Kelsey also pokes her head in every so often, making sure I’m alright, and helping me to change Monica’s soiled briefs.

We both take a break for some fresh air, and for the first time in a year, I bum a smoke from her.  It’d be nice to feel the warm comfort of a blade, but I can’t even consider doing that here.  Smoking a cigarette is my only option that won’t make my coworkers look at me as though I belong in an insane asylum.

Igniting the first puff, I can feel the nicotine coursing through my veins, down to the tips of my fingers and swirling around my head.  I close my eyes against the rush of poison, reminding myself with each exhale I’m releasing some of the tension from the night.  I revel in the familiar scent of burning tobacco, thankful I have something to use as a reprieve.  We don’t speak, Kelsey and me.  I love her for that.  She saw my red rimmed eyes and knows this is hard for me.

Returning to Monica’s room feels different.  The clock on her nightstand shows 5:43 in bright green glowing numbers.  Scooting up to sit beside her on the bed, I’m overcome with this feeling that it’s time.  I don’t know how I know that, but I do.  I can feel it in the room, in my skin, in my freaking soul.  If I believed in this sort of thing, I’d swear the Grim Reaper was standing in this very room.

I grab her hand, listening to the slowing of her rattling, shallow breathes, and I begin to comb my fingers through her hair.

“It’s okay, Monica,” I whisper quietly, my eyes fixated on her motionless face.  “Everyone is okay here.  David and the kids are doing just fine.  He told me he’s feeling very peaceful.”  I feel her hand move softly within mine.  I know she can hear me, so I keep talking.  “I’m sure you’re afraid, but you don’t need to be.  I’m here with you, and I’m not leaving.”

So suddenly it frightens me, her eyes snap open, fixating on something just beyond my shoulder.  She’s holding my hand tightly, her eyes wide, round with fear, and she takes in a deep rattling breath.

“Monica, I’m here.  It’s okay.  You can let go now…it’s okay,” I tell her, although I’m terrified at what I’m witnessing.  My own heart rate kicks up as I try to put myself in her place and imagine what she’s experiencing.

And just as suddenly as she awoke, her face changes.  Her eyes soften, almost as if the fear is melting away, and her grip loosens on my hand.  She takes one last deep breath and just before her eyes close, she smiles.

Holy shit.

She’s gone.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mr. Ryan

Four missed calls, two missed voicemails.  Now that he’s made contact, Brent has been trying to reach me all day, and I’m thankful my phone was turned to silent in my brief case.

It’s been two years since I had to lose the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’ve spent two years running.  The wounds haven’t healed; they tear open with even the slightest thought of her.   Any mention of her name sends my skin prickling into goose bumps, even now.  I know I should call them back, deal with what’s bound to come, but I just can’t.  I’m not ready yet, not prepared to revisit a pain so harsh it’s tucked down into the deepest corners of my being.  Resonates within my soul each time her face crosses my mind.

So I delete the messages without listening and erase the calls.  I hit the gym for the second time today and for now, pretend they don’t exist.

When I do get home after a rough cardio session, I revisit the email Melissa sent earlier.  Snatching a cold brew from my fridge, I load the message on my laptop and sink into the leather recliner.  Rereading the email, it’s not hard to see between the lines.  Never before has she reached out in such a personal way, and I know she wants more.  She makes it so obvious that she wants more.

I could be a dick about it.  Looking at the full body image of her in a provocative pose, scantily clad in a thin lace bra and matching panties, makes it so easy to be a dick.  Here she is throwing herself at me, when she should know it’s not necessary.  Desperate women don’t do it for me.  I could make an exception, keep using her the way she’s using me.  Instead, I dig deep for my integrity and dial her number on my cell.

“Hey there, Jack,” she purrs, using her nickname for me.  I bite down on the callous remark and try to handle this as nicely as possible.

“Hi, Melissa, look we need to talk.”

“Do you want me to come over?  I could be there in five,” she says, and I know that’s a horrible idea.

“No, I don’t want you to come over.”  I’m certain I can hear her pout through the phone.  Make it quick, dumbass.  “Look, that email you sent?  It was too much.  I promised myself I wouldn’t keep doing this with you if I thought you wanted more from me, and it’s been made pretty clear that you do.”

“It’s not that,” she whines, desperately trying to sink her claws into me.  “I don’t want more.  I’m happy with what we have.”

“I don’t think you are.  This is over, Melissa.  I don’t want to hurt you,” I sigh, because I really didn’t.  I thought we had been on the same page with our arrangement.  Apparently, I was wrong.

“And you don’t think that this hurts me, Jacoby?” Her breath shudders on my name, and I’m certain she’s crying now.  Damnit.

“I’m sorry if this hurts you, but it’s going to hurt a lot more if we keep up the charades.  This is over, Mel.  I’m sorry.”  I disconnect the call before she can say anything else.

Taking a long slow pull of my beer, I groan when my cell immediately starts buzzing in my hand.  Preparing to unleash my frustrations on Melissa, I’m surprised to see Brent’s number flash on my screen.  “God damnit!” I call out to no one, chucking my phone into the opposite wall.  It shatters it into several pieces.  I need to get out of here.  Chugging my beer first, I grab my coat and car keys, and head out to find a distraction.

After driving around town for an hour, somehow I wind up at a pub called Old Willow roughly 10 miles south of town.  The building is worn and squat looking with several heavily frosted windows lining the front.  Inside, the pub smells of cigarettes, both new and old, even though smoking is illegal indoors in Minnesota.  The air is dark and dusty inside.

Spotting a vacant stool on the far left corner of the bar, I take a seat, ordering a whiskey neat to start off my night.  Mindful of the fact I have school tomorrow, I promise myself not to have more than a few drinks to unwind before calling it a night.

A television above the bar is running recaps of last night’s baseball game, and it serves as enough distraction until the whiskey starts to mix with the beer and I find myself in more of a funk than when I arrived.  For the first time in over two years, I’m lonely.  I don’t want to think about my own life.  Instead of wallowing in self-pity, I wish I could think about someone else’s problems, offer support or reprieve.  And suddenly, for some reason unknown to me, I find myself thinking of Tatum.

It became clear to me this afternoon that Tatum has issues.  Something dark lives inside that girl, and damn, I can’t help but want to know what it is.  Normal people don’t have a panic attack out of the blue.  Her whole body shook and tears filled her eyes in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible by her usual demeanor.  She comes off as hard as stone.  Strong and sarcastic.  I had to fight back the urge to comfort her, and surprisingly, it was a strong urge.

Even after the night we shared, and her overly rude behavior since, I feel a strong pull towards her.  I want to figure her out.  I want to help.  Even if she doesn’t want it.  As a teacher, part of my job is to help and mentor students, and I’d bet money that she needs my help, even if she won’t admit or accept that fact.

I toss back the remnants of the burning liquid, relishing in the feel of it as it glides down my throat before calling over the bartender for another.