6
"I guess you'll need a little back story first," I clear my throat. "My dad died before I was two, my mom had pictures, but I don't remember him.” I sigh, but keep going, “My mom loved my dad. She referred to him as her split-apart, a soulmate you know?” I don’t remember ever telling anyone this before, “She was still a great mom. Sometimes she'd get sad, but she had faith. She knew they'd be together again one day, so while she grieved, it didn’t stop her from living.” I smile a little thinking of her, “I had a great childhood, did all the cool stuff. My mom never had to work, but she volunteered all over once I was in school.”
I don’t really know how to talk about the happiness we had before Darryl, so I finish with, “Years passed, and we were happy.” My tone changes, “Then one day when I was about twelve, I guess he started stopping by, just to check on us of course.” I lean with my hip against the wall, reflecting on how it all started, “We had some kids vandalize our barn, and he was a deputy. After my mom first called into report the incident, he started dropping by to check on us. He said, ‘It isn’t safe for you gals living on your own so far from the city.’” I shiver, remember his voice, “The visits became more frequent and would last a little longer. They liked talking to each other. He was nice to me and nice to my mom.” I don’t like to admit that, because of all he had done, “I was getting older and hanging out with friends, so I didn't mind much. I was a bit shocked when they got married and he moved into our house, I was thirteen." I nod my head, “It happened so quick, him living with us.”
All the talking makes my mouth dry, so I decide to grab another water, "You want anything?" I move to the fridge. Surveying my options, I change my mind and grab a beer instead. I think I'll need it.
I twist the cap and take a long pull.
When I move the bottle away he says, "I'll take one of those." I grab two more and return to the sofa. I plop down and curl up. " I figured you for a wine drinker," he says taking one of the bottles.
"Nope, I actually don't drink very often, but every once in a while I get a hankering." He's quiet for a little bit. I know I'm not off the hook. By no means was the first part of my story an explanation for my actions. Beyond the sudden need to drink, it hasn’t been too difficult to talk about it. I continue with a "Better get this over with." I take in a deep breath and speak, "I was thirteen and life was still pretty good. He never tried to replace my dad. He just tried to fit in around us, ya know?"
"What changed Sammy?" I nod, but frown, knowing this was coming.
"My mom, we lost my mom." I whisper looking out the large window. I feel my eyes begin to sting with tears. I hope he doesn't notice.
His warm palm glide over the top of my hand, and he laces his fingers with mine.
"It's fine Sammy, we don't need to do this." I want to, I haven't told anyone besides Rita what happened. I feel like I need to tell someone.
I don't look at him but start talking again, my voice a little detached, "It was an accident. No warning, she was just gone. I was fifteen.” I take in a deep breath and let it out as I sit, “I never saw him drink before, but the night of the funeral he got wasted.” I continue to hold his hand, but my shoulders shrink in, “I didn't know what to do. My mom had just died, and now he was acting strange. I didn’t know how to care for him, so I just let him rant and rave about losing her. He passed out on the couch." I hate talking about this part, "I was taking his boots off when he woke up and started talking to me like I was her, like I was my mother." My laugh cuts off into a sob. I regain my composure a bit and look at him through tears to say, "I can't believe---I barely know you and I'm telling you all this toxic shit."
His hand squeezes mine.
I look away again, "He became a different person. Looking back, I don't think it was just the alcohol. It was like he snapped and used drinking as an excuse. Some nights he would scream at me, hateful things, until his voice went hoarse---” I look down at our hands and trace his fingers with my free hand, “Other nights, he would---get abusive,” I can’t go into details. “Every fucking night, no matter what happened he'd give me a red carnation.” I move my hand to quickly wipe at my eyes, “He turned something my mother loved into something I hate. I stayed for a year out of respect for my mother at first, then from fear. He was really good at the fear part." I blow out a few deep breaths, I feel dizzy from all the deep breathing, but I am also calm for the first time since I saw those flowers. "I ran to New York, to Rita, before it could get worse. I was more afraid of what would happen if I stayed. She was my mothers best friend from college, and she had the means to hide me away. She taught me how to survive and tried to help me feel powerful and safe. She put me through a few self defense classes, and we tried therapy." I pause.
"That's it. That’s why I'm a paranoid freak. Why I can't have a normal life. And why I freaked out on you tonight and the other day, because seven years later---I'm still scared he'll come for me, like he promised."
Beau's jaw is flexing, he's grinding his teeth, and his nostrils flare slightly with each long inhale he takes. He’s angry, but for once I'm not nervous or worried about the anger projected in his expression. I'm actually kind of comforted, oddly enough, because he's angry for me, not at me.
I bump into him, "How's that for oversharing. You are the only person alive that knows that story." I frown, “I’m sorry to make you hold my secret. It’s probably not the explanation you were wanting.”
He stays quiet for a little bit longer then looks at me, "Don’t be sorry. Thank you for trusting me with it."
I feel relief. He's not looking at me like I'm crazy or like he feels sorry for me. I didn't realize I was so worried how he'd react until I got it.
On the table, our bowls are a mess of melted ice cream, neither of use having ate much. I stand and take them to the kitchen sink and rinse them off. He follows, grabbing his empty bottle and mine that's still half full with one hand. With the other he takes the bottle that hasn't been opened. He places them next to the sink.
"So, you have to work tomorrow again?" I nod my head as I put the bowls in the near empty dishwasher. I empty the contents of the bottles down the sink and rinse them out. I put them under the sink in the recycle bin. I hate returning bottles, but New York has enough trash.
"Yeah, Zoe, the woman who usually works the weekends, her daughter is sick.” I wash my hands and put the full bottle back in the fridge. “I'm covering. I'm thinking of hiring a few more people in case something like this comes up again." Now that we're talking about work, I can't ignore what happened yesterday.
"I want to apologize for Anna. I don't know what came over her yesterday. I reprimanded her after you left. She knows if anything like that happens again; I'll let her go. So, you don't have to be afraid she'll attack you again if you come back to the store." I grin trying to make light of my overly serious apology.
Beau chuckles, "She couldn't scare me away." Butterflies erupt in my stomach, I hope this means he's willing to deal with her to see me, but he may just he like my store that much.
"Have you started the book?" I blurt out. Beau’s brow furrows, like he's confused, but then his eyes go wide. His lips tip into a half smile, the left side raises, and a dimple makes an appearance.
"I did. Almost done in fact. I'm curious though sweet Sammy---are all the books you read so dirty?"
I falter when he calls me sweet, "Ahh---." I stammer, "Sa---some are---others---it's just implied sex scenes. I mean that doesn't give so many details.” I try and correct my statement, but it gets worse, “Some have more---it just depends on---the authors and the genre really." I smile sweetly at him to hide the awkwardness I am currently feeling. I decide to turn the tables, and feel a bit confident with saying, "I could give you some recommendations.” I have had to have this conversation before with grandmas, men, women, and everyone in between. It comes like reading from a script, “Are looking for something with a little more detail, perhaps a little more vanilla, or is there a certain kink you have in mind? Male on male?"
Beau's mouth drops open, he points at me.
"You're kinda naughty. I've heard about you sexy librarian types. I better watch out for my virtue." He moves his hand up to his chest, his expression scandalized.
I wish I had a pair of horned rimmed glasses to adjust.
