Beyond the Storm (9780758276995) (6 page)

“Shit,” he yelled.

Just then he heard a knock at the bathroom door. “Adam, you okay? I heard that . . .”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Just, I'm going to need some bandages . . .”

“Well, you're in luck,” she said.

The door opened and in walked Vanessa, a package of white gauze in her hands. “I had a feeling you might need some aid . . . oh, sorry, I didn't realize . . . I'll come back . . .”

Adam, still only wrapped in his towel, turned to her and smiled.

 

“Vanessa, hey, it's okay, come in. After what we've just been through today, I don't think we need to stand on ceremony. Besides, you can play Florence Nightingale and help wrap the gauze around me. Did you find any tape with it?”

Vanessa stood there, indecision taking charge of her brain. She'd just casually walked in on a semi-naked man and her instinct now was to back away. Yet her feet remained frozen on the slat between the hallway and the bathroom. She felt stupid for just barging in, and now she was embarrassed by her inability to just suck it up and help him. But here was the man she'd hoped to see at the reunion, Adam Blackburn, clad only in a towel. And he looked good in it . . .
stop it,
she said,
he needs your help.
Of course, Vanessa had seen him in far less clothing than what he was wearing now, but that was a different time, that was the past, a lifetime ago. He'd been practically a kid then, her too. But now, this feral attraction caught her by surprise. Was this something she'd had in mind when she decided to attend the reunion? Had she been hoping for a repeat encounter of their intimacy? Or was it just a natural response of seeing a man without clothes on? It had nothing to do with him.

She realized she had to do something, say something, because at the moment it appeared that all she was doing was staring, gawking. He looked good. Despite the grin he'd added to his wardrobe.

“I . . . Adam, aside from the bandages, I was really coming to tell you that I found some food that we can actually eat, and surprise, surprise—how about a bottle of wine? Haven't found the corkscrew yet, but maybe I'll look again. Yes, that's what I'll do, I could use a drink right about now.” She paused, took a step back, then took one step forward toward him. She placed the gauze on the edge of the sink, stole a look at an obviously bemused Adam, and then made a bid for a hasty retreat. She closed the bathroom door with a bit too much force.

As she walked away, she could hear a chuckle coming from inside the bathroom.

“Jerk,” she muttered.

Still, on her way back down the long staircase, clutching the wooden rail in an effort to steady her nerves, the picture of Adam in that blue towel kept popping into her brain. A reunion, a car accident, no phones, just her and him and alone in an abandoned farmhouse, and now she'd mentioned a bottle of wine. Now to top it all off she'd just seen him nearly naked and all she could think of was:
Give me some of that.
He'd looked sexy, for sure—sexier than she could have imagined. He'd aged well. Her pal Reva would have told her to make a play for that trim, athletic body, with well-defined muscles on his arms and a shock of dark chest hair to run her fingers through. Adam Blackburn had grown up a lot, both physically and emotionally, since high school. He'd been almost still a boy back then, and now . . .

She almost missed that last step.

“Focus, girl. That's not what this weekend is about,” she said.

But wasn't it? What was her purpose in traveling all these miles—across an ocean for goodness' sake—for the reunion? To see her old high school gang of Jana and Tiffany and Davey and Rich? She was in touch with them already, she spoke with the girls regularly and e-mailed with the guys, and so getting together with friends you still knew could hardly be considered motivation for going to your twentieth high school reunion. No, she'd thought about it in the car, and she was thinking it again now. She'd come purposely to see Adam, but she'd wanted to see him not so she could experience some kind of sexual reawakening. No, she'd come to settle the past with him, to talk, and he was clearly unsuspecting that there was anything to discuss. Her motives were hidden. His intentions looked quite apparent given that supercilious grin he'd adopted when she'd backed out of the bathroom. Though why he would suspect they had unfinished business, she didn't know. She was the one with the secrets. Adam Blackburn knew nothing of what had happened to her.

“The wine, must open the wine.”

As she returned to the spacious kitchen, she looked at the plates of food she had prepared. Tomato soup, simmering on the stove, a tin of Vienna sausages that opened with the ease of a pull-top lid, and that bottle of red wine, standing like a sentry on the middle of the counter. With renewed vigor, she hunted again for the corkscrew; there had to be one, why else buy wine if you didn't . . . maybe it had been a gift, maybe the wine was years old and had turned to vinegar. God, chicky, she hoped not, and then let out a laugh, realizing she sounded like her friend Reva. What would she think of this situation? Enjoy the wine, she'd say, and see where things go from there. Which, of course, was why Vanessa was jumpy, she knew herself. The soothing velvety feel of the wine would go a long way toward settling her nerves.

Rummaging around in one drawer, then a second, she found every possible utensil and kitchen aid possible—vegetable peeler, cheese grater, chip clip, everything except the damn corkscrew. She slammed the drawer shut, the lack of a bottle opener manifesting itself into frustration over this crazy, unlikely scenario. This was not the kind of high school reunion she had imagined when she'd answered yes to that e-mail. She was playing house with the one man she should not be doing it with.

“Good afternoon, darling, what have you cooked up for us?”

The sound of Adam's voice coming up from behind startled her, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Adam, don't scare me like that . . .”

“Who else did you think was coming? Did we invite the neighbors?” he said.

“Gee, you're funny.”

“It's obvious we're alone, so I think we can relax. We're fine, and given the storm is still raging outside, I'd say it's going to be that way awhile. What they call an all-day soaker. Seems to me this old house is someone's second residence and that at the present moment, well, they're probably at their primary. Surely they can't be summering in Florida in August, only to return and spend the winter in Upstate New York. What kind of masochists would they have to be to endure something like that?”

Vanessa realized he was right, they should just relax and enjoy whatever was going to happen. When the world gave you a time-out, take it, enjoy the decompression. She turned to him, laughing at the unexpected sight before her. Adam was standing before her dressed in checkered pants and a striped shirt—looking very much mismatched and ridiculous. Like a Scotsman had thrown up on him. “You planning on going golfing?”

“Yes, I know how silly I look,” he said, giving himself the once-over, “but the people who live here, whoever they are, have strange tastes.”

“Tell me about it. They have wine, but no corkscrew.”

“Is that what's got you so flustered? Here, let me see about it. Wine would be great right about now.”

“I told you, I looked . . . twice.”

“Vanessa, so far this afternoon we've had to think on our feet, use our ingenuity. Climbing out of an overturned car, walking a mile in the rain—with a bum ankle and against the wind. Seems like we have to step up our game again and think creatively,” he said, approaching the counter. He grabbed hold of the bottle, began to undo the red foil at the neck of the bottle. It easily came off, but then there was that seemingly impenetrable cork. “Got a knife?”

“
That
I found in my search,” she said, and handed Adam a sharp steak knife.

So he began to dig at the cork, taking pieces of it out in annoying little nubs. But after a couple of minutes, he'd managed to cut through about half of the cork. That's when he placed the knife in the center of the bottle and instead of digging more at the cork, he pushed it down. Gently, easily, so as to not splash any of the precious liquid. The contents might have to go a long way, like the old Bible story of the loaves and fishes. Finally, the cork began to give. Vanessa watched as the remaining piece slid down inside the neck of the bottle until it broke free and settled inside the wider part, plunking into the wine. A few drops splashed out of the top, running down the front of the bottle, staining the label. Adam wiped at one of the drops, looked at it on his fingertip. It was like blood.

“Want the first taste?” he said, holding his finger out in front of her.

Vanessa took a step back, frowned at him. “Just taste it.”

He did so, eagerly. His finger in his mouth, he gave her a wide smile of delight. “Yum, fruity. Not bad at all. But I suspect a bottle of vinegar would have done about now. So, shall I pour you a glass?”

“Actually, as tempting as that wine is right now—and trust me, I appreciate your efforts in getting that pesky cork out—what's more appealing is how refreshed you look. Makes me think maybe a shower is a good idea, get all this mud off me.” She patted his arm. “So, why don't you finish heating up the soup, it's nearly done anyway, and then you can set the table. Excuse me.”

As Vanessa started to slip by him, she felt his hand reach out for her. She stopped, looked at his fingers wrapped around her wrist, not hurting her, but strong enough where she could feel his pulse, he hers. That's when she gazed up at him and their eyes connected. A deep, penetrable look spoke volumes in the silence.

“Everything's going to be just fine, okay? We'll get out of this,” Adam said, his voice soothing, the blue glow in his eyes offering comfort. “We're safe, we're uninjured for the most part. Someone will come to our rescue eventually. We didn't come this far only to fail.”

“Speak for yourself,” she said, her voice laced with an unexpected edge.

And then without an explanation for her cryptic comment, she walked with determination out of the kitchen and wound her way upstairs, no doubt leaving behind a suddenly confused Adam. She'd done that before, run from his kindness and into a self-imposed darkness. Twenty years ago it had been, the night of the senior ball.

How had that even come about, the two of them attending as unlikely dates?

It was like Adam had questioned tonight, were there fates out there controlling our lives? Was yesteryear one of those moments when the world had been working its magic, pushing them together even then? Had they failed to understand the true implications then? Were they just not ready?

Images flooded back to her as she recalled in bright detail the series of circumstances that had led them to dance that slow dance, all while the rest of the class looked on in surprise. It had been Adam Blackburn's one crowning achievement, socially speaking, in high school, and she was certain he recalled the moment fondly, perhaps proudly. Well, thought Vanessa Massey, her eyes darkening as she closed the bathroom door, shutting him out, shutting everything out, the world today and the past that never left her, she doubted he knew everything, and if he did, his life might just shift off its axis.

Rendering him never the same again.

Something else they would have in common.

H
e'd already said no.

“Come on, you've got to ask her.”

“You need to ask her.”

“Trust me, dude, you definitely want to ask her.” That last comment was snaked with a knowing wink that only a high school boy on hormones could command.

“You're such a perv.”

Finally, a comment not being sent Adam's way, albeit temporarily. They all turned back to him after the slight distraction.

“Really, Adam, she'll say yes. I just know she will.”

This last request, it was the only demand peppered with a degree of earnestness. He felt his resolve begin to weaken, despite having told them all no, no, a thousand times no, shaking his head and wishing them gone. They had ganged up on him about ten minutes ago outside his locker, and he was tired of their pleading. What they were asking made no sense. What did they really want with him?

“Why me? It's last minute. It's too late.”

The kid who'd called him a dude, he fielded that one. “What you mean to ask is, it's last minute, why
not
you?”

Adam's face reddened. “Meaning, I'm free. No plans.”

“Well, yeah, meaning . . . okay, fine, yeah, like, you don't have a date.”

“And do you know why?”

“Yeah, 'cause you're a dweeb.”

Someone smacked an arm. Adam wished they'd all just smack each other and leave him out of it.

“No, because I'm choosing not to go,” Adam said with more defiance than he expected. “I wasn't planning to go—ever.”

“Times change. Tenses change—you are going.”

Peer pressure can come in many dangerous forms, especially when you're a teenager and your natural insecurities are ripe for easy manipulation. You give in, too quickly, because you want to belong to those who decide what's cool, who's cool—and who's not. You don't want to be the sorry victim of any behind-your-back snickering. For Adam Blackburn, smart kid and graduating senior who still bore the youthful appearance of some unsuspecting freshmen, it had been a long four years since he'd felt part of a gang of friends who didn't judge you based on clothes, pimples, or the kind of car your parents drove. Not that he was fooling himself into any form of social acceptance now; the four people surrounding him were only looking to help their friend. They didn't care for him.

Jana Stevenson, Rich Monk, Davey Sisto, and Tiffany Jones were four of the coolest kids in this year's graduating class. They ruled the busy hallways, the grounds, and the playing fields, while handing out instant approval—or disapproval—to anyone who dared attempting to enter their exclusive world without permission. On a sunny Tuesday afternoon in June, just after the final afternoon bell had rung, they had all practically pushed the unsuspecting Adam up against his locker, tossing their verbal volleys like a sadistic sergeant dealing with a vulnerable new recruit.

“I don't know, I mean, sure I know her a little bit . . . who doesn't, and yeah, we've been in each other's classes since first grade,” Adam said, nervously, “but we haven't exactly been friends since then—she's barely said one word to me since we entered these hallowed halls of Danton Hill High.”

“You know why? Because you say stupid shit like ‘haloed halls.' Geez, Adam, you want her to say yes, don't talk like that, okay?” said Davey, the same guy who moments ago had called him dude. Davey Sisto was already six feet tall and wore a patchy blond beard on his cheeks. He was their leader, their idea man, an artful genius at getting the most out of doing the least amount of work. Adam was surprised to find that this guy even knew his name. Perhaps he'd been coached.

There'd been a time in his life when Adam Blackburn wondered where, if any place, he'd ever fit in. Time was he'd enjoyed the daily ritual of school, back in middle school when he'd been semi-popular and had an easy smile that seemed to draw people to him. Such were the simple years of tween-dom. The sliding social scale had all began to change, however, the moment he hit high school, when hormones and other uncontrollable matters in the universe took over and turned good kids mean, best friends into distant acquaintances, boys to men and girls to women. From ninth grade onward, Adam wondered why the world's axis had shifted, why the familiar had seemingly left him behind. At five feet seven and still apple-cheeked and innocent, it appeared that not even his hormones had befriended him.

And now, one week before graduation, three days before their crowning moment, the big year-end prom, he was being mercilessly dragged inside the lair of Danton High's self-appointed “inner circle.” Why, he couldn't say.

“Why me?” he asked again, curious.

“Do you have a date from the prom?”

“I told you, I'm not even going. Why would I ask someone if I'm not going?”

“But why aren't you?” asked Jana, touching his shoulder. “I mean, really, Adam, who doesn't go to their prom? Everyone and their brother is going.”

“Some girls are even bringing their brothers.”

“Yeah, the fugly ones,” Davey said.

Someone slapped his arm again.

“Look, I'm just not interested. Why would I want to be one of those wallflowers that everyone makes fun of? I could just see it now, I'd never live that one down, probably twenty years from now at some dumb reunion everyone will be like, ‘Hey, it's the dude who stood in the corner all prom.' Assuming I'd actually show my face to any such reunion.”

“But, Adam, you'll get to go to both of them, the senior prom and the reunion and you'll be remembered as the guy who had Vanessa Massey as his date—and who knows, maybe she'll still be with you for the reunion, right?” stated Jana Stevenson, head cheerleader, debate captain, and one of Vanessa's closest friends.

“Yeah, you know, if you play your cards right,” said Davey, who sounded like he wanted to get in Vanessa's pants more so than Adam.

Warning bells began to clang inside Adam's jumbled mind. Putting aside the juvenile innuendos that hung in the air, he concentrated instead on what Jana had said. He would be remembered, and not for four lousy years of higher education but for one night when he was given the privilege of escorting one of the prettiest, most popular girls in school to the prom. Now, if that tease wasn't the ultimate in teenage manipulation, expertly handled by calculating friends rallying around someone they loved, then nothing was. Trouble was, Adam wasn't the someone they loved, Vanessa was. He was a mere pawn in what he assumed was a bigger game.

“Just ask her. She'll say yes.”

“You're sure?” Adam asked, still wary but beginning to come around to their side.

That's when Tiffany moved front and center, her feathery blond hair nearly touching his innocent face as she placed manicured hands on Adam's shoulders. “Look, our Nessa got handed a bad deal, you know—hell, the whole school knows—that Danny Stoker dumped her last week, told her he'd wasted his whole high school life on her and what an f-ing waste it had been. I mean, could you be a bigger jerk?”

“Yeah, he can,” Jana said, “because he's taking that skank Lucy Walker to the prom.”

“Look like Danny Boy wanted to make sure he gets laid that night,” Davey stated.

“Honestly, Davey, is your mind ever out of the gutter?”

“Screw you,” he said.

“As if,” Jana replied.

“Nice to have you in the gutter with me.”

“Ugh.”

“So, Adam, sweetie, what do you say?” asked Tiffany, ignoring her friends' pointless banter, and concentrating instead on Adam.

He didn't provide them with an answer. He had had enough of being emotionally jostled by this gang. He turned, pulled a couple books out of his locker, tossed them in his knapsack; he had some homework and major studying to do for finals. He closed his locker, turned the dial on the lock, and started off down the hall. Ironically, a banner was hanging nearby announcing the time, place, and theme of the big event, the Senior Ball. Adam thought the sign was poking fun at him, just like his so-called new friends. As he turned a corner, none of those four conspirators chased after him; nor did the sign. But one of them spoke before he was out of earshot.

“She's waiting out on the hill by the water tower,” Tiffany said. “Just go over there, ask her, and I promise she'll say yes.”

Adam looked back, but said nothing. What more was there to say?

Will you go to the prom with me? A simple enough phrase, for sure, but fraught with the drama that came with high school.

Somehow he didn't see those words coming out of his mouth.

 

Vanessa Massey hated him, so much so she could spit. If she saw him, maybe even spit on him. In fact, as she sat on the grassy hill up near the water tower where she'd spent so many of her perfect high school days, she angrily yanked a dandelion from the ground and contemplated its fragile state. She plucked the delicate petals, saying, “I hate him, I hate him more. I hate him, I hate him more.” When she'd totally decimated the flower and the loose petals caught the wind and fluttered away, she realized she felt no better despite the fact that last petal had fallen victim to one last “I hate him more.” Only in her depressed state of mind could she consider that result to be the best thing that had happened to her all day.

She thought about the prom, looming just days away. Her mind filled with pictures of the dress she'd already bought for the big event. Her mother had helped her shop for it, a flowing gown of violet, flower prints dotting the fabric; it would go perfectly with her dark coloring, her tanned skin and silky raven locks. She knew she would be among the most beautiful girls at the dance—and that's what she was aiming for. Not pretty, pretty these days was considered nothing but a backhanded compliment. Like you were still a mere child, carrying a few extra pounds of baby fat while all of the other girls had transformed into glamorous women. Beauty was her aim, especially now, given the fact that Danny had dumped her—dumped her!—just a week before the prom, and all because . . . well, of course it had to do with doing the deed. Didn't it always boil down to sex when it came to boys?

She remembered the conversation between them word for word, and she was certain she always would, even long down the road when she'd gotten married to a decent guy who didn't want sex, he wanted to make love, and they would have kids, she would experience the joys of married life and motherhood, probably even after the great beyond claimed her, Danny's words would haunt her. She would remember the humiliating moment in school when her boyfriend broke up with her, in the middle of study hall, a week before the prom because she wouldn't “put out.” So typical. Like a John Hughes movie with a bad soundtrack.

“Vanessa, come on, honey, you know you want it,” he'd whispered that fateful night.

Oh, by the way, he always called it “it.” Never sex, certainly not making love. That last one was too advanced a concept for such an inept jerk like Danny Stoker. He'd said that small, but significant word last Friday night, down in his parents' finished basement, Nirvana playing in the background, his fingers playing explorer with her body. Not the most romantic music in the world, hardly effective for such a sloppy seduction. But of course saying, “You know you want it,” certainly didn't qualify as seduction, not in Vanessa's book. It sounded like a rehearsed line. Like he'd been standing before the mirror, swiping on deodorant and splashing cheap cologne on a hairless chest while checking out his expression as he spoke the words. Exuding confidence that such a line would work.

“Danny, we've talked about this. You know I'm not ready.”

“I know you've said that . . . a lot, and I've been more than . . . you know, really patient and understanding. But come on, babe, prom is next week, graduation's a week later, and then two weeks after that I'll be eighteen. I'm not turning eighteen still a virgin.”

See, that was part of the problem. It was all about Danny, his needs, his wants. To him it sounded like whomever the woman he was with didn't matter, just so long as he broke through that adolescent rite of passage to officially “become a man.” How many times had he said that laughable phrase? Too many. Like he'd know what being a man was all about.

So that night, the scene played out like so many other nights had, yet with one vast difference. After a satisfying make-out session—that she didn't mind, he was good at that, and some exploratory touching—all aboveboard and above the waist, that's when Danny had gone in for the big kill. Pressing her hand to his . . . down there. And she had reacted fast, pushing him away to where he nearly fell back over the sofa. That's when he delivered his ultimatum.

“You're such a tease. Okay, so here's the deal, Vanessa,” Danny had begun, “I've put up with your spoiled brat routine all throughout high school, and now when I need you most—look, you're not there for me. I can't believe I've wasted all this time with you, all these Friday nights when my parents were out at their bowling league. So, this is what's going to happen—we're going to have it, and by that I mean right now, or you can just leave and we can go our own ways. It's your call. I'm done waiting. Either we move on together, or I move on without you.”

Vanessa, fighting back sudden tears, got up from the sofa and stared down at Danny, the boy who had made her swoon her freshman year, the one who had been at her side all four years, and now . . . now, it had come down to this. His handsome face, with its strong, angular jawline and chiseled cheeks, he'd been about the most striking kid in their class, male or female. As the years had passed his good looks had only increased, and problem was, he knew it. Now he just looked ugly to her.