Life Interrupted (21 page)

             
“Because she’s yours,” he says, his voice so heavy with emotion I blink.  “And because you’re mine, Rachel, you’ve always been mine.  I don’t care what your dad did or didn’t do, though you better be damn sure the next time I see him I’ll show him just what I think of him.  I won’t be compared and I won’t have you thinking that because he left, I will.  I left you once—don’t shake your head at me like you don’t blame me, we both blame me and all I can do is apologize.  But I can’t apologize forever and you can’t keep backing away.  I asked you to trust me to love you, and you said you did, but you lied, Rachel, because if you trusted me to love you, you’d know that meant Gracie, too.”  His hands slide from my arms to my neck, his thumbs tracing the shape of my jaw, my lips, the underside of my chin.   “Let me love her, love you both, and stop thinking I don’t know what I’m asking because I do.”

             
I shake my head, unsure of how to respond, to handle the rapid beating of my heart.  “Tripp, we’re too young for this, it doesn’t make sense.”

             
“Who the fuck cares how old we are? Rachel, do you love me?” I nod, my eyes staying on his as he brings me even closer so I can see the dark blue ring around his pupils.  “Then believe me when I tell you I love you and it isn’t going away.”

             
“But what about next year? Your future, Tripp.  Listen to me,” I say before he cuts in again.  “I do trust you.  I trust that you love me, that you love Gracie and I’m sorry I don’t ask for help.  It’s not that I don’t trust you to give it, it’s that I know exactly how hard it is to look ahead and know it’s not just yourself you’re looking for.  I’m not being noble when I tell you I don’t want you to sacrifice, I’m being honest.  It’s hard, Tripp, and I can’t ask you to sacrifice like that.  I won’t do it.”

             
“You don’t have to,” he says and lowers his forehead to mine.  “Rachel, last weekend we made a decision that changed my life.  We became a unit, something I’ve wanted since we were in the fourth grade.  Whether or not you ask me to make the sacrifice is irrelevant, because the minute you became mine I decided that you were worth anything I could give.  I’m going to be here, whether you want me to or not.”

             
I shouldn’t let him say it—or at least I should step back and tell him to take a couple of days to think about it, to really understand what it means, but his lips are on mine and his hands are in my hair, anchoring me against him and all I can think about is how good it feels to be here, right here, and know that I can be here tomorrow, too.  I shift to my toes so I can bring him closer and then his hands are at the small of my back under my tank top, brushing the skin as they surround my waist and tug me even closer. 

             
Everything inside of me burns for him, but as he slides his hands down and over my hips, his mother’s words from earlier echo in my head and I jerk back a little.

             
His eyes are confused as he stares at me.  “What’s wrong?”

             
“Your mother thinks we need to talk more and jump into bed less.”

             
His eyebrow wings up and though I know I should be offended, it amuses me when he shrinks away from me a bit so that we’re barely touching.  His mouth opens, closes, opens again, and he works to find the words.

             
“My mother?” he finally asks and I grin, pleased that his reaction is worse than mine.

             
“Yeah, didn’t she mention it? She and I spoke today as she reminded me essentially the same thing you did, that asking for help doesn’t make me weak and it’s insulting to everyone around when I put stipulations on your kindness, blah blah blah.”

             
“And she’s right,” he says.  “But when did this turn into a conversation about sex?”

             
“Oh, right about the time she admitted to knowing that something happened between us two years ago—apparently you, her youngest, are also her most emotional.  Can’t keep a secret from your mama, Tripp?”

             
“Excuse me?”

             
His voice is now offended and I feel all sorts of better.  Wrapping my arms around his neck, I smile when his hands stay stubbornly at his sides.  “Yep, she told me all about how Tanner and Griff disappear or shut down when they’re upset, but not her Tripp, her baby, who walks around
like
a baby until she has to give you some chocolate and a shoulder to cry on, where you promptly spill your guts to her.”

             
“Jesus…but you didn’t—” He swallows and looks down at me.  “You didn’t tell her we’re sleeping together, did you?”

             
“Ha, I didn’t have to because
she
told
me,
directly after which I ended up trying to alleviate her fears by telling her we’re safe.  She’s glad we use protection, b-t-dubs—she doesn’t want another grandbaby for at least five years, just in case you were wondering.”

             
“Oh, Jesus.”  His face pales as he sinks to the bed.

             
“Exactly, so in light of how fucking crafty she is, maybe you can toughen up like Tanner, hmm? Put a lid on those emotions and keep your feelings to yourself until you have time to write them in your diary.  What do you think, big guy, can you do that? Or should I be expecting your mama to know everything about us?”

I get an email from Mrs. Kash in the middle of the following week, requesting a meeting with me and Gracie. She wants us to come to dinner to introduce us to her husband—“Gracie’s grandfather”—and to discuss possibilities for the future.  It’s been over a week since she waited for me in the parking lot, and though I thought it would come sooner, I’m still unprepared for it.  I wonder briefly how she got my email address, and then laugh at the idiocy of that. 

However she did it, it’s obvious she’s letting me know she can get to me—a
t practice, at school, wherever.  She knows who I am and I can’t get away from her.  I think of Marcus and how he manages to find me, scare me, say the one thing that has me flying off the handle.  He hasn’t spoken to me since that night in the parking lot, after which his monster-mother entered my life and began trying to push me around, but in the past two months he’s shown up four different times when I’ve walked out of somewhere—school, the grocery store, the bank, my house—leaning against the side of his car, staring at me as I walk to mine.  He hasn’t made contact, hasn’t said anything, but the way his eyes follow me is enough to let me know he isn’t finished. 

Like her son, Mrs. Kash has once again put me on the defensive
, scared me, and I’m fucking sick of it.  Hitting reply, I begin typing.  I’m a fighter, and it’s about damn time she understands that.

Dear Mrs. Kash,

              Thank you for your kindness, but my daughter and I are happy with our lives as they are.  Whatever happens next year, we’ve already got the support of Gracie’s grandmother, my mother.  We’re not looking for any more options as this time.

--
Rachel Reynolds. 

             
I hit send and head to class, wondering if I’ve just thrown the gauntlet.  When there’s no response waiting in my inbox over an hour later, I’m skeptical.  As much as I’d like to believe she took my rejection and accepted it, one meeting with her was enough to assure me that she doesn’t give in until she gets her way.  Like Marcus, whose appearances in my life, however silent, are direct challenges.  He doesn’t have to speak to me to threaten me, just as he doesn’t have to be a part of my life to know where I am every waking moment.  No, radio silence from Mrs. Kash isn’t good.  This is affirmed later in the evening when I’m carrying Gracie up the front stairs and see the manila envelope waiting for me. 

             
The note on the front isn’t signed, but it’s enough to make me breakout in a cold sweat.

Rachel,

              I’m sorry to hear you aren’t in need of any more support.  We only want what’s best for Gracie. 

             
There’s no signature, nothing else, but I understand that my rejection was a challenge.  Mrs. Kash has just told me exactly what she wants, and as I carry Gracie inside and set her down with ten minutes of a show before bath time, I have a bad feeling I know just what’s in the envelope.  Since my mom texted earlier to let me know that she was working late with her grad students and that I was on my own for dinner, Gracie and I stayed late to eat with G.  I’m grateful she’s not here right now as I dump out the contents of the envelope on the counter.  My breath catches and I do nothing but stare at the glossy five-by-sevens in front of me.  There are dozens of them spilling over the counter, and they’re all of me—me with Gracie, me with Katie, me and Tripp, even a few of me and Dean.

             
Suddenly, I know how every celebrity who’s ever been photographed out of context feels.  In all of the photos I look tired, angry, disengaged.  I recognize each and every event recorded, just as I recognize that none of them follow the entire event; rather, they’ve manipulated the scene by showing one small frame of the larger picture, and the frame they show says more than words ever could.  They show me gripping Gracie’s arm in one hand, as if she’s pulling away from me, but they don’t show the other six frames that should be attached where I’m swinging her up and around while she giggled and pleaded with me to continue.  In another, I’m shown with my back to Gracie while she’s on the swings—it doesn’t show Tripp behind her, or the shot that should have happened a second later where I jumped around to face her and yell BOO while she screamed in delight.

             
This is a theme throughout all of the photos—each shot making me look neglectful, annoyed, unforgiving.  I want to rage as I sift through them and watch event after event in my life over the past three months unfold and look nothing like it was.  But I won’t cry, and I won’t scream; instead, I take a deep breath and work on reminding myself that it’s all speculation.  Nothing here is the truth and somehow there has to be a way to show that, to prove it.  My mom will know, and Stacy.  I’ll go and tell them what I should have already—that Marcus and his family have all been threatening me, and then we’ll figure out how to make this better.  I hold this tightly to me as I finish going through the photos, refusing to lose my temper even though frame after frame begs me to.  They’re lies, all of them.  Lies.

             
Until the last ones.

             
The saliva in my mouth dries up and I can barely hear over the beating of my heart as I stare at the last few shots.  They were taken the night of Katie’s party and in the first few I’m out to dinner with her and Doug and Dean.  Three photos focus on me and Dean while we hug, kiss, while we’re walking into the restaurant where it looks like his hand is sliding down to my ass. I study each shot and though I know they’re not amazing, they’re hardly incriminating, either.  And yet, I know it’s only the beginning of the night.  My fear is confirmed in the very next photo.

             
It’s dark and the quality of this photo is definitely worse than the rest, but it’s still clear enough so that you can make out what I’m wearing, who I’m with, where I am.  And none of it’s a lie.  Unlike the previous thirty photos, this series of shots were all taken in order, telling the entire story the exact way it played out, from the dinner with one boy to the altercation with another that led to sex.  All of it’s right there in front of me, staring me down.  Me shoving Tripp, Tripp with my hands locked behind me, me with my legs around his waist, our mouths fused together.  The picture that’s painted is accurate and painful to see.  I went out with one boy and came home with another.  I had sex with a boy directly after I had a fight with him. 

             
I set the pictures down without looking at the rest.  I know how the night ended, so I know what else I’m going to see in those photos, just as I know who sent them.  Suddenly, I’m very clear on just what Mrs. Kash wants and just how far she’s willing to go to get it.

~

              The next morning I go to Ms. Flynn first.  I ask my mom if she can take Gracie in so I can stay at school after my morning individual with Coach.  I don’t lie when she asks why I need to be at school early, but I don’t tell her exactly what I need to talk to Flynny about, either.  I’m going to tell her, and Tripp and Stacy and G, because they deserve to know and I’m smart enough to know that keeping this to myself might be dangerous, that although I’m a fighter with a hell of a right hook, I’m in no way ready to deal with the all rich and powerful Mrs. Kash.  And what she wants is too important for me to think only of myself.

             
I shower after my workout and stop myself from shoving on my clothes and running out to see Ms. Flynn because I know she won’t be here for another fifteen minutes.  So, I open Katie’s locker instead, grab her blow dryer and spend those minutes putting myself together, taking a second to wonder how the hell girls like Lauren and Katie get their hair to look so straight and shiny.  My bangs are heavy and cut to swipe to the side, thanks to Katie a few months ago, and after ten minutes of drying them, straightening them, shifting them so they aren’t in my face, I give up.  In the grand scheme, does it really matter if they’re straight and perfect or flying in my eyes? I’ve bigger shit to worry about than the fact that my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend looks put together and perfect even after she works out (which irritates me as much now as it did when she was his actual girlfriend—probably because now she flaunts it every chance she gets and I can’t really blame her). 

At seven-ten I walk out of the locker room with my hair in dark, damp waves
down my back, my bangs swept to the side, and my heart slamming against my ribs.  Like I thought she would be, Ms. Flynn is just unlocking her office door, turning when she hears my footsteps, her eyebrows rising into her hairline when she spots me.

             
“Rae, what are you doing here this early?”

             
“I need to talk to you.”

             
The tone of my voice is enough because she doesn’t ask anything else until we’re seated in the two guest chairs that face her desk, her door closed.  I see her set her travel mug of coffee aside and I wince.

             
“Sorry to get the jump on you before you’ve had your caffeine.”

             
She waves that off.  “Please, that’s my third cup, I’ll be fine.  Talk to me, Rae,” she says before I can back out, which is exactly what I was thinking of doing.  Meeting her eyes, I nod and tuck my hands under my thighs.

             
“Marcus’s mom came to see me a week ago.  She wanted to talk about Gracie, claiming her son has let me raise her because he thought it was what I wanted, blah blah blah.  We both know it’s a lie, since other than a few random times when he’s been in the same parking lot that I have at the same time, I haven’t heard from Marcus himself for almost three months, and only then because he cornered me after practice and gave me the friendly reminder he doesn’t want people connecting the dots between he and Gracie.”

             
“Has he hurt you?”

             
For the first time in the four years that I’ve been coming to see her, Ms. Flynn’s voice is sharp, intrusive, and her question is asked with a yes or no answer in mind.  My eyes flash to hers and I shake my head briskly.  “No, he hasn’t hurt me, but he scared me that night, and I think if Katie and Tripp hadn’t showed up, he might have tried to do more.”  And I hope like hell I would have been strong enough to defend myself this time.

             
“Did you tell anyone?”

             
I shrink back from her stare when I shake my head.  “Tripp tried to make me file a report and tell my mom, but when I wouldn’t he made me promise to stop going places alone.”

             
“Which you ignored and continued walking out into the parking lot by yourself every morning before anyone else was here, even after he’s shown up other places you’ve been.”

             
“Coach is here,” I snap out, irritated that I came to talk and I’m being reprimanded instead.  If she senses my irritation, Flynny doesn’t acknowledge it, she just barrels straight ahead.

             
“Did you tell Coach that you needed him to walk you to your car? That’s what I thought.  Listen to me, Rae,” she says when I go to snap at her again.  “Young men escalate when threatened.  Marcus feels threatened.”

             
“But why? I don’t want him to claim Gracie—I don’t want him to do anything but leave me the hell alone, which I told him that night.  How is that threatening?”

             
“Not you,” she says and has me stopping mid-tirade.  “You’re not the threat, Rae.”

             
And then I get it.  “His mom.” 

             
She nods.  “Tell me what Mrs. Kash said to you.”

             
I’m numb as I try to shift gears and process, telling Ms. Flynn what I can remember from my first conversation with Mrs. Kash, the feeling I got even though she never said anything to indicate that she was a threat. 

             
When I tell her about the pictures, she shakes her head when I tell her how I messed up.  “Do you have the photos, Rae?” I nod and take them out, but rather than leafing through them, she just holds onto them.  “You have a right to refuse her, Rae, so stop thinking you did something wrong by telling her no.”

             
“But look at what she’s done, what she might do.”

             
“Because she’s a bully who’s used to getting her way.  If she hadn’t done this, I might have suggested taking Gracie to see her, listening to her and giving her a chance to meet her granddaughter in a limited capacity, but this shows me that it’s not about Gracie, not really.”

             
“Then what?”

             
“Marcus.  Mrs. Kash thinks that by forcing your hand with Gracie, she can bring back or at least replace the son she’s lost.”  Opening the envelope, she finally takes out the pictures.  “This isn’t about Gracie, and it’s not about you.  It’s about her family and what she wants, you’re just a means of getting it.”

~

The minute Tripp sees me he knows something’s wrong.  The blessing and the curse of loving someone who knows your every mood, I guess. 

“I’m going to tell you, just not now, okay? Tonight.”

We’re standing at my locker and people are walking past us, the noise level of the before school chatter almost deafening.  I know he’s about to push, to use the power he knows he has over me and make me tell him, so I use what I know will change his attitude.  “Can you pick up Gracie around five for me? That way I can meet you at my house around 5:15 and we can make dinner.  My mom’s working late again—senior thesis time.”