Stolen (22 page)

The answer is no! They don’t know any of that because
they don’t know him!

Frantically turning from one side to another, I
contemplate what to do, where to go, when an SUV pulls in front of me. “Thought
you mind need a ride,” Bruce says, leaning over the center console, looking at
me through an open passenger side window.

Without speaking, I jump into the front seat, slamming
the door after me. “Go!” I command, as if he’s the getaway ride to my criminal
behavior.

With what I just did, I should be considered a
criminal. I ruined Rogan’s funeral, embarrassed mom, most likely upset Mrs. M
and made a complete ass of myself. What choice did I have, though? This is all
a sham, a colossal joke at Rogan’s expense. He would have hated all of that. He
wouldn’t have wanted everyone sitting around like sniveling fools. That wasn’t
who he was. He would have wanted people to laugh, to joke, to act normal, not
fake like everyone acts when they attend a funeral.

 “Anywhere special you want to go?” Bruce
interrupts my inner rant.

“As far from here as possible,” I respond coldly.

“You got it.”

The thing I love about Bruce is that he doesn’t get
emotional. He doesn’t let my bad moods put him in a bad mood. If anything, he
manages to pull me free from mine. He doesn’t take my tantrums personally and
doesn’t stop me from having them. He’s a lot like Rogan in that way, letting me
work things out on my own.

“Why are you here?” I ask in a voice much colder than
I intend.

“Honestly? Your mom called and asked if I could come.
She said you might need a friend.”

“And that’s you?” I pose the question.

“I guess you should tell me,” he answers, confused.
“Am I not a friend?”

“My mom said I needed a friend, so she called you! She
had to call you because there’s no one else! How pathetic is that that I have
no friends anymore? That the only person I talk to is you and I know that isn’t
going to change after the way I just tore apart Rogan’s funeral. No one is
going to believe I’m not crazy now. I just fucked myself out of any sort of
normalcy. I’ll never have someone to talk to besides you. I’ll never have
someone in my life who will want to love me! This is my life now!” I scream,
fisting and un-fisting my hands out of pure frustration.

Pulling into a gravel parking lot, I notice a small
pond in the distance as Bruce puts the SUV into park. It’s quiet, peaceful
here, wherever here is. It’s a beautiful sound, the sound of nothing but
nature.

Bruce wants to say something, I can tell by his expression
and the way he slammed the SUV into park, but I don’t want to hear anything
he’s going to say.

Freeing myself from the car, I run toward the pond,
stepping out of my shoes as I go, tying my hair up into a lose bun, unbuttoning
my shirt, stripping down to the cami I’m wearing underneath, stepping out of my
dress pants just as I near the water. I know I’m being indecent, swimming in a
public place in only a cami and my panties, but I couldn’t care less; I never
want to be in those clothes again.

I dive into the murky water. This is what I need.
Swimming clears my head. It makes everything bad disappear. As long as I’m in
the water life doesn’t exist beyond the strokes I make, the waves I create, the
sounds of the water splashing over my body. As long as I stay in the water, I’m
a normal, teenage girl with normal teenage girl problems.

I don’t know how long I’ve been in the water; I just
know I feel better than I have in eons. Looking to the shore, I see Bruce
staring intently at me from across the pond. Why he stayed this whole time I’ll
never understand. I should feel bad about wasting his time, but I don’t. He
wasn’t bound to me. I never told him he had to stay. For whatever reason, he
chose to.

Near the shoreline, I walk out of the water toward where
Bruce sits.

“I didn’t know you swam,” he points out.

“Yep, I’ve always loved being in the water. For as
long as I can remember I’ve been swimming,” I explain.

“You’re good at it.”

“Thanks,” I say, appreciatively taking the small towel
he hands me. “You always keep towels with you?” I question.

“Usually,” he responds with a smile. “I keep a spare
one for when I go to the gym.”

I try to smell the towel discreetly as I wipe my face
and wring my half down hair, hoping I won’t discover this is a dirty, smelly
gym towel.

“It’s clean. God, do you really think I would give you
a dirty, sweaty towel?”

I guess I wasn’t that discreet after all. “With you,
there’s no telling.” I arch a brow at him, showing my skepticism.

“Give me some credit, will you?” he responds with a
scowl.

“Fine, fine,” I concede. “You’re a pretty decent guy,
and I won’t pick on you anymore, okay?”

“I won’t know what to do with you if you treat me any
other way, though,” he points out, seeming distant, different somehow from the
Bruce I know.

“Are you okay?” I ask worriedly.

“Yeah, why?” he answers emotionlessly.

“You seem off. What’s going on?”

“Does it really matter?” he retorts.

“What the hell? Of course it matters. Talk to me.”

“I’m just so sick of this shit. It never ends. Every
day is the same as the day before. It’s monotonous. It’s going to drive me
mad,” he confesses.  

“What is? What are you talking about?” I plead for
answers.

“Jess,” he starts, reaching for my hand. “I’ve been
here for you the best that I could be, but I’m at a loss as to what to do from
here on out. It’s so hard to know what to say to you, what I think you can bear
to hear. I want to be honest with you one hundred percent of the time, but
that’s not how things can be right now. I guess I’m just a little worn out. I’m
sorry I snapped like that; it won’t happen again,” he promises, while nervously
strumming his thumb along the top of my knuckles.

“I’m not a weakling, ya know. I think I can handle the
truth, especially after everything that’s happened. If there’s something you
want to tell me, tell me,” I state matter-of-factly. I hate that he’s shielding
me from, from whatever is eating at him. Why won’t he just tell me?

“I think you’ve been through enough for one day. How
‘bout we talk later? I should probably get you home anyway; your mom is going
to be worried.” Getting to his feet, he dusts off his pants of the gravel he’s
been sitting on. He extends his hand to me to help me up.

I guess this conversation is over, for now anyway. I’m
not letting this go for long. Something is eating at him and I want to know
what it is.

I put my pants back on, pick up my shirt, and slip
into my shoes, following a silent Bruce to his SUV as if nothing happened, but
something did happen. I just don’t know what it was.

Three
Years Ago . . .

The car ride home is anything but comfortably silent.
Bruce is noticeably distant, lost in a deep place I wish I understood. When my
thoughts aren’t running rampant themselves I find myself openly gawking at him
as if he’s a spectacle. I suppose he is to me right now, an enigma of sorts;
not my typical Bruce.

“It’s pretty creepy the way you keep staring at me.
Think you could cut it out?” he asks teasingly, sounding like himself.

“I could, but now that I know it’s bothering you I
think I won’t,” I say cheekily.

“You’re such a pain in the ass, you know that?”

“I do, and you know you wouldn’t want me any other
way. I’m awesome and you know it.”

“You’re too much,” he says as a smile spreads across
his face that looked so sad moments ago. That’s so much better. I don’t like
sad Bruce.

“I think I’m just enough,” I correct him.

Shaking his head, he continues focusing on his driving
and the road ahead. We don’t speak anymore, but the silence now is okay, not
weighted and depressing like before. This is the type of companionable silence
I’m used to where it concerns him.

“Jess? Jess, wake up, we’re home.”

My eyes feel heavy. I blink repeatedly, attempting to
see straight out of both eyes, not just the one I have open now that’s trying
to make out where I am. I look to my left. Bruce is turned in his seat looking
worriedly at me. In front of me is the garage to my house. Looking at the
dashboard, it’s 5:32 in the evening. It’s after five already? How is that
possible? Was it so late when we left the park we were at? I can’t remember
what time that was.

“How long have I been asleep?” I ask, confused.

“Only twenty minutes or so; when we got close to your
house I took a detour the long way around town so you could sleep a little
longer. You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh,” I reply not knowing what else to say.

“Let me help you get inside.”

“Bruce, I got this,” I snap, pulling at his arm in an
attempt to keep him in the SUV. My effort fails miserably

“I’m helping you in and that’s that,” he says sharply.
The driver side door slams shut and he’s at my door in a few short strides.

“I don’t know why you insist on helping me in. I’m
perfectly capable. Ugh! You treat me like a child!” I whine. I know it’s
childish, going against my own argument, but I hate feeling so pathetic.

“Listen,” he snaps. By the look on his face, his voice
came out harsher than he meant.

 His hand is resting on my open door, eyes shut
tightly as if he’s in physical pain. All this over me not wanting him to escort
me to the front door as if I’m incapable of operating my legs by myself?

He inhales deeply, starting his sentence over, more
calmly. “Listen, I just want to know you get in safe, that’s all. Just give me
a break and let me do this, okay?” His eyes implore me to give in to his
request, which of course I do; I can’t seem ever to deny him anything he asks
for. 

“Fine,” I huff. “Just know I’m allowing this under
duress.”

“Noted. Now get your cranky butt inside before I put
you over my shoulder and take you in myself.”

 
I’m
cranky? I was perfectly fine until
his sour mood started this whole debacle. What a jerk to even think such a
thing, let alone say it to me. “You wouldn’t dare. Now get out of my way.” I
can’t get past him, no matter how hard I push at his chest. His body is solid
like a statue.

“Move,” I snap. Why is he being so antagonistic
tonight?

“You think I wouldn’t dare?”

Oh no, I see a strange look in his eyes. What is he
planning? A chain of events happen that goes much like this, I’m sitting in my
seat. I’m no longer sitting in my seat. Bruce has moved infinitesimally. I’m
balanced on Bruce’s shoulder, looking at the world upside-down. I’m watching my
front door open. Finally, I’m right-side-up, the pool of blood in my head
opening like a dam to the rest of my body.

It takes a few seconds before my equilibrium is
stable. As soon as it is, I punch Bruce in his gut, causing him to gasp. I know
it isn’t because I hurt him; I think just out of shock that I did it at all. He
deserved it!

 “Ow! What was that for?” he asks, rubbing his
stomach area as if wounded.

 “You know damn well why! You really can be such
a jerk sometimes, you know that?” I scold as a mischievous smile spreads across
his face. Soon we’re both doubled over laughing like morons.

  “Something funny?” Mom’s voice cuts through our
ridiculousness.

  “Not really, just Bruce being Bruce. I’m not
sure if you’re aware, Mom, that he has a tendency to overreact and throw
perfectly capable girls over his shoulder instead of letting them walk on their
own two feet. He’s a dangerous one, that man,” I say playfully.

 “Men!” Mom exclaims, throwing the dishtowel in
her hand at Bruce’s face. Mom and I both break out in a fit of giggles.

 “Geesh, you two are vicious. I wouldn’t want to
mess with either of you that’s for sure.” Holding up both his hands in
surrender, he steps over the threshold and back onto the front porch. “I’m
outta here. I’m scared of the two of you together.” He shivers in a dramatic
fashion.

  Now that he’s leaving, I’m overtaken with the
need to beg him to stay. This can’t be natural, my need to have him around me
so often, to feel so comfortable around him.

 Seeming to sense my shift in mood, he motions me
in for a hug. “You can text me later if you need to, okay?” he whispers into my
ear while squeezing me tight to his chest.

Breathing in his scent, I fight the tears threatening
to spill, the tears over his kindness, and the tears over everything this devil
of a day has thrown at me. I need to get into my room before I break down in
the entryway like I did at Rogan’s funeral. Oh, Rogan’s funeral! How could I
have been so selfish? What I must have put Mrs. M through.

“Thanks for being so great today, Bruce,” I manage to
squeak out before I dash for the stairs and the safety of my bedroom. I can’t
take any more of this, of anything. I need this day to be over.

The smack of my bedroom door latching closed welcomes
me like a fuzzy blanket. I feel as if I can strip the layers off. The layers of
tears from the day, those shed and those waiting to be let loose; the layers of
heartache; the layers of disgust at my behavior; the layers of uncertainty of
what my life will become; the layers of funeral clothes I’m wearing. Ugh! I
have to get out of these clothes!

Stripping down to my underwear, I throw the pile of
clothes in my hand into the wastebasket by my desk. I’ll never wear them again
anyway. They’ll always be “Rogan’s funeral clothes” and I don’t need any
reminders of this day beyond those already singed into my brain cells.

Rogan is really dead, like really dead. I saw him;
well, I saw his casket, but that was enough to confirm my worst fears—he’s
gone, never to return to my welcoming arms or me again.

I cry.

Tears dry up at some point, but when is of no
importance to me. It was all useless activity in the useless hours that now
make up my useless life. Hours; that’s all that matters now. Hours will drag
on, sure, but that’s what I deserve, and I can dream that one day the sum of
those hours will lead me to my Rogan.

The vibration of my cell phone on my nightstand pulls
me from my self-inflicting punishment, forcing me back into this reality; a
reality I don’t belong in, a reality I’m stuck in as if in limbo.

Rubbing my eyes, I look at the screen of my phone.
It’s 2:08 in the morning. When did I fall asleep? It doesn’t feel like it’s
been that long since Bruce dropped me off. I guess time flew by while I was
pouring my heart out into my pillow while stripped down to bra and panty. I
never stopped for a t-shirt or anything, just passed ‘go’ and went straight to
bed and an onslaught of tears. Honestly, is it normal for one person to have
this many tears stored up inside?

Checking what Bruce’s text message says, because, of
course, it’s Bruce; who else would text me at two in the morning! I read this:

Bruce:
Are you awake?

Me:
I am now.

Bruce:
Oh, did I wake
you?

Me:
No, I had just woken up.
What’s up?

Bruce:
Not much. Just
wanted to check on you.

Me:
Afraid I had broken
irrevocably?

Bruce:
Hardly. You’re
stronger than all this. One day you’ll know that. I just know this has been a
hellish day for you, so I wanted to see how you’re faring. So?

Me:
I’m fine, really. The
day is over and I survived. I suppose I’ll live another day.

Bruce:
Don’t sound so
thrilled about that. It’ll start to get better.

Staring at the screen, I debate what to say. Do I want
to tell him I am
not
thrilled about living through another day? Do I
tell him I hate when people say “It will get better,” “Just take one day at a
time,” or best yet “They are in a better place;” all trite expressions that no
one means, words that people are programmed to say in these types of
situations.

They’re all just useless, meaningless words, and Bruce
just sent those despicable words to me via a text message. Gotta love how
modern technology manages to perpetuate these hated expressions. 

Bruce:
I’m sorry. I
shouldn’t have said that. I know you must hate hearing it. It’s a nasty habit I
have from all my years on the force; you lose creativity on how to express
sympathy after so many tragedies. Not that I’m saying I pity you or anything.
Ugh! I don’t think any of this is going to come out right. Maybe I should just
leave you alone before I say anything more. I don’t want to upset you. I’m
sorry.

Me:
Relax. I’m not mad. I do
hate any and all expressions associated with death or any other tragedy, for
that matter, though. I find it fake and trite, doing no more than irritating
those spoken to, so I’m sorry if I seem snippy.  

Bruce:
How about we just
move on, forget I ever mentioned anything of the sort. So, about that pizza. I
think that after the sucker punch I took to the gut, you now owe me a pizza.

Me:
 I do NOT owe
you a pizza! And yes, I used shouty capitals!

Bruce:
I’m not sure if I
want to buy you pizza now . . . you’re MEAN! Don’t think I won’t use shouty
capitals on you!

Me:
Who’s being mean now? Do
I need to remind you that you’re the one who suggested it to begin with? Don’t
be an Indian giver!

Bruce:
Did you really
just accuse me of being an Indian giver? I thought only six-year-olds made that
accusation. You can’t give me ammunition like this for all the times you tell
me you aren’t a child. Just saying.

Me:
I just said it, so I
guess six-year-olds don’t hold the patent to the expression and fyi, I’m not a
child for stating how childish you’re acting over this conundrum we seem to
have found ourselves in, all over a pizza, might I add.

Bruce:
The fact that you
just associated a six-year-old with a patent, I’ll concede on buying you a
pizza. I would never have thought those two things could go together. You never
cease to amuse me.

Me:
I’m not sure if
the fact I amuse you should be taken as a compliment or an insult, but since
it’s getting me a free pizza, I’ll let it slide.

Bruce:
You should take it
as a compliment. That was how it was intended. Few people make me laugh, so
it’s a good thing—trust me.

 Bruce and I continue with useless banter via
text for roughly another hour before I relent to his nagging me to go to sleep.

Sleep is anything but restful. I’m thrilled to see the
sunrise out my window. Smelling the coffee brewing downstairs, I know mom is
up. Sliding into my blue fuzzy slippers, I run my hand through the mess that is
my hair; I never brushed it after the swim yesterday. It feels and smells funky,
but I don’t care at the moment.

 I stop briefly outside Cass’s room, wondering if
she’s home yet. Surely she would have come in to see me if she were. Maybe
she’s downstairs already?

Taking the stairs two at a time, I bound into the
kitchen with a flourish, excited to see my baby sister. I miss her so much, it
feels like I haven’t seen her in months, but there is no Cass. Mom is sitting
at the island, drinking coffee and reading the paper. Looking up, she nearly
chokes on the sip of coffee she just took.

 “What on earth are you doing up so early? And
what’s going on with your hair?” Her face is contorted in confusion or pain at
my appearance, I can’t be sure.