CHAPTER 28

Past

YES, I WENT for a run. Whatever. It didn’t mean anything. It was the middle of the day, I was having a mini–panic attack after a short conversation with Dr. Derek, and I laced up my tennis shoes and ran.

Well… ran/walked. Like those 5kers who can’t make it the full 3.1 miles so they plod down to a walk, their fists still enthusiastic in their swings through the air, ponytails bobbing, their heads jerking right to blab to whatever poor soul suffers along next to them.

My run was a little different than that. I started out strong, my tennis shoes smacking the pavement fluidly, my arms loose and in rhythm, my breath even and clear. Then I hit the fourth block and my exhales became a little ragged. Sixth block I had to shake out my arms. Tenth I cut left in preparation for my return home. Twelfth I began to wheeze. Fourteenth I stumbled to a halt and bent over, gripping my knees for strength.

It was so stupid. The entire thing. The “brilliant” idea I’d had to go and blow off steam. Because I’d done it in high school, when pissed at my parents or wound up over a test. Because back then, when everything in my life was rosy and perfect, I’d pounded pavement, chalking up three or four miles in one flawless, sweat-glistened athletic event, my heart pounding as I sprinted the final stretch home, my abs tight, endorphins high, grin triumphant. That was then.

My new reality, the one wheezing to a slow death against a fire hydrant, only sent me deeper down stress road.

I straightened, my heart pounding, everything coming into focus, the blaring sun beating down. The hard rattle of an approaching car. The woman, ten feet over, sitting on a step and bitching into a cell phone.

I suddenly realized a variety of things.

I was outside the apartment.

I was unarmed.

I was free.

I had walked slowly home, one tired foot before the other, listening to everything, absorbing it all. And I wasn’t sure, by the time I pushed a sluggish hand on my building’s front door, if the beating in my chest was from exertion or exhilaration.

“So, you went out?” The question came from behind me, an edge in Jeremy’s voice, and I turned, stalled, unwilling to put all of that into words. I had just apologized. And I wasn’t particularly used to apologizing. It felt weird. Icky. Ridiculously unnecessary. But half of me, the part that got panicky at the thought of Life Without Jeremy, insisted on it. That half of me was a nervous, weak little thing. I wanted to cut open her throat and watch her die. But instead, I’d just let her out, let her apologize. And Jeremy had seemed to respond well. He’d stepped inside. I’d seen the light enter his eyes. The hint of a dimple in his cheek. And when he’d followed me in, I’d given myself a little pat on the back, was already squashing the weak, apologetic half of me back down, into some dark piece of myself where she’d hopefully starve to death and die. Was busy doing all of those things when he asked the question. A simple enough question. One a thousand people probably used every hour, but it came out hard. Accusatory. And when I turned, he stood in place, his hands on his hips, eyes down, on my tennis shoes. The inside soles were probably still warm, the outside glistening from the puddle I hadn’t quite skirted.

“Yeah.” I folded my arms across my chest. For a run I almost said. But that felt like an excuse, an explanation, and I have enough of that with Derek. I didn’t owe Jeremy that. Didn’t need to ask permission from him.

“So… why can’t you go to my sister’s?” He looked up. “I mean, you’re obviously doing everything else.”

When the fury came, it was hot and red. I lunged without thinking, my palms hard on his chest, catching him off guard, and he stumbled back, his eyes meeting mine, leftover irritation turning wary as he raised his hands and scowled at me. “Deanna…,” he warned.

“Get out.” I growled the words, my hands in fists, and wanted to tilt back my chin and scream at the heavens. He stood before me, the kitchen too far, the butter knives in it useless anyway. The safe behind him, behind a stack of boxes that would take minutes to wade through. Nothing useful. Everything planned for moments of weakness like this.

“No.” He said the word with force, and I took a deep breath in, flexed my hands and regripped them. “We need to talk, Deanna, you can’t just go fuckin’ crazy on me whenev—”

“Get OOOUUUUTTT!” I closed my eyes and screamed the final word, my entire body shaking, the blissful black of the moment one I didn’t want to let go of. Not seeing his face. Not hearing his voice. Not hearing words like crazy or talk or no. I didn’t need this shit. I didn’t need a fucking parent pushing me, wanting things, asking for explanations. I needed my four walls. My prison. My solitude. My online world where I was fuckin’ prom queen and perfect. The world where my word was God, and they were all parishioners. The world where there was no black; there was only the pink of my bedding and the green of my cash. There was no blood, there was no dark, only 10,000 watts of warm light. The world where Mike understood me and everyone else worshiped me. The world that I could turn on and off. The world that wasn’t right here and now, confronting me and pushing my buttons and refusing to leave. I opened my mouth to scream again, my eyes still shut, my world still black, when the force of the door shook the floor, the whoosh of air giving me one blissful breeze of finality.

When I opened my eyes, I was alone.

CHAPTER 29

Past

WHEN JEREMY SLAMMED the door, the force of impact shook the whole floor. Why did she have such a heavy door? To keep her scrawny ass in? What a joke. Especially when she then proceeded to drive around. Walk outside. Do whatever she freakin’ pleased, except the one thing that he asked of her. One family dinner. So easy. Ridiculous.

He took a minute, pressing his palms against the filthy wallpaper and dropping his head, inhaling deeply. Rolled his neck to the side. Contemplated and discarded the notion of going back in. Pushing her further. Demanding an answer for once. He deserved that. After all that he’d—they’d—been through… one answer needed to be given. Hell. A hundred answers needed to be given. He should sit down and write a list. When he groaned, lifting his head up and turning, the girl was there. She, the blonde, was a freakin’ cancer. A cancer leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a friendly smile on her face.

“You okay? I think half the picture frames just fell off the walls.”

“I don’t think anyone in this building has pictures hung.”

She laughed, pushing off the wall. “You headed downstairs?”

“Yeah.” He dropped his hand from the wall.

“Me too. Come on, you can escort me. Unless, of course, you only talk to crazies.” She tilted her head toward Deanna’s apartment and laughed. She was in a soft blue sweatshirt today, one that covered her stomach and hid her curves. One that, paired with jeans, made her look more innocent. Less predatory. Yet he felt more vulnerable.

“She’s not crazy.” Part of his mind instantly argued with the words.

She clucked her tongue and tucked her hand under his bicep, squeezing the muscle there. “Easy, tiger. I’ll lay off if it gets you worked up.” She pulled gently on his arm, and he took a reluctant start down the hall. “Meant to tell you the other day. I love the uniform. Very sexy.” She gave his arm another squeeze, and he forced himself to relax the muscle.