              I squint my eyes and feel like I’m trying to figure something out, like a puzzle I can’t see. I try to remember something nagging at me so loud that I want to puke, but all I get is black storm clouds. They rain down smoke.

              I know what I need to do now.  I push myself off of my Chevy™, and take one step, twos step and soon four.

              I open the door to the clothing store and a little bell rings when I do so, alerting Cadence to my arrival.

              There’s a woman shopping for a new fur coat, she offers me a lip stick stained smile. I don’t do anything at all. I don’t nod. I don’t frown. I’m a stoic asshole.

              I have Cadence in my sights now. It scares me how I find her beautiful. How her eyes appear such a warm brown, even when she looks panicked and is quickly glancing around.

              I like that she’s tall. Well, taller than most of the girls I know. She’s taller than Flo. I don’t know why this fact punches me in the balls. I hate all the reminders of what I used to know but I go searching for them in haunted shadows.

              I like that when she stands up and seems to forget herself, she sticks her chest out. I notice how the tops of her breasts swell out of her clothes, begging to be cuddled.

              I do that well.

              I like that she bites her bottom lip before she smiles. I like that she doesn’t notice me at all.

              I notice her frown, though.

              “Who are you?” the words have left me and there is nothing that I can do. I stop, a step behind her, too far away and far too close, I stand as strong and wide as I am able. Cadence turns around, nice and slow. I swear that in this suddenly vacant room, our voices echo.

              My heart is in my throat. It jumps when she says, “I don’t know.”

              I should shut up. Seriously. I should slam my jaw and shut it, but the stunned look on his face is totally worth what I just said.

              “I don’t know who I am at this exact moment. I don’t even know where I am, and I realize that you probably think I’m psychotic, but I’m not going to apologize for that.”

              “Okay,” he says.

              We take a pause at that. I’m playing with my hands because I can’t understand the way that I sweat while looking at this boy. This boy who is more of a man. I love the fact that his chin even has a bit of stubble on it.

              I almost felt like a full on pedophile for a second. He’s younger than me, I know that.

              “How old are you?”  I ask, because I desperately need to know this. Not that it matters, we are nothingness. I’m a stranger to him. Nothing more, nothing less.

              “Twenty-one,” he says, “and my name is Malachi, in case you didn’t already know that, but everyone calls me Mal, so you best get used to it. I also answer to ass-hat, but I don’t know why you would ever call me that.”

              “I wouldn’t.” I feel like I have. “You can call me Cadence, or Caddie Doll. Everyone calls me that.” Everyone always has. Everyone but Alex. He called me Cade just because he liked it. Little brat.

              I almost feel myself smile but quickly try to hide it. For some reason, I know that Mal has noticed. I can almost feel it. Yeah, that doesn’t make any sense. His lips turn up the end but in an instant his face is once again, stoic. Green eyes are hiding a mountain of sadness.

              I want to know this man. I want to know what makes him angry. I want to know what makes him so sad. I want to eradicate any pain that he has ever had. I’ve never felt like that.

              I don’t know how I got her outside, but I did it. Perhaps I lured her with my charm or my sexiness. My arrogance? Yeah, that makes sense. 

              “Get in,” was all I said, jumping into the driver’s side. The windows were still open, so the seats are soaking wet. Damp leather slaps my ass. Fuck it.  I did not open her door for her; I assumed she could handle it.

              Apparently she can’t.

              “Open the door Cadence.” I growl, leaning over to glance at her. There she is, biting that damn lip again. “Come on just do it. I’m telling you to get in and since you’re stalking me, you could at least do what I ask.”

              “I’m not stalking you.” She says but she gets in. She looks like she’s about to scream or cry and cut off my head.

              Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this. Undo everything that both of just said? She doesn’t know who she is. I don’t know why my heart cratered in when I heard that. She matters to me and I don’t want to undo it, even if I don’t understand it. Fuck it.

              “What are you doing then? If stalking isn’t your motive,” I ask, glancing at her for half a second. My
car
seems a lot smaller with the both of us in it. Smashed together, fused but pulling away. Like magnets.

              She smells like cinnamon.

              Fuck it. “Never mind. Don’t tell me what we’re doing. I’d rather guess. Now I’m starving. Do you like fish?”

              I don’t know why I said that. I don’t even like fish. I like Chinese. Pizza. Yeah. This awkward run-in seems like a worthy pizza situation. I swallow, searching my brain for what to say next.