Not Looking For Love: Episode 5 (2 page)

"It's why I fucked up that last job that got me arrested. Must have been some subconscious death wish on my part," he says after awhile. "Like I wanted to be punished for it or something, you know."

I wrap my arms tighter around him, my fingers digging into his side, his body hard as rocks. "Bad things happen all the time. I'm not even sure we do anything to deserve them."

"You don't?" he whispers and I nod hard, lifting my head so I can see into his eyes.

"I wish I was as sure as you," he mutters, his eyes opaque like a piece of thick glass. "But then again, I actually caused most of the shit that's happened to me. You didn't."

I have no idea what to say, how to contradict him. Only I should, because his pain is rising between us like a tidal wave, high enough to consume us both when it crashes.

"Everyone makes mistakes," I finally mutter.

He chuckles, but it sounds more like my mom's deathly coughs. "You realize sayings like that don't actually make anyone ever feel better. Except maybe the person saying them."

And I do know it, agree with him completely. I balance on my elbow, and move his chin so he's forced to look at me. "So maybe I used a worn out phrase, Scott, so what? I still meant it, and everything that goes with it."

"The worst mistake I ever made was letting my brother go to prison instead of me. And I can never fix that," he says. Tears are collecting in his eyes, rolling, threatening to spill at any second. I shouldn't have spoken to him so harshly. But I've never met this Scott before. The one with problems worse than mine. Or maybe I had, and I've just been too blinded with my own. But this isn't about me.

He inhales through gritted teeth, and rolls over onto his side, facing away from me. "I fought him for months, while he wanted me to plea my way out by giving him up. Then I saw a guy get stabbed in the neck with a chicken bone over nothing. Like literally nothing." He's sobbing now, his fingers unable to stem the flow of tears. My own are a thick, hard ball in my throat, so I can't breathe, let alone speak. "He knocked over the guy's juice box, for fuck's sake. A juice box. And he bled out all over my food tray because of it."

"So right after, I told Derek sure, you can witness shit like that instead of me. Only without that last part. And now you're the only person who knows that. Because that's just the kind of spineless, coward bitch I am. Which all fits with how I'm crying over it in front of you."

The scene he described is playing in my mind like a movie, and I can't even untangle all the emotions permeating it. But I do know it's nothing anyone should ever witness.
 

I reach out and run my palm across his cheek, but he jerks away from me, rolls over all the way onto his stomach.
 

I sit up, leaning against the headboard, my knees pressed against my chin, arms wrapped around my legs. Things I could say, should say are racing through my mind at a million miles per second, but I can't catch any of them. Which might be for the best. Scott's shoulders are shaking, his sobs loud and raspy.
 

After awhile, he stop sobbing, his breaths evening out. I relax my arms, running my hands down my calves.
 

"I should really get a pedicure soon," I mutter, surprised to hear my voice.

Scott rolls over and gazes at my feet. "It looks alright to me."

I slide my feet back under the blanket and lay down, pulling him to me. "Don't get mad again, but I think everything will be alright. Eventually it will, right?"

He moves closer and I cradle his head against my breasts. "If you say so."

"I do say so," I whisper, running my fingers through his hair. And I have no reason to make such a bold claim, but every fibre of my heart is letting me know I'm right.
 

It's light outside when I open my eyes, but I'm wide awake, as though I haven't slept at all. Scott's not in my arms anymore. He's leaning against the headboard now, looking off at the far wall, cradling his broken arm against his stomach.

"What time is it?" I mutter and sit next to him, pulling the comforter up to my chin.
 

He's as pale as my white sheets, and the circles under his eyes are dark blue, almost black.

"I don't know, like seven," he says.
 

I wrap my arms around his neck and lean against his shoulder, closing my eyes again. "It's so early. We should sleep some more."

"I can't," he whispers, and he's not exactly moving away, but I feel like I should maybe release him, like that's what he wants.

"Why?" I mutter and snuggle closer anyway. Maybe he wants to talk more. If not, he'll tell me to stop asking questions.

"My arm's killing me, for one thing," he says, flexing the fingers poking out of his cast.

"I'm sure we still have some painkillers, if you want," I offer, blinking hard to chase away the memory of my mom's face twisted in pain. Pills didn't help her much toward the end. Nothing did.

"With all the vodka I had last night, I'd rather not risk it," he says, his body still completely rigid. "Maybe later."

I unhook my hand and stroke his left bicep gently. "Is it very painful?"
 

His arm tenses. "Maybe if you stopped leaning on me, that might help."

I jerk back, smacking my head against the headboard. He's staring at me from under his eyebrows, his eyes grey like the cold dawn outside, and I know my mouth is open wide, my eyes bulging out, but there's nothing I can do to stop it. For as long as I live, I will never understand how he can go from the blue eyed Scott who doesn't want to hurt me, to this cold menacing stranger in the space it takes other people to take a breath. And then he does it again, as his hand gropes for mine, and his eyes turn the color of a sunny spring morning, right after a hard rain.

"Or maybe it wouldn't," he whispers.

I grip his hand in both of mine, but don't lean against him again.

He sighs and leans his head back, staring up at the ceiling. "It's gonna be such a long day today."

"What are you going to do?" I ask, terror's iron fist gripping my throat, making my voice squeaky and brittle. I can't stop picturing the cold morgue, the bloody sheet.

"I'm gonna go see my dad. Hopefully Marjorie won't be there anymore, but she probably slept over. Then I'll probably have to finish the shit Mike started last night—"

"No!" the yell leaves my mouth faster than the thought which preceded it. He winces because my nails are digging into his palm and shakes off my hand.

"There's no other way, Gail," he says evenly like he's talking to a dumb five year old. "No one wants me over there. Mike probably spoke for all of them when he came at me with the bat last night. But I think I kinda have to go see them anyway."

"How can you say that?" I shriek. His eyes are the color of dirty snow again, none of it melting.
 

"Which part?" he asks, like I'm the one talking dumb.

"All of it. Scott, accidents happen. Your brother went to prison instead of you, I'm sure he could see something like this as a possibility."

"How does that change anything?"
 

His chest is heaving, rosy color rising in his cheeks. And I have no words with which to make it alright. His phone rings somewhere by the door, and I scramble off the bed to get it for him, thankful this conversation is paused for now.
 

I hand him his jacket and sit on the edge of the bed, as he fishes the phone from the pocket.

"Yeah," he says.

"Where are you, Scott?" I hear Andrew's voice through the phone, clear like he's on speakerphone.

Scott's eyes lock on mine, and there's no trace of ice or snow in them now, like it all melted while I wasn't looking. "Around, why?"

"I have a locksmith here, at your place. Come get the keys," Andrew says, and Scott mutters OK, already climbing off my bed, holding the phone against his shoulder and cradling his left arm in his right.

"I have to go now," he tells me, releasing his phone so it bounces off the bed and lands on the floor.

I get up too and look around for my jeans. "I'm coming with you."

"No, Gail." He's already pulling on his pants, wincing, his eyes frozen again.

I walk over and help him dress, standing so close my head brushes his chin as I straighten up. "I want to help you with this. You'd do the same for me."

He gazes at me for a moment, his expression stuck between the mean, menacing Scott, and the one who loves me. "It could get nasty."

"Which is exactly why I should be there."

He lays his hand on my lower back and pulls me closer, resting his cheek on the top of my head. "No, Gail. That's why you shouldn't be there."

 
He smells of clean sea air, my fabric softener and alcohol, and I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my head into his chest. His heart is beating faster than mine ever could. "You can't stop me."

CHAPTER THREE

Andrew's waiting for us at the curb in front of the bakery. Soft snowflakes are dancing on the air, settling in Scott's hair, and my entire chest is struggling to fill with the childish glee I always feel on the first day of snow each winter. Only today, the glee is stuck under the heavy, immovable slab of panic and pain. And I'm not even sure all of it is my own. The shrill sound of a drill echoes from the alleyway that leads to Scott's apartment.

"I wish you'd told me you weren't spending the night at home, Scott," Andrew says, his breath misting between us. "You really scared me."

Scott is looking past him, rubbing his eyes with his right hand. His left arm is hanging across his stomach in the sling I fashioned out of an old scarf, and I hope it doesn't hurt anymore. "Well, I didn't know you'd come here at dawn."

"I didn't think you'd fix the door on your own," Andrew says and his eyes flick to me, the only sign that I'm really standing there, that I didn't actually stay behind in my bedroom. "Did you tell her?"

Scott nods, and I take a step closer to him, wrapping my arm around his like a pantomime answer to the question Andrew's really asking. I did stay and I am here now, not going anywhere.

A short, stocky guy carrying a toolbox comes out and hands Andrew a set of keys. "All done."

Andrew reaches into his pocket and hands him some cash.
 

"You could've called me last night, Scott," the man says, pocketing the money, his eyes stopping on my breasts just a little too long. "I would've come."

"Alright, Tom, thanks. Maybe next time," Scott says, his eyes piercing the man's back as he climbs in his truck so hard I'm surprised he isn't keeling over.

Andrew hands the keys to Scott, and adjusts his hat, sending snowflakes tumbling to the ground. "How about some coffee?"

"I think I should go see Dad," Scott mutters.

Andrew sighs and shakes his head slightly, but only I see it, because Scott is still looking off down the street.
 

"Is Mike there?" Scott asks.

"No, but Marjorie is," Andrew mutters.

"And later I thought I'd go see Derek. Can I do that today?"

Scott's eyes finally fix on Andrew's and I know he wants to be told he doesn't have to do any of it. And judging by the expression on Andrew's face I almost believe that's what he'll hear.
 

"Alright," Andrew finally says. "But maybe she should wait here."

I grip Scott's arm harder. "No, I'm coming."

Scott shrugs, his shoulder bumping into my neck. "She's kind of used to getting what she wants."

"Stop talking about me like I'm not here," I say, my voice echoing in the silent street, like maybe I'm really not.
 

Scott smiles down at me, but mostly with his eyes. "See what I mean?"

"It's just that it won't be an easy visit," Andrew tells me, and I was so wrong. His eyes are nothing like Scott's, nowhere as mysterious and deep.

"I'll be alright," I mutter, and then we're walking along, tiny snowflakes landing on the pavement in front of me, all perfect and unique, soft as dreams, and just as fragile.
 

Andrew holds the door open for us once we reach the house, and the stuffy heat inside hits me like I've just walked into a furnace. The TV is blaring with some children's shows, and kids' laughter echoes from the living room. I feel more than see Scott cringe, as I help his take off his jacket.
 

When I look back down the hallway, a tiny girl is standing in the doorway to the living room, with a long strand of blonde hair wrapped around her finger. She can't be much older than five or six.
 

"Uncle Scott!" she shrieks, and then the hallway is filled with her thumping footsteps as she runs toward him.

I step out of the way as he crouches, pulling his cast from the sling moments before she crashes into his chest, her thin arms wrapped tightly around his neck.
 

He lifts her up. "How are you, Amanda?"

"I knew you'd come, Uncle Scott," she shrieks and I'm swallowing hard, blinking, because all I'm seeing is me and Sarah playing in the sands, seconds before the storm took her from me forever.

A boy pokes his head through the door, a baby bottle hanging from his mouth. It falls to the floor with a clank and he runs forward too, wrapping his arms around Scott's leg.
 

"I told Luke you'd come," the girl is saying. "And Mommy. I told her too."

It all only takes a few seconds, but I feel like I've been standing in this hall for hours, maybe days.
 

"Come here, Amanda, Luke!" A short woman brushes past me, knocking me back against the coatrack, as she tries to pull both of her kids away from Scott at the same time.

Scott tries to put Amanda down, but she's still holding on too tight, and her mother is screeching now for her to let go, tears running down her cheeks like rivers.

"Alright, Marjorie, calm down," Scott says, and pries Amanda's hands from his neck.
 

"Don't tell me to calm down, Scott. You don't get to tell me to calm down!"

Luke is already standing behind his mother, his eyes wide, shooting from Scott, to Amanda and his mother, his bottom lip shaking like he's about to start crying too.