Blind Side (2 page)

W
hen a light is
shone upon a deer, they’re known to freeze in place. It’s a reaction on the exact opposite end of the survival instinct spectrum. Whether it’s fear or confusion, the deer remain frozen until you accelerate. That’s the point at which they charge headfirst into your car in a failed attempt to escape your car.

I’m waiting for the man before me to dart.

The finest features of his face—including his eyes—are hidden in the darkness. I squint in a failed effort to get a better view. With the light shining on my face, and the shadows falling on his, he possesses the clear advantage.

“You’re not going to—“

“Snitch on you?” I question with a tilt of my head. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Don’t do that.” He chuckles and scratches a finger against the back of his head.

“Are you a student here?” I take a measured step toward him, asserting my authority. “And don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“Then I don’t care.” I shrug and pass him to take a seat on the bar he had been seated on prior.

“What are you?” He twists on his foot to face me, his white sneakers digging into the dirt. “Safety patrol? Neighborhood watch or something?”

“I’m just a girl trying to hide from the world for a quick second while I finish my coffee.”

“Interesting.” He raises his arms to the rafters above, and wraps his palms around the cold metal. “I’m just a boy trying to hide from a bunch of rednecks, while I watch the game on my own terms.”

“If you wanted to get trashed and watch the game, you could have watched it from home,” I point out and take a short sip of coffee. It doesn’t burn my tongue again, but it’s still too hot to drink comfortably.

“They show that on the TV?”

“You’re really not from around here, are you?” If he were, he’d know that. It’s nice to be around someone who doesn’t know me though, or think they know me. It’s nice to be around someone who only knows me as that girl sipping coffee from a soiled Styrofoam cup. “Out of towner?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Something like that.”

“If you’re rooting for the other team, I might
have
to turn you into the authorities.”

“Team Chiefs!” He pounds his fist against the air, but connects with the rafters above. “Fuck,” he cries out and shakes his fist.

“When two objects collide—“

“You’re a science teacher,” he accuses with a pointed finger.

“That’s an accusation I won’t tolerate.”

“English?”

I look up to him, standing tall above me, and scoff. “Who says I’m a teacher?”

“You’ve got the look.” He twists on his foot and takes a seat beside me.

“The look?” I duck my head to get a glimpse of the game between the rafters. The players are lining up on the field in a team versus team faceoff. The other team, The Scioto Eagles, has the ball and they’re too close for comfort to the end zone. Ten seconds left on the clock, and I find myself praying they don’t scare. It’s not that I care about the game, but I do care about my
husband’s
temperament.

A whistle is blown, and then from the speakers, “Coach Taylor calling a timeout for The Chiefs.” The players break from their positions and rush off the field. My free hand, the one not holding coffee, drags across my face as I groan from exhaustion. I just want to go home.

“About that look,” he says with a chuckle.

“What about it?” I sigh and crane my neck to face him, taking notice for the first time the way the field lights highlight the sharp contours of his face. “What about my look makes you think I’m a teacher?”

“Tired eyes that are filled with wonder.” He drags a finger across chapped lips and tries to be sly as he scoots closer to me, but I’ve got my eyes on him. “You’re young.” He shrugs and slides another careful inch. “Maybe the job’s still fun for you, but you’re tired.”

I swallow a nervous lump of air. My eyes are torn between his eyes and the thick metal bar we are both seated on. I’m eyeing him and I’m eyeing the makeshift bench. I’m eying the distance between us, and trying to justify in my racing mind why exactly I’m still sitting here. “I’m not a teacher,” I say softly and as convincing as a third term politician.

“Then what are you?” He bumps the crux of his elbow against my arm. “I’m kind of getting a janitor vibe.”

An honest-to-God chuckle is thrown to my throat, burning a hole in my esophagus as it’s launched into the thin space between us. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to laugh. “Tonight, I just want to be nobody.”

“Nobody works.” He nods in approval before extending his hand to shake mine. “Hi, I’m nobody. And you are?”

“What a coincidence.” I can’t help but smile as I take his hand and shake it. I lean in close and whisper to him, “I’m also Nobody. What are the odds?”

“I’m not the math teacher,” he says with a sly wink.

He thinks he’s finally got me figured out, but little does he know he was right the second time. Still, I don’t want to be
her
right now. I want to be somebody else.

There’s an unspoken rule in relationships, and especially in marriage. It’s the whole,
you can look but you can’t touch
mantra. My sister always told me the unofficial rule was that if you’re staring for more than three seconds, then you’re already one foot out the door. Advice she must have forgotten somewhere along the way between high school and the trailer park.

Three seconds are long in the rearview mirror as each consecutive second ticks by. He stares straight ahead, looking out between the rafters at the field while I’m lost in a study session of his entire being. I know he knows I’m watching.

Dark, hollow eyes hanging over a heart-shaped face with a sharp jawline, and cherry flush lips. Broad shoulders, and voluptuous biceps. Strong forearms, and he turns to me with a smile that provokes an unfamiliar reaction out of me.

My coffee falls from my hand, upside down and onto the ground beneath us as I shift one hand over the other, shielding my wedding ring from sight.

“You’re beautiful,” he says softly, followed by a drawn-out bite of his lip. “I just thought I’d point that out.”

“You should see me in the light,” I joke, trying to delay what I know to be inevitable. “It’s not a pretty sight.”

He shifts closer and presses his palm against my face. “Absolute malarkey.”

I should pull away. “Meaningless talk. Nonsense. Malarkey.” Why can’t I pull away? Why don’t I want to?

“I knew you were an English teacher.” He runs his fingers through the hair above my ear, stroking me and touching me in a way I haven’t been touched in what feels like years. It should feel like a violation, but it’s freeing. It’s dizzying. It’s wrong.

I ball my hands into fists and flinch away from his touch. “What are you doing?”

His lips fold against each other, and he pulls back. Confused. “Is whatever I’m doing a problem?”

“I should get back to the game,” I say and tighten my fingers currently occupied with concealing my ring. “It was nice meeting you, nobody,” I rise to my feet, and flash him a quick smile before turning to flee.

“You too, nobody.”

Nobody.
That sounds like the perfect existence at this point. I dream. No, it’s more than that. I long to live a life far away from this small town, in a bustling city where I’ll be nothing more than a stranger in a vast sea of souls. Everyday would be a new day with a new slate, meeting new people who will only forget me as days fade into nights.

I make it back into my seat right as the band, outfitted in the same hues of purple and white as the people in the packed bleachers, marches onto the field for a stirring halftime show that could rival the SuperBowl. Sarcasm indeed.

I just want this night to be over with. And then the night after that. Winter break can’t come fast enough. Not because I’m excited for the Holidays. I’m not. Rather, because once that last bell rings, that’s the part of the tragedy that’s become my marriage where I break free.

T
he miles
fly by at forty miles per hour. The chilly September wind breathes through a thin crack of the window, as a blast of heat curves over my body from the dashboard vents. I’m cold and I’m hot. There’s a twister breaking in the cab of this silent pickup truck. We don’t talk when we win games, but you should see us when we lose them.

Coach insists the schedule for the rest of the year is easy; that tonight’s game against The Eagles was the hardest it was going to get. I hope he’s right, because when we lose, he needs someone to place the blame on. I’m the easiest and nearest target.

He drives with one hand controlling the wheel, while his other hand rests tensely on the shifter. He looks both ways as we approach a four-way intersection with stop signs on each side. Instead of slowing down, he shifts into fourth gear as we speed through the intersection.

I push my back against the seat and press my foot against an imaginary brake beneath me. I shake my head and prepare myself to speak.

But he speaks first. “Where were you before halftime?”

“In the bleachers like always, playing the part of the devoted wife.” That’s not the last lie I’ll tell tonight. There will be another hundred more, depending on how long it takes him to pass out on his rightful place on the couch.

“Please don’t lie to me.” He shifts his attention to me, stealing quick glances at the road in between accusations. “I turned around and you were gone.”

“You don’t get to control me anymore,” I say softly and grow uncomfortable at the way he looks at me. I turn away from him.

“Control? When have I ever—“

“Just drop it,” I scold him, followed by an immediate huff as I lower my head against the cool window.

“Tell me where you were, and I’ll consider it.”

“I went to get coffee.”

“And that’s it?”

“Jesus,” I mumble under my breath. “What is your problem?”

“People talk, Stassi,” his voice begins to rise, his tone leveling from concern into contempt.

“Just as they breathe, shit, eat, and piss, Brock.” I throw the attitude right back in his face. It’s easier this way, to communicate in sarcasm, because it’s easier than telling the truth.

“Three more months.” He shakes his head, almost violently as his fingers tangle tighter around the wheel. “That’s all I’ve asked of you.”

“How terribly kind of you,” I say deadpan, a choice of words I soon come to regret as I feel the tires beneath us slipping against gravel. We come to a quick stop on the one-lane dirt road.

“Excuse me?” he questions with gravel in his throat. He throws his arm behind my head, running along the length of seat. “If you want to say something, then say something. I’m so fucking tired of your passive aggressive bullshit.”

“Don’t you dare put this on me.” I narrow my eyes on him. “This is your mess. This is your quicksand of hurt you’ve thrown us in.”

“Save the metaphors for your students, Stassi.”

“I’m drowning,” I cry softly, showing the weakness I’ve been carrying inside for the past year. The tough girl exterior is cracking, and I want nothing more than to run.

“Because you won’t let me in.”

“Whatever, Coach,” I snarl at him, because I know how much it angers him when I call him anything but Brock or babe, or whatever the fuck we used to call each other. I can’t have a real conversation right now. I’d rather we stand in the boxing ring, throwing verbal punches.

“If you hate me so much—“

“I don’t hate you,” I whisper and wrap my fingers tight around the ring on my finger. I’m holding onto something I can no longer carry, but it hurts more to let go than to stay. “I wish I could, but I can’t. So I’ll go on pretending.”

“Pretending that you love me?”

“Pretending that I don’t.” I continue to look at him for a split second, but it’s enough to see the pain and confusion in his eyes. I don’t know where the confusion comes from, but it’s there, suffocating him from the inside. In these quiet moments, I remember who we were, and who we can never be again. He’s as young as I am, minus a few weeks, but we’re showing our age with the tragedy written all over our faces. He’s older than he should be, with sunken eyes and seeds of grey smattered among the buzzed hair on his chin.

I shake my head and turn my gaze out the window, opting to stare into the moonlit darkness of the forest. My silent escape is shattered with the jangling of the keys and then a
pop
of a bottle top. I snap my attention back to him and shake my head in contempt. With one hand I roll down my window, and with the other, I rip the bottle of beer from his hand just as he’s about to take a sip. I launch the bottle out of the window, where it shatters against a tree stump.

He bows his head and chuckles to himself before reaching into the brown bag between us and grabbing another bottle. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. The keys jangle as he maneuvers the bottle opener that’s attached to the keys to the bottle top, and
pop.

I throw the door open and jump out of the truck.

“Where the hell are you going?”

I slam the door shut. “I’m going to walk home.”

“Don’t be stupid.” He leans across the seat of the cab and pushes the door open. “Get back in the truck.”

“Nope.” I slam the door shut again. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Stassi,” he scolds me and reaches for the handle of the door.

I throw my weight against the door and hold it shut as he tries to push it open. “Go home, Coach.”

“Fine,” he yells in defeat, his voice cracking. “You can sleep on the couch tonight.”

“I’d rather sleep on the road,” I whisper to myself as I reach into the blue truck bed and retrieve a six-pack of beer. I pull one from the cardboard box and pop the cap off using the lining of the truck, leaving one hell of a scratch in the process. Oops. I step to the truck door, swing it open and toss the rest of the beer onto the passenger seat. “Try not to wreck into a tree.”

He purses his lips and shakes his head at me. He wants to say something—perhaps scream something, but he’s holding it in. I wish he would just explode like I want to explode. I want to fight. I want to feel something. To feel something, I must fight. We must fight.

Before I can shut the door, tires are kicking gravel into the air and against my jeans. I slam the door shut just as he begins to peel out, accelerating into the night.

I take a quick glance down at the beer in my hand and decide I don’t need it. With all the force I can muster, I hurl the bottle of beer at his truck. It shatters against the tailgate. I was aiming for a window, but I’ll take what I can get.

Brake lights paint the road in a foreboding light. The dirt, the gravel, and the trees—everything glows with red rage. I stand in the center of the road, my entire body basking in the soft light. I stand there waiting for him to jump out, to confront me.

Just fucking do something.

The moments tick by. Gravel crunches under my feet as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Moments tick by. The exhaust from the truck sputters, polluting the road I stand on.

He finally pulls away and I’m left unsatisfied, with nothing to drink and no particular motivation to walk to the house. Five miles out from home, I figure I’ve got plenty of time to think about going back. Best-case scenario involves an empty bottle of booze with Mr. Death Do Us Part passed out over the toilet by the time I walk in the front door.

A girl can only dream.

I push my cold hands into my jeans, curse myself for not grabbing my jacket before jumping out of the damn truck, and then begin the long walk home.

Headlights flash behind me as a car rises over a tall hill. I step to the left side of the road so the car can pass by, but to my surprise, it comes to a slow crawl right beside me. Instinct tells me I should keep walking, and that I do. But the car continues it’s slow crawl with tires crunching against gravel.

The window rolls down, and the driver—a familiar face—drapes his arm over the edge of the door. It’s the stranger from the football game driving in a seventies era ice blue Challenger.