Chasing Serenity (Seeking Serenity) (2 page)

Layla’s white blonde hair is twisted into a low bun at the base of her skinny neck, and her cropped top makes her thin waist seem even narrower. Her eyes are a stunning, vivid blue and her tall frame and long legs make her statuesque. Just ahead of me, Sayo’s dyed pink hair is twisted into a long braid, her pale skin slicked with a fine sheen of sweat. We couldn’t look more different, but these girls are my family.

Layla laughs about something Mollie says and Sayo joins them when a cramp seizes hard in my calf. I slow, trying to run past the pain but it’s no good.  I don’t stop them as they run ahead, they don’t need to see me struggling. But when I curve my back, biting the scream I want to release between my teeth, Sayo hears me.

A thunder of feet crowds me and I rest my hands on my knees. The girls pass glances to one another as though their impatience at my slow tread is somehow inconsiderate.

“Go on. I’ll catch up,” I say, scared I’ll see their concern. Sayo mumbles to Layla and Mollie and then she is next to me.

“Want some company?”

I nod and take two full steps until the inconsistent limp in my right leg clutches me with a cramp. “Dammit.”

Sayo doesn’t touch me, doesn’t offer pointless words of encouragement. She knows how I hate pity. “Maybe a stretch will help.”

“I stretched before I started.” I look down at my watch. “Fifteen minutes ago. This is ridiculous.”

“Didn’t your physical therapist tell you it would take a while?” Sayo’s voice is flippant, as though she’s trying not to sound like a nag. I appreciate the sentiment, but am too angry at my rebuking body to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

“I’ve been running since high school. I should have bounced back by now.”

“Autumn, your leg was shredded. You’re lucky you didn’t lose it. You can’t expect to be back to normal after five months.”

I ignore her, or try to, and take another step then curse when the cramp increases and sends me to the ground, cradling my leg to my chest. If I’m not careful, calm, the panic will surface. I hate that, hate that I’ve acquired panic attacks since the accident. They come unexpectedly, sometimes unwarranted and I am powerless against them. My heart beats so fiercely, so wild that my vision blurs and nausea works deep in my stomach. I won’t let that happen now. Not here, not because of some stupid drunk asshole or the cramp that I should be used to by now.

I take a breath, then another before the hard thump of my heartbeat slows. Sayo passes me a bottle of water and I try to jerk the top off, but my fingers aren’t cooperating, won’t stop shaking and I throw the bottle to the ground, let my head rest on my knees. The pain in my leg throbs, like metal twisting between sinew and muscle.

Sayo sits next to me and gives my back a tentative pat. “Alright, this is more than a drunken rugby player trying to kiss you. What’s going on?” She is always aware of my moods, my frustration, and can read me just by a slight inflection in my tone or moments when words won’t leave my mouth. My eyes blur and I squeeze them tight, unwilling to let any weakness show in front of my friend. “The nightmares, still?” she asks and I answer her with a nod, my cheek buried on my knees. “Sweetie, I’m sorry.” She nudges me with her elbow and I don’t care that there are tears leaking under my lids.

I shake my head at my pathetic break down. “It’s every night.” I wipe my face against the back of my hand. “The sounds, the smells of our lives ending, it’s all there and every morning, I wake up exhausted, restless.” My eyes blur over the still lake and I don’t care that I sound pitiful. Sayo is my friend. She never judges me. “Five months feels like a lifetime. It feels like seconds, and each day is a reminder, each moment with this limp, reminds me that I’m broken. That I’m alone.”
 

“Well, that’s total bullshit.” My head jerks up hearing Mollie approach. Her smile is easy, the expression on her face tells me she won’t apologize for interrupting my little whine fest. She sits next to us and is joined by Layla, who squats in front of me.

“Really, Autumn, total bullshit. You’ve got us. We aren’t going anywhere.” Layla grabs my sneaker and gives it a squeeze.

“That’s the truth. My God, I’m closer to you guys that I am my own sister,” Mollie says and I smile at her reassurance.

“Your sister is a pill-popping gold digger,” Layla says, shaking her head.

“She’s still blood, but you guys are my family.”

Sayo rests her elbows on her knees, but even the slouching is done elegantly. She can make sweaty running gear and bad posture look classy. Despite her pink hair, my best friend is flawless; beautiful porcelain skin, small eyes so dark that the pupils aren’t visible. She’s a gorgeous Japanese woman contrasting her beauty and elegance behind funky jackets and vibrant hair. “I know you hate hearing it, but it’s going to take time.” Her gaze lowers to her fingers. “I meant what I said, you’re lucky you can even walk.”

I can’t tell them what I’m thinking. They can’t know how scared I am, how worried I am that I won’t ever be the same again. They know me probably better than I know myself, but to show weakness, even in front of my closest friends isn’t something I can do easily. Still, I know their concern is genuine, that everything they say to me is meant to help. I wonder what they’d think about my plans if they knew what I really wanted. A cool, relaxed inhalation and then I level each of my friends with a determined look.
 

“Dirty Dash is in three months. I want to run it.”

If my friends think I’m ridiculous, they don’t mention it. They exchange glances, their faces free of doubt or surprise.

“You’re serious,” Mollie says. She and Layla gape at me, I assume trying to measure if I’m joking. Then twin smiles crack their mouths upward.

“Absolutely.”

 
“I’m game,” Sayo says. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t hesitate even for a second.

In an instant, Layla and Mollie become chattering boxes of girl glee.

“Hell yes,” Layla says, shooting upright as Mollie joins her. They are talking among themselves non-stop and I laugh with Sayo at their excitement.

“You’re gonna have to train every day,” Mollie says.

Layla interrupts with, “We all will.”

“I don’t want to attempt it.” That quiets them and all three of my friends stop moving, stop speaking to stare at me. I clear my throat. “I want to win it.”

There is a moment of silence and I wonder what they’re thinking. I wonder if I sound like an idiot, if my goal is hopeless. No woman has ever come close to winning the Dash. It’s ten miles of obstacles: tire lanes, mud baths, incline sprints, tar-slick walls, an ice-cold swim into a gutted railcar. But if I can manage it, if I can beat my time from last year, then I know I can heal, that I can be myself again.

To my left Sayo chuckles. I know what she’s thinking, what she imagines my point to all of this is and I have to admit that part of me has another agenda.
  “You want to beat Tucker’s time, don’t you?” she asks.

I’m not willing to confirm her suspicion, but as I look at Layla and Mollie, and notice the worry on their faces, curiosity distracts me from Sayo’s accusation. “What?”

Mollie nods in my direction and Layla releases a breath. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but my dad told me last night. Tucker’s back.”

I don’t know what to say, what to think and I recover from my confusion, my quick shock by fidgeting with my shoelace. “When?” I say, not looking at Layla. I hope my friends can’t hear the quickening beat of my heart.

“I don’t know when, but he’s back on the squad. Dad said he sent him to Europe to recruit.” Layla sits down again on her knees and I can feel her gaze. I think my friends are waiting for me to break down, to become a stupid sobbing mess. They should know better.

“Wait,” Sayo says. “I thought only the captains recruit with the coaching staff.”

“They do,” Layla says. “Dad gave him back captain.”

Sayo and Mollie’s reactions are typical. They both begin cursing Layla’s dad. Rugby is our town’s heartbeat, that simmering pulse that breathes life and love into our community and even if my friends’ family roots don’t run deep in Cavanagh, they know the struggle the squad endured when Tucker left last year. He had been the university’s superstar. His leaving had nearly broken the squad.

It had nearly destroyed me. 

“I know,” Layla says over our friends’ loud protests. “I told him he was an idiot. He didn’t like that, started lecturing me about what’s best for the squad. That man doesn’t care about anything but getting to regionals. If that means putting Tucker back in as captain, he’ll do it.”

“No loyalty in rugby, I suppose,” Mollie says. 

“You’re too quiet,” Sayo says to me. There is a smile on her face and faint creases wrinkling her mouth. She had been the first person I called the night Tucker left. She was at my apartment within minutes and vowed that if she ever saw Tucker Morrison again, she’d knock him out. It’s something best friends do. Especially when their friends have their hearts ripped out of their chest by their boyfriends.

“I’m fine. It’s been a year. I’m over it, really.” I don’t know if she believes me and I wonder if Sayo remembers that night as clearly as I do. He’d been demanding, much more than normal and in my mind I hear him, expecting, assuming. “You need to pack. We’re going to Europe so I can try out for Nationals.” He never asked what I wanted. My life was secondary to his. Always. When the wrinkles amplify around Sayo’s mouth, I smile, try to reassure her that I am not still pining over my ex. “Hell yes. I want to beat that smug bastard’s time.”

“Sweet.” Sayo’s smile is wide and we all become a collection of happy, confident laughs.

“Let’s get to it then,” Mollie says and I follow my friends as we continue down the road.

My steps are slow, but I fight through the limp and the searing cramp that threatens to stagger me. I wince each time my foot lands on the street, but ignore the pain, the aching thud that runs up and down my calf.

The climb ahead of me will be slow, stinging, but I’ve got my girls, I’m stubborn as hell and no amount of limping or drunken rugby assholes or returning ex-boyfriends is going to stop me.

Two

Dr. Nichols is a pervy sadist. My thesis advisor is so near to retirement, so uncaring about his obligations that he’s loaded me with his morning classes three weeks in a row. It’s an eight a.m. class. I don’t believe “covering for your hung-over adviser” is a part of my assistantship responsibilities. In fact, I’m certain it isn’t. Still, I’ve discovered that letting him have his mornings gives me a reprieve from his attentions. It’s preferable to him being in and out of my office all morning.

He cornered me last night just as I was leaving campus to ask if I’d take his morning class. He stared at my face for a full minute, then he ogled my breasts. He does that even when I’m not half naked. 

I don’t mind taking his classes in general, but I prefer Shakespeare and Fantasy to Nichols’ World Lit class. Besides, the fraudulent air of the students doesn’t make me eager to enter the classroom early. They speak in half-truths, with mock sincerity as though every syllable that leaves their mouths is littered with lie after lie. I remember what it was like to sit in front of a teacher. Uncomfortable, frustrating, sometimes boring. Though, my experience was a bit different.

Sayo and I competed academically. She focused on Library Studies, her dream to be Library Director before she was twenty-five, easily accomplished earlier this year. I finished my B.A. at twenty, am still working through my M.A. in English Renaissance Literature while my best friend gloats about being done. This group of students, though, never pays attention, never gets excited about the work and even if I am complete fraud, teaching a subject that isn’t my concentration, I’m capable enough to get the point across. But it’s not like they’d notice.

Nolan Hall makes the sting of waking up this early less biting. This building is at least a hundred years old. Ornate wood paneling surrounds the walls and plush red runners cover the marble floors. It even smells old, not like the bitter stench of mothballs or overpowering flowers, but the thick aroma of worn books or the sweet scent of aged wood and a burning furnace. Being here fills me with the sense of purpose, comfort, history, a stark contrast to the kids running past me, completely oblivious to the beauty around them.

I rub my eye to clear away a glob of mascara and then head to the restroom when I feel a stray eyelash stick into the corner of my eye. A tissue sorts out the eyelash and I glance in the mirror to make sure I don’t have any smears. Teenagers are ruthless in general. They are doubly so to teacher-types standing in front of them for an hour. I know I shouldn’t care, but I abhor gossiping girls and try not to give them a reason to critique or judge my appearance.

A glance in the mirror shows me that my hair has already begun to frizz in the overcast temperatures. It is ginger, not quite orange like my father’s, but nowhere near my mom’s beautiful chestnut. Her face flashes into my mind and a hard tremble runs up my spine. Last night, I was visited by her ghost again. The nightmares never leave me to rest. I can still smell the blood on my skin. I still feel the piercing tear of the steel rod pinning me to the seat. Without knowing I’m doing it, I rest my fingers on my stomach remembering the pain, but before I allow the usual anxiety to root me in the bathroom, I rest my head against the cool counter and take a breath.

To distract myself, I straighten, slide my fingers through my long hair, making sure it lies flat against my back, and bend nearer to the mirror and apply lip gloss onto my full lips. I ignore the shake in my hand and grip the gloss tighter.

A year ago, the “grown up uniform” I’m wearing today wouldn’t have seen the inside of my closet. Back then, I dressed like a kid because that’s what I was. Just a girl smart enough to race through her BA. A girl who believed in the impossible—fathers who didn’t leave, mothers who were invincible, boyfriends that would never break your heart. But life has a funny way of screwing with ‘just a girl’ kind of people. So now that girl watches herself in the mirror trying to erase thoughts of her mother’s endless, dead gaze, trying to forget the heavy weight of loss. I tidy my dark green, sensible button up and flatten the half sleeves, then adjust my black slacks, making sure the shirt isn’t untucked or that the belt isn’t missing a loop.

If my reflection could spill my secrets—those hidden, dark bits of my soul that are frayed by loss—they’d be a shocking disparity to the picture I present to anyone curious enough to look at me. That girl in the mirror would tell the world I am a con-artist, a hollow shell of who I once was. That girl, whose smile was eager, whose laugh was loud and honest died in the same wreck that killed her mother.

When I walk into the classroom, I feel like I’m surrounded by the living dead. Students are arrayed in various states of rest. Some sleeping, some trying to keep their heads from nodding, some already drooling on their desks. There are even a few making zombie-like noises as they fight to stay awake. A cluster of over-made up blondes huddle together in the corner closest to the door, their faces either lowered toward their phones or near each other’s ears. Another, much louder group of boys sits so far in the back I doubt they’ll be able to hear me lecture.

There is crew is in the middle of the auditorium classroom, their faces obscured beneath crimson ball caps with “Cavanagh Cocks” embossed in the center in white. Adorable, right? Our mascot is laden with sexual innuendo. The cap-wearing group is completely still, hunched down in their desks, their eyes purposefully avoiding me. Rugby players. Bastards. I narrow my eyes at these boys who may well intend on sleeping off last night’s bender during class.

I don’t think so.

“Dr. Nichols will be out today.”

“Again?” I hear a girl in the back of the class say.

“Yes, again.” I lay my bag on the desk at the front of the auditorium and pull out my notes. Only a few students actually pay attention. The rugby team hasn’t flinched and though I know they’re likely half asleep, I’m not going to let them get away with slacking.  I don’t care that Nichols is their faculty adviser. Donovan is on the front row snoring. I pick up the dictionary off the shelf and stand in front of him, then deftly slam the book on his desk. There is a collective gasp and he jumps about two inches off his seat.

“Morning, sunshine. Do you think you can manage to wake up?”

“Nichols said—”

“Nichols is seventy-eight years old and could give a flying fart about teaching his classes. I do the lecturing and the grading. You want to play the Nichols card?” I shift forward, just low enough so only Donovan and his teammates can hear me. My silver cross necklace moves as I bend toward them. “Or do you wanna piss me off and see where that gets you?”

“No,” he says. Donovan sits up and elbows the player next to him who clearly is capable of sleeping through a hurricane. “Dude, wake up.”

“Good. Let’s get started.” I walk to the front of the desk and sit on top of it, pulling out the text. “Okay guys, The Epic of Gilgamesh. It’ll be painless if you actually pay attention. We left off on table five.”

Fifty minutes later, the students bolt from the room like there is a fire and I’m at the center of it holding a can of gasoline.  Donovan offers me a smile, which I don’t return. He nodded off twice during my lecture. Anyone would be somewhat personally offended by his napping. Eager to grab a quick latte from the coffee shop, I shove my notes and textbook into my bag, not paying attention to the sloppy mess I make, which allows my folder with dozens of loose papers to topple out onto the floor.

“Awesome,” I say to myself. Several pages fan into the corridor and I’m convinced in my last life I must have been a malicious pirate, possibly a politician. This is my punishment, the frustrating job as Nichols’s assistant. The perpetual ineptness.
 

Two wayward sheets scatter near the door and as I crouch to reach for them, I am met with a pair of large Nikes in Cavanagh red. A rugby player who clearly hasn’t broken in his tennis shoes. Long, thin fingers grab the pages and I stand, my eyes following the stretch off solid, tan legs, heavily muscled calves, and a narrow waist. The wide, finely shaped chest and the familiar patch of brown hair peeking out of the collar of his jersey stalls my breathing.

For the first time in a year, Tucker Morrison stands in front of me.

“Hey sweetness,” he says.

Rational thought is held still as we exchange a look. Air refuses to enter my lungs and a large wad of dry cotton has taken permanent residence in my mouth. He seems older than the last time I saw him. He is tall, over six feet, with brown, wavy hair and sharp cheekbones. Tucker covers the awkward silence with a grin and my heart pounds as I notice the small chip on his front tooth, the only flaw on an otherwise perfect smile. I used to kiss that little chip. I used to pay a lot of attention to many of his fine attributes.

He steps closer and I don’t bother to move. I am caught up by how blue his eyes still are, how the sharp contours of his thick arms flex when he hands me the papers. Then I remember the last time I saw him. That night, our argument was loud and I threw books, candles, anything I could get my hands on; the disturbance shook the windows of my apartment and my neighbors called threatening to phone the police. It was the same night he broke my heart.

Two brief blinks sort out my shock and I jerk the paper from his hand before returning to the desk to finish repacking my bag.

“Come on, Autumn, don’t be cold to me.”

My eyebrow arches up. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

He sits on my desk as though invited and I move him away to collect the rest of my papers. “I heard about your little incident last night. I thought I’d rectify the situation.”

“What?” I finally look at him, surprised by his offer. “Why you?”

“I’m captain.” His admission is glib, as though it was the most natural development in our squad’s year-long drama when Tucker abandoned everyone for his own selfish pursuits.
 

“I heard.”

“I figured Layla would have told you.” Tucker rests back on his hand, his feet crossed on the floor. “Anyway, Mullens sent me to Europe to recruit a couple of months back. I’m just getting in from my last trip.”

Two months. It was just like him to skirt around me, hang back in the shadows until he was ready to make his triumphant return. “You’ve been back for two months?”

“On and off.”

The anger brimming in my chest at his admission is swallowed deep. We were together for two years when he decided to give the National Rugby League a shot. He didn’t consider what his absence would do to the squad and certainly not to me. I had no problem with Tucker wanting to follow his dreams, but when he expected me to put aside my own dreams for his without question or thought, then yeah, I took issue. That he assumed I’d follow him stung worse than him deciding to leave suddenly. Worst of all, I was his for two years and he couldn’t be bothered to call me when the accident happened.

The smug smile on his face only pisses me off. I get groped last night by one of his drunk squad mates and he swoops in trying to play the hero. “Funny how Mullens just let you back in and gave you captain again.”

“Why’s that funny?”

“Because, Tucker, you’ve been gone a long time. It took a lot of effort for the squad to get themselves sorted out.” I sit next to him on the desk, but don’t let him get too near me. “It’s kind of shitty that you come back in and screw with all they’ve worked to build.”

“Maybe I’m good.” My back stiffens when his arm brushes against mine and I immediately retreat, stand up to put distance between us. I don’t like how comfortable he is, how he purposefully disregards what I’ve been through since he left.

“You’re not that good. You’re entitled. There’s a difference.”

At my little dig, Tucker stands in front of me, arms crossed and a revealing flush of annoyance colors his cheeks. He would be dreadful at poker. He has too many tells. “Are you saying that I don’t deserve to be back on the squad?”

My face is relaxed, calm and I know it must irritate him. There was a time when the slightest elevation of his voice had me simpering and eager to ease his frustration. I’m not that stupid little girl anymore and so I am impassive, content to offer him a bored glare.

“I’m saying things are different now. You can’t expect that everything has remained unchanged since you left.”

He lurches toward me, tries to take my hand, but I step back further, fiddle with my bag. “Are we still talking about rugby?”

I want to laugh at him. He knows this little gesture would have been my undoing a year ago. He knows getting into my personal bubble was step one in the idiotic seduction dance we used to practice. It doesn’t affect me anymore. He doesn’t. “Why are you here?”

Tucker takes a moment to study my face and I guess he sees that I’m not affected by his close proximity or the way his eyes linger on my lips. He sighs, then rubs the back of his neck.

“I wanted to see you and I want to make things right with what happened last night.”

“How are you going to do that?”

He walks to the door and I relax, hopeful that he will leave. I hope that he understands that I am different. How can I not be? Death changes you. But then Tucker stops at the doorway, nods once and returns inside. My fleeting hope of being left alone diminishes. Anger quickly simmers in my chest when my would-be attacker struts through the door.

“What the hell do you want?” At my question, Declan stops in mid step. There’s an annoying smirk pulling his lips. He’s taller than Tucker, likely near 6’4, and wider, with a slight waist, broad shoulders and muscular arms. His gait is confident, smooth, as though every move he makes is managed with confidence inborn and natural. His mussed hair is midnight black and his green eyes are bright against his olive complexion. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in a week with heavy bags under his lids and burning red streaks in the whites of his eyes. On his arms are two full sleeves of tattoos; reds, blues, greens; he’s marked up like a five-year-old’s coloring book. I hate how handsome he is. I hate that I notice.