Pulled Within (29 page)

He lifted my hand and pressed his lips against it. “Can I do anything now?”

I tried to smile, but it didn’t work. “You’re here. That helps.”

Seven days
.

He looked toward the ice cream parlor, which was several blocks
from the diner, and he seemed to recognize how heavy the image was for me. “Do you even feel like eating?” I shrugged. “We can go grab
coffee instead, head to some place that’s quiet.”

“No. Let’s eat.” I didn’t know if the food would stay down, but
at
least there would be something distracting, hopefully to keep him
from asking a lot more questions.

He reached forward to hug me, and my body stiffened. So he backed away a bit and kept his hands low, rubbing circles along my
back. I kept waiting for them to move, for him to reach for my face. I didn’t need any more reminders of my scars.

I wished I could have convinced my brain that hands weren’t to be feared—especially Hart’s. The part of me that felt strongly for him
wanted to take his palm and press it against my cheek so I could
smell his scent and feel his warmth against my mangled skin.

But the part of me that knew how much it would hurt kept that from happening.

***

As I was heading back to the trailer where our office was
located, I
noticed a white car parked at the bottom of the driveway—a Lexus. It was the same one Hart had climbed into a few days before. I moved carefully to the side of the trailer, hidden and out of sight
from anyone who walked by, and I tried to peek through the windshield. The tint on the windows was too dark to see inside.

I heard the door of the trailer open.

“No, no…don’t come up,” Hart said, as he climbed down the
front
steps. He was putting on his jacket, shouldering his phone as he
spoke. “I’m coming out right now.”

I watched him rush to the passenger door and open it. A
woman’s hand reached across the center console to move a purse off the seat. Her nails were painted dark red.

The car drove away, and I felt my phone vibrate in my back pocket.

Another unscheduled meeting came up. Probably be home late.

Something crawled into my stomach as I re-read Hart’s text and
it churned the food around like debris in a windstorm. Hart was
only partly to blame for the way I was feeling.

Seven days.

Even though I hadn’t reacted well when Saint had chosen to be
with Drew, I really wasn’t a jealous bitch. With Saint, it wasn’t about loving him or if he loved me. It was feeling like I had failed him.
With Hart, I
was allowing him to see the deepest part of me, showing him the
depth of my pain, and he hadn’t returned the trust. He hadn’t told me what
these mysterious meetings were about, or the woman they were
with. They couldn’t have been any more personal than what I had shared,
yet his text was so cold. That made it difficult to believe they were
truly only business meetings.

I felt like an idiot for trusting him.

I had another choice, but now that I’d reached this place with
him, I hated the thought of it.

KNOWING HART’S VERSION
of coming home
late
meant
sometime
after ten, I stopped at Caleb’s after work to buy a dime bag. I hadn’t smoked since I’d moved in with Hart, but tonight I wanted a buzz,
like
the glass or two of wine people drank with dinner to take the edge off. Something that would let the clouds drift over my body and
keep the claws and fangs of the day from doing any more damage than they already had.

I sat in one of the two Adirondack chairs on the back porch. Hart
had already cleared out and stored all the rest of the furniture for
winter. The arms were just wide enough to hold the plastic cup that
I’d use as an ashtray, the pack of rolling papers and the small sack of weed.

I listened to the quiet and broke up the bud.

Some people used dollar bills or rolling machines. Not me. My fingers pushed the paper up the back side of my hand in one fluid
motion. The
result was a perfect joint. It wasn’t a quality everyone would find attractive, though most of the guys I’d dated had been impressed. I couldn’t imagine Hart would have been. It was probably best he
never see that part of me.

I lit the end of the joint and relaxed into the chair, resting my feet on the handrail of the deck. It really felt like December; the sky had been dark for hours already, and the air was crisp and sharp.
Endless fog poured from my mouth as I exhaled, warming the chill. Everything around me was frozen, but heat had entered my chest. Subtle at first, then stronger as it spread, like a new spring day.

I took another drag, just as my phone vibrated. Hoping it was
Hart,
I pulled it out of my jacket pocket.
Unknown.
Over the past several
weeks, that word had appeared many times on the screen.

Too many, actually.

Considering the timing of the calls, there was no chance the
caller was truly unknown.

Seven days
.

I couldn’t confirm that it was Gerald, but I had this strong
feeling it
was him. I didn’t understand what he could possibly want to say to me,
or why he hadn’t just left a message by now. Nothing he could say
would
bring my brother back, or make me forgive what he’d done. His
words couldn’t make me whole again.

Fuck him for even trying, and for thinking I would listen.

I hit
ignore
and dropped the phone on the armrest. The weed
helped a bit to settle the storm inside me, but things still churned. The more I thought about him, the queasier my stomach turned. All I could see were his hands.

His fingers.

His touch.

It would have been easy for him to get my new number; small towns never held secrets for very long, especially when other family members still lived there. I wondered what else he knew about
me…where I was
living, or working, or my relationship with Hart. Did it really matter
if he knew any of those things, anyway?

Part of me wished I had answered his call so I wouldn’t have to
question this anymore.

Part of me didn’t want to waste another minute thinking about it.

The phone vibrated against the chair, and I jumped from the
sound. I almost dropped the joint on my lap.

New voicemail.

I took a deep breath and swiped my finger over the screen.

Eighteen seconds. That was how long the message was. It was
more than just a hang-up. It was his words.

His voice.

I filled my mouth, then swallowed the smoke into my lungs
while
still holding the joint to my lips. I didn’t want that little sliver of weed to be too far away from me…not when it was the only calm within my reach. The only thing his presence on my phone couldn’t
take away from me.

After a few more hits, it was down to a roach. I set it next to my phone and stared at the screen. There was always a chance it wasn’t
him, that it was some pesky telemarketer or one of the guys who
blocked their caller ID, or a wrong number.

The gnawing in my stomach told me otherwise.

I could delete the message without listening to it. Then I’d wonder even more about what he wanted to say to me. I could wait
and listen
to it later, when I’d had time to work up the courage. Really, there was no reason for me to do that. Courage wasn’t going to be found, especially when it came to him. As much as I didn’t want to hear it, I
had to.

I had to know.

I sucked in a mouthful of air and held the phone up to my ear as
I hit the button to play the message. My free hand slid under my
knees and I rocked in the chair, slamming my back against the wood, then folding forward to help alleviate the pain in my stomach.

Back and forth
.

“Rae…”

The sound of his voice saying my name held me still.

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.” His tone hadn’t
changed at all; it was still raspy from years of smoking, like he was always on
the verge of a cough. His sound was almost as rough as his skin. “Since you never answer, I figured a message might get you to call
me back. Darren’s birthday is coming up…”

The ache in my stomach shot to my chest when he said my
brother’s name.

He had no fucking right to speak that word.

I began rocking again, faster, though I knew it would only help my dinner work its way up my throat. “I need to talk to you. Call me
back,
please.” He said his phone number, which meant I now had a way to reach him, a connection I’d severed so long ago. I tried swallowing the surge of saliva that filled my mouth. It was a warning, a rush before the flood. I needed to get to the bathroom. “And Rae? Don’t make me keep calling.”

I dropped the phone and ran inside, heading for the nearest
toilet. I
gripped the edge of the porcelain as my mind wandered past my
retching
stomach and my heaving chest. It wandered to thoughts of his
hands—the
hands that had touched me until I was sixteen years old. Hands that had stroked my head and brushed my hair, fingers that were meant to soothe me, to express love, to keep me safe and sound. All they
ended
up doing was hurting me. They hurt everyone who came into
contact with them.

No one had known that better than Darren.

***

“It’s Mom’s birthday,” I said. “I want to wear something really special. Not just jeans and a fancy shirt.” I left the rack of tops and moved over to the display of dresses.

We’d driven all the way up to Bangor
—
which had the nearest
mall
—
and had made our way through one of the two department stores. We’d started
in the boy’s section to get Darren a nice button-down and a pair of jeans
that didn’t have holes. Boys were so rough with their clothes. Still, he was pretty excited to buy some new stuff.

But now that the three of us were in the girl’s section, Darren was
hanging back several racks behind us, leaning on the clothes like they were a pillow.
“I’m bored,” he said. “I’m gonna go to the arcade. I’ll catch up with you
guys in a while.” Darren didn’t wait for permission. He just left.

Shopping was one of the few times when Darren didn’t like to hang out
with me. I didn't blame him; he was an all-black-and-holes boy. Being
surrounded by all the frilly stuff made him anxious and uncomfortable, even though he
knew pink wasn’t my favorite color. That color was worn by the girls who liked the sun to shine directly on their faces, who smiled as they stood on their toes and twirled in a circle for everyone to watch. Everyone always
clapped for pink.

That was why purple was my favorite. It was for the girls who liked the shadows.

I didn’t need the sun in order to sparkle.

My hands ran over the row of blue dresses, the red ones and the dark
lavender.
They weren’t wicked girly like the pastel colored ones and decorated with
lots of
fluff. They were fitted, tight through the stomach and chest, widening a
little at the waist. They were all sleeveless and perfect for dinner.

“Aren’t those a little old for you?” he asked.

Whenever I left the house, he would look over my outfit to make sure I
didn’t look too old
—
whatever that meant. I was twelve. I was still in a
training bra and had acne on my forehead. It was impossible for me to look old.

“We’re in the teen section,” I said. “And I’m a teen, so these are my
kind of clothes.”

He stood at my side, his glare as stern as his voice. “Sweet girl, the teen section is for high school. You’re in middle school.”

“I’m going to be with you and Mom and Darren, so it doesn’t matter
what school I’m in.”

“Rae…”

“This isn’t fair,” I stomped. “Mom gave me money to find something to wear, and this is where I want to shop, and you’re
—
”

“How about you buy any dress you want, but I get to pick out the
sweater that you’re going to wear over it? Deal?”

I could take off the sweater when I got to dinner. It was Mom’s
birthday,
so I knew he wouldn’t fight with me in front of her about doing that, especially
if I told him I was hot. I wondered what he’d say about the eyeliner and
mascara I planned on wearing. Maybe I’d do it in the car, so he wouldn’t be able to tell me to wash it off before we left the house.

“Okay,” I said, finding my size in each color. “I’ll wear a sweater.”

He lifted the hangers out of my hand. “Good girl. Now…are these the ones you want to try on?”

I nodded. I’d only looked through one rack, but the colors were cool, and one of the dresses would look good enough.