Marshmallows for Breakfast (54 page)

He orders coffee, I order a glass of water.

Once we're alone, we sit in silence. Me, staring at the door beyond his shoulder and the world going on outside the window; him, watching the man behind the counter making his coffee. When we have our orders, he still waits in silence. Ten minutes have passed and he still hasn't said a word. So much for all that “I need to see you” urgency. I look from the door to him. Our eyes meet and—I hate myself for this—I look away.

“You've got sixteen minutes left, then I'm going. I don't mind sitting in silence—I have nothing to say to you.” I sound cold. Calm and cold. It's a surprise to realize that I sound that way not because I've forced myself to sound that way but because I am. The initial shock and fear have drained away; now I feel nothing. Such a dif fer ence from when we accidentally met at the hotel last year. Then, I thought I was going to die just from being in his vicinity.

He clears his throat. “Kendra, I think … I've …” He smiles, no, grins. “I'm making a mess of this.”

I look from the door to him then away again. “Kendra, I've come to apologize for that night.”

“What night?” I say as I examine the dimples on the slice of lemon floating in my water.

“You know which night,” he sounds confused,
“that
night.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I say into my water.

“I'm talking about the night we had sex …” he begins.

I raise my head, meet his gaze straight on. “But we didn't have sex, Lance. We didn't have sex, we didn't shag, we didn't fuck and we certainly didn't make love.” I stare straight at him. “You raped me.”

He's taken aback. It shows on his face. I'm probably the first one who's said it to him. It's his turn to look away. First into his coffee, then at the wall behind me. “I'm sorry,” he says quietly.

“What for?”

“For that night.”

I lower my voice. “Which night? The rape or the sexual assault?”

“Both,” he replies without a second thought. Just like what he did to me. He did it without a second thought. He planned the first time, of that I'm sure, but he did it without a second thought. “I really am sorry. What happened was wrong a—”

“And criminal.”

He pleads with his eyes, his face, for a break. However, his voice says: “I've, um, been going to anger management classes and I've seen a therapist. I've found myself help to deal with what happened.”

“Good for you,” I say sarcastically. “It's great that you can deal with what happened.”

“I feel so guilty about it. I'm sorry, Kendra. I'm so sorry.”

“No, you're not,” I reply.

He meets my gaze, surprised. He was probably expecting me to say it was OK, or to accept his apology in gracious silence. He still thinks he knows me. He still thinks I'm the woman who wouldn't dream of causing a fuss. The woman who quietly went home on the train, instead of walking into the nearest police station; the woman who thanked him for the lift and place to stay, instead of screaming in his face that she was going to tell the world what a monster he was. He expects that Kendra to listen while he manipulates her.

“Kendra…”

“If you were really sorry you wouldn't be here. If you were truly sorry it would occur to you that maybe I'm happy and that I wouldn't want to think about you. Being sorry doesn't mean asking for forgiveness. It would mean realizing that no matter what, you could never make up for what you did, so you'd leave me alone. Being sorry doesn't mean threatening me so I would come to meet you and then asking for forgiveness with a disingenuous apology. You are not sorry.”

“Kendra, I am.” His eyes fall shut, he shakes his head. A tiny sob escapes his lips, his voice swells with regret and sorrow. “I am truly, truly sorry.” Practiced. All of it practiced.

“What for?”

He opens his eyes, a veneer of surprise and caution covering them. “For what happened, of course.”

“What happened or what you did?” I press.

“I… I'm sorry.”

“What for?”

“Kendra, give me a break. It's taken me a lot to do this.”

“I didn't ask you to come here,” I say with a shrug. It doesn't occur to him that it might have taken a lot for me to do this. To sit opposite him. To be anywhere near him. It doesn't occur to him that he may turn my stomach in the way rotting meat turns my stomach. I only came because I didn't want him following me home, coming anywhere near the children.

He lapses back into silence and I lapse back into clock-watching.

“Kendra, we're going to have to find a way to get on because I want to see our child. He or she must be, what, twelve, thirteen now? I've missed so much already, but I want to make up for it now. I want to be a part of his or her life. At least tell me if I've got a son or daughter.”

I stare into my drink, delaying the moment I have to tell the truth.

“Kendra, are you listening to me?”

I steel myself, raise my head and look him in the eye. I try not to flinch as I flash back to the way his eyes glared into me at the station when I jerked away as he tried to kiss my mouth. “I told you before, you do not have a child with me,” I say, my voice strong and even. “I only told you that to stop you trying to rape me again. I knew that was the only way to stop you. I did not have your child.”

The hopeful expression drains out of his face as he goes white as alabaster. “I don't believe you. I saw the child seats in your car, I know you've got children and if you lied about that, then you're lying about this.”

“I'm physically incapable of having children. I found that out a few years ago. And the car seats? I borrowed someone's car. I did not have your child. I lied about that to stop you from doing what you were doing. I would have said anything to stop you.”

Silence settles around and over us. He glares at me, I stare back at him. I want him to know he cannot scare me anymore. Now that I've acknowledged what he did, he cannot scare me. He looks down suddenly and I know he believes me. He knows the truth at last and he will leave me alone.

I get to my feet, reach inside my bag and fish out a fiver. As I sling my bag across my body, I drop the note in the space between my glass and his coffee. “This one's on me, since I won't be seeing you again.”

I leave the café without looking back but I know he's three steps behind me. I make it to the edge of the pavement then spin to face him.

“I haven't finished with—” he begins.

“I was so scared of you for so long but now I don't know why,” I cut in, my voice slightly raised. “You're pathetic. I built you up in my mind to be this powerful man who could crush me, when really, you're pathetic. I know eight-year-olds who are scarier.” With every word that comes from my mouth I see his anger rising, his face becoming a mass of red, his hands slowly clenching into fists. I glance down at his fists, huge and fearsome, they could hurt me. I glance back up at him.

“If you hit me I will go to the police,” I say evenly, reasonably. “I'll go to the police and I'll tell them why you hit me. I'll tell them what you did to me all those years ago. They may believe me, they may not. But it will go on record, and it will be brought up if there's ever a similar complaint against you. So go ahead and hit me. I'll only feel it for a few seconds. You, on the other hand, I will make suffer for as long as I possibly can.”

He does nothing. His body stays rigid, on the cliff-edge of punching me. His turquoise, violet-flecked eyes meet my black eyes. I don't look away.

Slowly, he smiles, no, grins. The sly, evil grin of a predatory animal. “You were asking for it,
bitch,”
he snarls through his smile. “And I gave it to you.”

“Yeah, and I survived. You tried to destroy me and I survived. How pathetic does that make you?”

Miraculously, slowly, Lance breaks eye contact and turns away. And, just as slowly, he walks away. He doesn't look back, doesn't even acknowledge that he knows I'm standing here. He walks up the cobbled high street and out of my life.

Then I'm shaking. All the terror trembling my body. I did think he was going to hit me. I did think he'd try to kill me. But I wasn't paralyzed by the fear. I could reach out for the switch that would bring the light and make the monster go away.

“All right, darling, come ‘ere often?” Kyle says, coming up behind me. I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, coming around to stand in front of me. “Sorry, I'm so sorry.”

“It's all right, you big silly,” I say. My jumpiness will probably never go away, I've accepted that.

“Sure?”

I nod, still watching Lance walk away.

From inside his jacket pocket, Kyle produces a bag of pink and white marshmallows. “The kids wanted me to give this to the Lolly Lady,” he says. “In lieu of them not being invited to her party. Why didn't you tell me you hadn't told them where we're going tonight?”

“I didn't tell them, Kyle, because I am not an idiot. I knew they'd go mental. Rather you or her than me.”

“They were not happy. They sent these to make her feel guilty, I think.”

“Well, it won't work, the woman has no shame. She's making you do all the shopping for her party.”

“Me?”

“Yup, she rang earlier with a list that I'm supposed to pass on to you.”

“Why me?”

“She likes you, I guess. You'd better be careful, she might try to get you to pay for her wedding.”

His eyes widen momentarily and I have to curl my lips inwards to stop myself laughing at his horrified expression. He's so easy to wind up. Kyle gazes down at me, his eyes taking in every inch of my face, and realizing I'm ribbing him, he smiles. The grin envelopes his already beautiful face. I love the way he does that. I love the way my best friend smiles.

I loop my arm through his. “Come on,” I say, spinning him towards the direction of the supermarket, “I'll give you a hand with the shopping.”

“Hey, who was that good- looking man I saw walking away from you when I turned the corner?” Kyle asks.

I shake my head. “Nobody,” I say. “Absolutely nobody.”

MARSHMALLOWS

CHAPTER 52

K
endie, when you go to Australia, you have to take us with you,” Summer says to me.

We're out buying birthday presents for their parents— their birthdays are three days apart in November. It's late October and cold. I haven't gotten used to the British winter yet. The frost seems to hang in the air and lick at your skin if you stand still for too long; the chill is always looking for a way to sneak inside your clothes and hug you.

So far we've bought Ashlyn a digital picture frame from the pair of them and a pair of killer heels in black satin— one from each of them, which we'll wrap individually. We're heading for an art supplies shop down at the other end of town. I reckon they should buy their dad a drawing table for his nonwork art as well as papers, pencils and drawing pastels. The pair of them hadn't been so sure of the present, but I told them we had to encourage their dad to be as good as they were. They'd agreed with that.

“Yeah,” Jaxon says, “if you take us, New Garvo can see his brothers and sisters.”

My Australia plans are on hold. I've been saving for a year now and have a decent amount put away. Will and I still speak every day and we saw each other for a whole twelve hours six months ago when he brought his kids over to visit their grandparents. We still want to be together, but… but. We're realistic. We've talked through all our options—even
the most painful ones—and we still want to be together. But… but.

I stop and gently tug them into the rectangle of a shop doorway that's closed on a Saturday, so we can be sheltered from the crowd on the street. “Who said I was going to Australia?” I ask.

“Dad said you might go back,” Jaxon tells me. “He said you want to go back to your boyfriend.”

“I thought Dad was your boyfriend,” Summer admits. “But he said no. He said he wants to be your boyfriend and that he has been in love with you forever and ever and ever amen, but your boyfriend lives in Australia and you want to go there. You have to take us with you. We'll be good.”

“Really good. I want to go on the plane,” Jaxon explains. “I want to see kangaroos.”

My eyes look over Summer. I've plaited her hair with six thick cornrows that lie like smooth, silky lengths of rope away from her face, secured at the ends with different colored elastics. Her hair is mostly hidden under a thick blue woolly hat and she's wearing her black Puffa jacket, which makes her look like a snowman and brings out the freckles scattered across her nose. Her navy-green eyes, flecked and ringed with mahogany brown, watch me closely as she waits for my reply as to whether I'm going to take them with me.

My eyes then take in Jaxon. He has a blue beanie on his head and is wearing his black Puffa jacket. His freckles are scattered across his nose but reach out onto his cheeks. His eyes, identical to his sister's, watch me with the same intensity as hers.

“Listen, first of all, I love your dad, too. But I prefer him as a friend. It's just better that way,” I begin. “And, yes, I was thinking about going to Australia, your dad was right about that. And, yes, my sort-of boyfriend is there, but if I was
going to go I wouldn't be able to take you with me because your mumma and dad would miss you too much.”