Finding Fate (9 page)

"Then...?"

Colt stands and looks out to the road.  There's something in his eyes that tells me he wants the open road.  To just go.  And that works for me. 

The he looks at me, looking humble.  Sexy, but humble.  He steps back to me and puts a hand to my face.

"Bella, if I start to touch you, like you want, I won't be able to stop."

"I'm not asking you to stop, I'm asking you to start."

His hand presses harder to my face.  I'm tempting him, and for the first time since we met, I feel in control.

"You don't understand," Colt says.  "I'm sorry about what happened..."

"What did happen?"

"It's a long story."

"I've got nothing to do, I cut out of work, remember?"

Colt smiles.  "Christ, Bella, you're fucking beautiful."

He moves in for another kiss and I back up.  I want this but am I ready for it?  There's more I should know, there really is...

"I've got to go," Colt says.  "I'll take you back to your car."

"That's it?" I ask.

"For today.  I told you, if this starts..."

Colt doesn't finish his sentence, he just reaches for the bike helmet and hands it to me.

"I told you everything about me..."

"No you didn't," he says.  "And soon enough I'll tell you something about me."

Before I put the helmet on, I ask one question.  "Are you in danger?"

Colt straddles the motorcycle and looks back at me.  "Only when I'm near you."

-Chapter 11-

 The bike ride feels endless.  I don’t want it to end, ever.  I’ve never been so enthralled by someone like I am with Colt.  He’s mysterious, like me, and he’s holding some pain in his heart, like me.  Could two pain filled hearts collide and create one heart?  I hope so.

 Colt rides down the street of A-Annie’s going slow.  His eyes scan the sidewalks, obviously looking for the man who wanted to come after him.  There’s no sign of the man so Colt keeps going, taking me to my car.  When the bike comes to a stop, my gut instantly wrenches, not wanting to let him go and not wanting to leave.

He looks back at me, smiling, sensing how I feel.  I can see it in his eyes that maybe he feels the same way too.  Maybe he wants to just go... just drive.   We have our memories, we can hold the good ones tight and throw the bad ones off as we go. 

I step from the bike and take off the helmet.  Colt leans towards me, taking the helmet and putting it behind him.  He reaches for me and I come close.  His hand is on the move and he touches my hair, sliding it behind my ear. 

“There,” he says, “your hair was a little messy, from the helmet.”

“Thanks,” I say.

We stare at each other.  I want to kiss him so bad but I want him to make the move.  I know he won’t make the move because he’s already warned me. 

“I swear, Bella, you’ll understand things,” he says.  He leans back and gets ready to leave.

I’m not sure what he means by it but as the motorcycle roars and Colt disappears into the distance, the horizon swallowing him whole, I know that Colt means everything.  Can’t there exist a connection between two people beyond the realms of talking?  I don’t need to know it all to know Colt needs someone. 

I climb into my car and start to drive, pausing extra long at the first stop sign.  I could keep going straight, following the faint exhaust of his motorcycle but I know that will get me nowhere. 

And speaking of getting nowhere, that’s where I’m going to head anyway.

I have to go open the bakery and finish working.  And then I have to go check on my mother.  In that order.

Lucky for me, I don’t find a line of people waiting at the locked door.  And the few customers I actually see (mostly people picking up orders) don’t say a word about the place being closed.  It pains me to imagine not a single customer has come to bakery while I had it closed.  Maybe Colt is right... maybe there’s just so much that needs to change...

I check my phone every couple minutes, wishing he’d text me, but he doesn’t. 

When it comes time to close, I do so in a hurry, wanting to get it all over with.  Half the battle is now done, the other half needing to see my mother.

There’s a piece of me that still acts like a child.  A piece that believes happiness can and will exist for everyone.  A piece that believes bad days come and go with no worries and with nothing remaining.  What that means is I expect to find my mother happy, alert, and sober.  Just like I did the other day.

I know better, but as I park in front of the old house and I open the old door to the house, the childish piece of me wants to believe it.

The first thing I notice is the house stinks of cigarettes. 

I make fists.

My mother better watch herself today.  I’m not the usual mood right now, thanks to Colt.  His unwillingness to touch leaves me burning, looking for anyway to release my frustrations at life. 

“Mom?” I yell.

I hear nothing in return but the sound of something clanking together.  I rush towards the kitchen, the first thing I do it look at the floor to see if it’s clean.  It’s not.  Why would it be?

I turn and see my mother standing at the stove, holding a pan in each hand, picking them up, and slamming them down to the burners.

“Mom?” I try again.

This time her head whips around. 

She doesn’t need to speak to tell me it’s not the day I had hoped for.

“Isabella!  You’re here...”

“Of course I am,” I say. 

I walk towards the oven and see the kitchen window above the sink open.  On the ledge rests an ashtray with a lit cigarette.  Most of the smoke is going out of the kitchen window but there’s plenty lingering. 

“You shouldn’t be...”

“Don’t tell me what I shouldn’t do,” my mother snaps. 

I freeze in place and look to the pans.  The one in her right has something small and charred in it.  The other is empty but smoke is rising of it from the intense heat.  I catch the subtle hint of oil burning and something really nasty and burnt. 

“What are you cooking?” I ask.

She looks at the pans and drops them for good.  Her hands reach for the knobs to turn the burners off.  She turns around and points a yellow stained tip finger at me.

“You made me burn my fucking dinner.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be.  My pork chops, ruined.”

“They were burnt before I got here.”

“Don’t tell me a thing,” she growls at me.  “How was your day?”

My mother never asks me that.  She never cares to know about my day or any other detail of my life unless it involves knowing how much money is in the cash register at the bakery. 

I don’t answer the question, my eyes on the search.

“Oh, don’t play your mystery finding game with me,” she says.

She opens the cabinet next to her head and pulls out the bottle.  The label is mostly peeled off, typical, but today the liquid is clear.  That’s a change, but not a good one at all. 

“Here, watch,” she says and twists the lid off.  It hits the counter and then falls to the floor where it almost sticks thanks to the filth.  She takes a big swig of the drink and then smacks her lips together.

“I’m going home,” I say.  “I just wanted to see if you were having a good day... like the other day...”

“Oh, because I wasn’t drinking?”

I don’t answer that question.  It’s obvious.

“It’s not the drinking that separates us, Isabella, okay?”

“Goodbye,” I say and turn. 

I can’t view this anymore.  Not after the afternoon I had with Colt.  More than ever I want to be on the back of his bike and just leave the world.  Forever. 

When I get to the entrance to the kitchen, my mother calls my name.  She yells
Isabella
in such a sweet, innocent way, it hurts more than the neglect and the drinking because it gives me a hint of what life could have been like.

I pause.

“You never told me how your afternoon was...”

“Fine,” I say.  “Just fine.”

“So closing the bakery and sneaking away for hours is
just fine
?”

Now it’s my turn to spin around, my finger in the air, pointing at her like a gun.  I probably look just like her but I don’t care right now. 

I’m speechless for a second, debating on what to do.

“You have no idea,” I say, keeping calm.

“I have no idea?  You don’t know what it’s like... now I have to do it all by myself.”

Okay, no more calm.

I charge at her, wanting to slap her.  My own mother. 

“I do everything,” I say.  “I go there, I work, I bake, I sell, I clean up.  I do it all.”

“You read recipes and sweep the floor.”

My eyes are filled with tears.  I don’t want to cry but I’m losing it.  “I need a break.  I can’t do it anymore.”

“What?  Is it a boy?  Sneaking away, like you’re in high school?”

“Better than getting pregnant in high school like you.”

Oh, that hurts her.

She comes at me and the alcohol saves the day.  She trips, stumbles, and reaches for the table even though its way too far out of reach.  Down she goes again, to the floor.  This time she manages to get up, which surprises me.  When she stands, she wobbles, but holds herself.

“You’re ungrateful,” she says.  “You’re lazy.”

“That’s why I’ve been holding the family business together on my own, right?”

“I manage the books.”

“You take the money.  And by the way, if you keep that up, we’re going to be shut down soon.  Enjoy.”

We both freeze and now she’s crying too.  It’s probably a sad sight to see, mother and daughter crying basically for the same reasons but still can’t find the middle ground to hug each other.

“The business is dying?” my mother asks.

Welcome to reality.

“Of course it is,” I say.  “One person can’t do it all.  And I’m tired of it.”

I think there’s a sense of clarity coming over my mother but I don’t trust it.  Not one bit. 

“So, what, you want me to show up and bake?”

I shake my head and wipe my eyes.  “I just want a mother.”

My mother turns her head.  She won’t go near the statement because she knows no matter what she does, she knows she’s wrong.  And unless she’ll admit that, nothing will ever change.

I let a few seconds pass by and then ask, “How did you find out?  About me closing?”

“Babs Ekert called me.  She had the house number memorized.  I forgot there was a house line.”

“There’s three phones in the house,” I say.  “Don’t they ring?”

My mother looks at me with dazed eyes.  “I don’t know.  I don’t remember.”

“So that’s how you live... you have no memory.”

“My memory tells me you closed what should have been an open business.”

“Because I needed a break.”

“Then go take your break,” my mother says.  She points, offering me to leave.  I already plan on leaving but having her point just makes it all too real and it makes it hurt.  “Go home.  The bakery is closed tomorrow.”

Fine.  It’s closed then.  I think of Grammie and my heart starts to twist.  I vaguely remember times when she worked seven days straight and if she did there was a break always coming.  Or she had the comfort of Grandpa.  They were happy so it wasn’t work for them.

This is torture for me.

Pure torture.

“You need to quit drinking,” I say.  It feels good to stand up for myself.  Finally.

“You need to quit bothering me,” my mother throws back at me, without so much as a breath.

“Fair enough,” I say as I take a step back.

I take another and then I’m gone.  I make it to the front door just in time to hear my mother sob.  It’s her drunken sob, extra loud, lots of tears, and emotions she won’t remember in the morning.  Tomorrow she’ll fight a headache and wonder why she feels like hell. 

She doesn’t think she lives in hell but she makes the rest of the world suffer in it with her.

-Chapter 12-

Becca-Ann and I are texting each other.  I need a conversation with her, so bad.

Can I tell you something?  About someone?

I wait impatiently and she writes back quick.  Good, it’s just me and her.

Someone?  You find a boy?  I hope so... you need it.  ;)

I didn’t plan on talking about Colt with Becca-Ann. 

It’s about Stevie.  He said he tried calling you... you should call him.

She replies.

Stevie?  Why doesn’t he text me.  Ugh.  I have no time for boys who are afraid of themselves or me.  Get a grip, right?  Tell me about your hottie...