Never Let You Go (a modern fairytale) (16 page)

Tilting her head to the side, she skimmed her gaze down his denim legs to his bare feet, and a sad smile spread across her face to see that his—like hers—still had silvery white scars across the top where the sharp brown corn husks had sliced through their feet that disastrous day. Identical scars that would always remind them that she had escaped and he was left behind.

How could he forgive her for leaving him? How could his eyes gaze at her with tenderness when she had gotten in the truck first but he had been the one left behind at the river?

Don’t ever hate me again. Promise.

I p-p-promise, Gris.

She clenched her jaw, her eyes brimming with tears.

“You gonna stand there all night staring at me?”

“Maybe,” she murmured.

There was no rule book for how you were supposed to behave when you found the foster brother with whom you were kidnapped thirteen years ago, with whom you lived in filth and terror for three years, whom you’d lost but had loved and longed for every day since. There was so much to learn about each other. So much they knew about each other on one level, but so much they didn’t on another.

“I think I’m in shock,” she whispered. “I can’t believe I’m here with you. I don’t know how to do this. You’re you and I’m me, but we’re so different. What happens next? How do we even—?”

His eyes opened, and he took a deep breath, then sighed. Raising his hand, he held it out to her. “Come lay down.”

She closed the distance between the window and the bed, sitting down on the edge. His fingertips touched her back, and she twisted her neck to look at him.

“I want to know you again,” he said, his gray eyes soft. “I want to know what happened that day on the river, how you got away, where you went, and everything that happened next until you showed up at that fight last night.”

“I want the same,” she said, a tear falling over the rim of her eyes and sliding down her cheek.

His voice was tired, heavy. “I want to know if you’ve had a good life. I want to know why you decided to stay here tonight and not go home. I want you to . . .”

“What?”

“I w-want you to tell me a story.”

Two more tears slipped down her cheeks as she turned away from him, smiling to herself, and reaching forward to pull the chain on the bedside lamp. Then she lay her head down on the pillow beside his, swinging her legs up on the bed and straightening them. Her arm lay flush against his, and in an instant she was back in that hot, smelly station wagon, Holden on one side, Marisol on the other. And then time skipped forward, and she was lying on that disgusting cot in the Man’s cellar, Holden’s scrappy body beaten and tired and frightened beside her. And then time skipped again, catching up with itself, and she was here, now, in his apartment, and they were all grown up, finally reunited, arms touching again.

His skin was hot, partly because it was June but partly because his body was fighting to heal. But feeling him beside her was so familiar, her eyes fluttered closed in relief, and she released a long, low breath through her lips, letting the rest of her body finally relax beside him.

“Gris?” he said after a while, turning his head on the pillow to face her.

She twisted her neck to mirror him, opening her eyes. “Yeah?”

“I’m so tired.”

“Me too.”

“Let’s sleep.”

“Okay.”

“You’re alive.”

“I am.”

“You finally found me.”

“I did.”

“You’re lying next to me right now.”

“Yes.”

“And this isn’t a dream.”

“No.”

“And you’ll be here when I wake up?”

“I promise.”

“Okay,” he said, closing his eyes. “Will you tell me a story while I fall asleep? I always w-wished you could do that when we, uh—when w-we w-were . . .” His voice drifted off, and she felt him breathe deeply, just as she used to tell him to. She realized that he did it to control his stammer, and something about that made her so happy and so sad, she held her own breath, concentrating hard so she didn’t sob. “It was so d-dark at night once you left me.”

“I’ll do it now, Holden,” she said, her voice breaking a little.

The back of his hand was flush against the back of hers, but he twisted it, pressing his palm to hers, entwining his fingers through hers, like he’d done a thousand times before. And her fingers remembered. And her heart remembered. And both felt like they’d finally come home.

“Once upon a time,” she began, “there was a princess named . . .”

“Griselda,” he mumbled, almost asleep, eyes still closed.

A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye, sliding slowly into her hair.

“No,” she said, smiling at him as more tears silently joined the first. “Moonlight. Princess Moonlight.”

“I got an idea, Holden.” Griselda cast a quick glance to the porch, where the Man dozed in the shade before she squatted back down in the garden, turning the earth over and over with a small trowel. “It’s been dry lately. Real dry.”

Holden’s eyes darted to the porch before he squatted down beside her, the chain around his ankle making a soft clinking sound. She noticed that his left eye wasn’t swollen anymore, but it was still a little discolored, light blue, lavender, and yellow making an ugly circle of tie-dye on his otherwise tanned, freckled skin.

“And?”

“And that means the river will be lower. We’ll be able to see the rocks.”

“W-w-what r-r-river?”

“The Shenandoah, Holden. I keep thinking about the drive that day. I don’t think it’s more than a few miles away.”

Holden flinched, quickly focusing his attention on the sack of seeds to his right, and Griselda cursed her bald delivery. Mentioning the Shenandoah always upset Holden. But they had to escape. She couldn’t explain it, but lately she felt like the Man was giving up on their redemption. He was quieter, but his face was colder and meaner. She was frightened about what he’d do if he decided that they were beyond saving. They had to figure out a way to leave.

She knew Holden’s memory had gone straight to the day of their kidnapping because his stammer was worse than ever when he responded. “Th-th-three miles? F-f-five miles? You don’t even know for sure. And th-th-that’s a lot on foot, Gris. B-b-barefoot.”

They’d outgrown their old shoes long ago and hadn’t been given new ones. On the flip side, however, their feet had toughened up over the past two years.

“Holden, breathe.” She searched his eyes. “We have to go. I think this is our chance.”

“W-w-when?”

“Day after tomorrow. Sunday morning. It’s the only time he’s gone for a full hour.”

“He’ll c-c-come after us.”

“We’ll have a forty-five-minute head start.”

“W-w-won’t be enough.”

“It’ll have to be. We have to do this, Holden. Remember what you asked me? About him touching me funny?”

Holden’s head snapped up, and his eyes drilled a hole in hers. “H-h-has h-h-h-he—”

“No. No, not that.” She shook her head. “No. But his rants are getting shorter. The beatings are getting worse. I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid that he’s going to—”

“K-k-kill us,” finished Holden.

Griselda nodded.

“W-w-what if the w-water’s t-t-t-t-t—” He took a deep breath through his nose and held it before exhaling loudly. “—t-too high, Gris? I c-c-can’t swim.”

Holden almost never cried, no matter how bad things got, so Griselda’s heart lurched when his eyes watered and a tear escaped from the corner of his eye, rolling down the side of his dusty face and plopping on the dirt between them. She reached up quickly and caught the next one, curling her fingers around it.

“It won’t be too high. It’s dry. Hasn’t rained in eight days. He’ll come down with our breakfast as usual. Then he’ll go to church. As soon as we can’t hear his truck anymore, we’ll go too.”

“W-w-what about the, uh, l-lock?”

“Well, this morning while you were still asleep, I poked at it a little. The wood on the cellar doors is soft from all the snow we got this winter. I think, once he’s gone, we can use a hammer or some other tool and force a hole through it. We just got to be ready and move fast.”

She knew her plan wasn’t rock solid. It was a long way to the river. Several miles, at least, and that was if she remembered the direction correctly. But if they could get there, and get across it, Cutter would lose their scent. They’d cross over to the woods on the other side and keep running. Keep running until they were far away, until they were safe, until—

“Okay.” Holden’s breath was ragged, but when Griselda looked up, his face was stoic and his tears were gone.

She gave him a small smile, determined not to let him see how frightened she was. “We can do this. I promised I would find a way to save us. It’s my fault. It’s my—”

“N-n-no, Gris. It’s not your fault.” He shook his head, his gray eyes searching hers desperately. “G-G-Gris, whatever happens, I w-w-want you to know—I l-l-lov—”

“Ruth and Seth!”

Holden’s eyes widened, and he scrambled away from her, his ankle chain clanking loudly as he stood up quickly and reached down for the seed sack, which spilled open. He squatted down again, furiously trying to push the seeds back into the burlap.

“What’ve I told ya ‘bout idle hands, ya heathen filth?”

The Man’s boots thudded down the porch steps toward them. Griselda’s heart was in her throat as she turned away from Holden, digging small holes as quickly as she could, her hands trembling as she tried to keep the row straight and even.

“Ya don’t fool me, Ruth. I saw ya head to head with yer own kin, ya filthy gal. Plannin’ bold an’ lewd acts!”

Oh God, please. Please. Please not today. Please leave us alone.

“Temptin’ my brother into a life of wickedness beyond redemption. Whisperin’ yer whorish secrets in his ears.”

Griselda kept her head down, tears burning her eyes as urine slipped through her threadbare pink bathing suit, trickling down her thigh.

As best she could tell, he was standing right behind her. Then she heard the sound of his belt buckle being unclasped, and she dropped the trowel, hunching over until her forehead pressed into the dirt, and covering her head with her shaking hands.

“W-w-wasn’t her f-f-fault.”

The Man’s boots, so close to her crouching, shaking body, pivoted in the dirt.

“Come agin?”

“W-w-wasn’t her f-f-fault, sir. Sh-she needed some seeds, and I d-d-dropped ’em. Sh-she was only helpin’ me c-c-collect ’em.”

Griselda held her breath. It was so silent, she couldn’t imagine what was going on between them, but she still braced for the landing of the belt on her back. She protected her head, curled as tightly as possible, the dirt pressed against her face.

“She’s a-blindin’ ya with her evil ways, Seth.” The Man’s voice was thoughtful, almost gentle with sorrow. “I see it happenin’ all over agin. Yer almost lost to me.”

It felt like an eternity before she heard the Man turn and walk away from them, his footsteps slow and halting. She stayed curled in a ball until she heard the truck engine turn over, and then she finally unfurled her body, her crotch soaked, her muscles complaining.

She looked up at Holden, who held the sack of seeds, staring at the driveway where a puff of dust followed the hasty departure of the Man’s truck.

“We gotta go soon, Gris,” he said without stammering. “We gotta go soon.”

***

In his sleep, Holden had pulled her against his body. He woke up holding her in his arms, his heart pressed to her back, his lips a breath away from the warm skin of her neck. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he hadn’t woken up in the middle of the night, sweating and cold, the word
Rrrruuuuuun
reverberating in his ears like the echo of a gunshot. He’d fallen asleep with his hand braided through hers, listening to a story about Princess Moonlight, who was jealous of Lady Starlight and smitten with the Sun King . . . and he’d woken up with Griselda in his arms.

His knees were bent, spooning hers, and his erection strained uncomfortably against the confining denim of his jeans, but he ignored it because any discomfort was worth the heaven of holding her. Though his face didn’t hurt quite as bad as yesterday, his stab wounds were still tender, throbbing steadily. He tried to remain completely still. If he moved, she might move. She might move away.

Though he’d lived with Gris for three long years, and held her against his body more than once, he’d never had the luxury of sleeping beside her, or waking up next to her, and he savored this precious first—the warmth, the peace, the contact. And he hated that a month made it finite.

“Morning,” she said, her voice low and gravelly, her chest pushing against his arm as she took a deep breath.

“You’re still here.”

“Promised I would be.”

“What time is it?” he asked, closing his eyes and snuggling into the warmth of her neck.

“I don’t know.”

“Is this okay?” he whispered.

She turned in his arms, pillowing her head on her elbow, and pushing her strawberry-blonde hair over her shoulder. His arm was still draped over her hip, and he tightened it, pulling her closer. He felt it again—that thick, deep, heavy feeling in his gut that he’d felt yesterday, when she stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up at him—that feeling that life would end if he had to go another day without looking at her. It made his twenty-three-year-old heart beat fiercely with desire and longing. It took his breath away.

“It’s better than okay,” she said, the breath from her words kissing his lips.

Her eyes were bright and blue, and he looked away out of habit because blue eyes had broken his heart for ten years. It would take a little while to get used to seeing them staring back at him. He stared at her lips instead, pink and pillowed, and ached to kiss her, but common sense overruled him.
Don’t push her
, it warned him. Until he knew where they stood with each other, he needed to give her the space and freedom to let him know what she wanted.

“Where you been, Gris?”

“The Shenandoah. Then Charles Town. Then D.C. Now mostly Maryland.”

“Mostly?”

“I work in Georgetown.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a nanny.” Her lips tilted up as she said this. “For a little girl named Prudence. Her daddy’s a congressman.”

“Friends in high places.”

“‘Friends’ would be a stretch.”

“But they’re good to you? The McClellans?”

Her body stiffened. “How do you—?”

“You were talking to her on the phone last night and said her name. Mrs. McClellan, right?”

She took a deep breath, letting it go, and he felt her body relax. “Right.”

“Gris? You think if there’s any way I knew where you were that I wouldn’t have come to you? Nothing could have stopped me.” His voice broke, and he swallowed the lump in his throat. “But up until Saturday night, I thought you were dead.” He paused, blinking his eyes and working to control his voice. “I never looked for you. I’m so sorry about that. I’m so d-damn sorry I b-believed him.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she whispered, her voice tender in their fragile little early morning cocoon.

“I should have known he was lying.”

“You were a kid. You must have been scared out of your mind.”

Ruth’s dead, little brother, an’ you can thank me for puttin’ an end to her evil ways. She ain’t never comin’ back to torment you with her wickedness.

Holden flinched at the memory.

“I dream about him,” whispered Gris, her eyes tired and frightened. “Almost every night.”

“Last night?”

She nodded. “We were in the garden. Talking about leaving . . . escaping.”

Holden remembered the conversation like it was yesterday. “
I
used to dream about
you
. At the river. Almost every night.”

“Used to?”

“Maybe I still will, but last night I didn’t. I guess, uh, I g-guess seeing you alive, somehow . . . I don’t know. I just slept.”

She leaned forward to press her forehead to his. “I wish I could stop seeing him in my head, hearing the sound of that belt buckle . . . Leviticus . . .”

“Stop. D-don’t.” It was impossible to pull her closer since her body was flush to his, but he tried. “He’s d-dead, Gris. Caleb’s dead. C-Can’t hurt us ever again.”

“What?” She sucked in a swift and urgent breath, then released it, her body trembling against his. “He’s—he’s dead? When?”

Holden slid his hand up her hip, over her waist to her arm, finally landing on her face to cup her cheek, his thumb swiping gently over the damp softness. “A while back. He was hit by a car in Oregon. He’s gone, Gris.”

She shimmied down a little, bending her head into his neck, her shoulders shuddering as she dragged in a ragged breath. Silent sobs racked her body, and it killed him for two reasons: one, because only kids who needed to learn how to hide their tears cry that way; and two, because Caleb had been dead for six years, and she hadn’t had the peace of knowing he was gone.

“I looked for death records,” she said. “On the Internet. At the library. I searched for ‘Caleb Foster’ over and over again, but there was never anything . . .”

Holden leaned back, threading his fingers gently through her hair. “He d-didn’t go by Foster. He went by West. Caleb West.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding, tears still coursing down her face. “Caleb West.” She breathed through her nose, a jagged, jerking sound mixed with sobs. “I can’t stop crying. I don’t even know
why
I’m crying. I hated him. I’m not sorry.”

“You’re relieved,” whispered Holden, stroking her amber hair.

“Yeah, I . . . I am.” She took another deep, shaky, gasping breath. “How do you know? That he’s dead?”