Chasing Peace (15 page)

Suspicious, I pursue. “What do you mean? Boston got to me in
time—at the party?”

“When I couldn’t find you, I went looking and ran into him.
He tore that house apart until he found you, thank God.”

I had one memory. “I saw Boston’s face looming above me, but
I don’t know where or when,” I confess. “It felt like a dream.”

“He opened every door until he found you in the attic. He
carried you out to the car and held you in the back seat, all the way to your
apartment. Boston’s a good guy you know.”

“I know. It’s me who’s all screwed up.”

“You don’t love him?”

“I’d love to love him, but I can’t. There’s too much risk.”
My heart thumps, a lump forming in my throat.

“What kind of risk Sterling?”

“He drinks and drives. I’ve had too much of that in my life,
too many disappointments.” I focus on the excuse, unable to share the real
reason.
The excuse is good enough
, I tell myself.

“He told me about that. He worried because of your mom, but
you know people can change, right?”

“I’ve heard that before, but I’ve never seen it so I’m not
taking any chances.”

“I’ve seen it Sterling. I’ve seen people change.”

“Maybe, but your life hasn’t been affected by drunk driving
like mine has. Your mother hasn’t spent half your life in jail. You didn’t have
to grow up alone, so pardon me if I’m not confident that your advice fits my
situation.”

“Okay Sterling. Just remember, everyone makes mistakes. It’s
the good ones who learn from their mistakes and move on to do better things.”

I stared past her, unable to meet her eyes as she fiddled
with her straw, it’s movement against the plastic lid created a squawking sound
grating on my nerves as the straw slid back and forth.

“How’d you find out?”

“About Boston?”

“Yeah, about Boston.” I could hear the irritation broiling
in Annie’s tone, drawing my eyes back to her.

“He told me.”

“Seriously? People don’t usually come out and say, ‘hey, I
was arrested for drunk driving oh, seven years ago….’”

“Actually Julie knew and she told me.”

“I knew it. That heifer just wants Boston for herself and
she’ll do anything to get rid of you.”

“Well it’s true and better that I find out now instead of
later.”

“If you say so. I’m just glad he found you Sterling. Now
that I think you were drugged, I’m even happier he showed up.”

“Did you invite him hoping I’d get drunk and lower my guard?”

“No Sterling, but I told him we were going. Maybe I hoped to
throw you two together.”

Annie played with the straw in her iced coffee again,
screwing up her courage. “This whole drunk driving thing is a convenient
excuse, isn’t it?”

Here it comes,
I think, but I don’t respond, my lips
going flat and grim as I press them together.

“You guys were a great couple and you were happy. What
really happened?”

“I don’t want to have this conversation Annie.”

“You know he’s devastated. I haven’t seen him for breakfast
since you broke up,” she pushed, not leaving well enough alone.

“It’s easier now than it will be later.”

She looked at me for a moment, brows drawn together in
contemplation as if she sorted through the pieces of me, looking for the parts
that fit.

“So now we get to the truth of the matter.” Annie smiles a
tight triumphant smile, smug about getting the answer she wanted, but it doesn’t
make her happy. “How do you know it’ll be harder later? Maybe it’ll be easier.
No one knows.”

My wrist gave off an audible pop under pressure from my
other hand. She has a point, but I’m not ready to hear it. I change the subject.
“So, Boston found me in the attic? How did he even know to look there?”

Annie sighed, rolling her eyes in frustration and maybe a
little disgust. “Someone must have led or carried you up. Boston said he didn’t
find anyone but you, a bare light bulb and ten or so bare mattresses on the
floor.”

The image of an ornate brass door knob floats through my
brain, a pale hand with dark wiry hair on the knuckles wrapped around it. “I
remember a hand on a door knob. It must have been the attic door. That had to be
him,” I said, chasing a mystery just out of my grasp. “Did you see anyone mess
with my drink?”

“No, but Luke gave you … two … beers….” Annie trailed off,
as if realizing the possible implications.

“Luke?”

“A guy you met at that first party, but it couldn’t have
been him. We were together from the time you got your drink until Boston found
you. He even helped me look for you.”

“Does he have dark hair on his knuckles?”

“No.” Annie’s eyes got cloudy as if she were picturing him. “I
don’t remember dark hair on his hands, but his hair is really dark.”

“What about the vodka I drank. Did you see where I got it?”

“From the bar. No one else touched it, except the guy
tending bar.”

“So probably not him.”

“Or maybe him?”

We both lapse into silence as I sift through my mind for any
remaining memories.

“You know, we’re sitting here talking about this when we
should be reporting it,” said Annie.

“What’s to report? I don’t think anything happened.” I
contemplate reporting it, my confidence flagging as I think about trying to
tell a story I can’t remember, don’t want to remember.

“Of course something happened. You were drugged!” Annie’s
eyes glow fierce and protective, indignant that anyone would dare to drug me.

“I suppose, but this is embarrassing and what if we’re wrong.”

“Then we’re wrong.” Her eyes go large, pupils dilating as
she leans into my face. “But what if we’re right and we don’t tell anyone. This
guy will go free so he can drug and do God-knows-what to other girls who don’t
have Boston to watch over them.”

“So where do we go?”

“I have a friend. Let me give him a call.”

I try to reassure Annie that I can handle this on my own,
but she wouldn’t take no for an answer, determined to stand by my side. She
probably knows better than me that if left to my own devices I’d try to ignore
it, shoving it away and pretending nothing happened.

As much as I came here hoping to avoid any personal
entanglements, I’m glad to have Annie.

It’s still dark. I turn toward the digital clock, my eyelids
slamming shut when the shine hits my eyes. Turning away I can open my eyes
again. The window reveals a yellow glow peering through slats in the blind. Not
daylight, although the stunted light helps to adjust my eyes.

Looking back toward the digital clock I find smoldering red
numbers that glow one-thirty-six.

I roll, the duvet winding around me, jailing me like a
captive as I wonder what woke me. The scent of outside teases like a phantom
and I feel the sharp edge of chill discouraging and unfriendly. My eyes strain
toward the door as I try to place what’s bothering me. It’s closed and the
smell has dissolved into the vapor like dreams disintegrate.

“Maybe it’s just a dream.” I whisper into the darkness.

The vodka bottle and a squat glass from last night sit on
the table. There’s more vodka left than I expected.

Annie’s friend referred us to the nearest police precinct. I
told my story over and over again in what little detail I had, answering every
questioned as best I could. I didn’t remember anything new. I’m confident Annie
was grilled in similar fashion. I don’t think anything will come of it, but
they took my report and promised to look into it.

Kicking my feet to loosen the duvet, I resent its clinging
confines. My belt carves into my belly as my jeans twist around me. I give in,
my arms sprawled across the bed where just weeks ago I might have found Boston.

Family can be a chore, but I’m finding loneliness to be far
less satisfying.

Giving one last kick, I free my legs, pulling myself to my
feet.

Sitting on the edge of the futon, my elbows braced against
my knees, I scour my face with my palms thinking another drink might help me
sleep.

My eyes land on the vodka bottle and I resist for now. The
vodka doesn’t help still my thoughts. It only slows them down, pushing them
away until stabbing pain becomes melancholy.

Obscured by my thoughts, I move to the bathroom. “Maybe a
hot shower will warm me up.” I murmur to myself and almost immediately discard
the idea realizing the cold settled within me has nothing to do with temperature.

Something’s not right. I pause at the bathroom door and turn
with deliberate reluctance. My bedroom door is open. I’m neither crazy nor
drunk. Last time I could blame it on the booze, but this time I’m frozen with
dread. I may have had a few drinks, but I didn’t drink much, not enough to go
into the room without memory. I stand rigid, trying to hold the panic at bay as
if instead of staring into my bedroom I’m staring into a den of wolves.

It’s no longer hidden and although I didn’t open the door, I
should close it, hide it again.

Taking a jerky step, I’m at the door. The light next to the
glider rocker shines dim. It looks like a small silver ball that’s been
squashed. The pink shade makes the room rosy, but tonight it’s not a friendly
glow. While I don’t think I turned on the light, I know I should turn it off.

“I can do this. There’s nothing new here,” I tell myself as
I step into the room. Blood rushes in my ears as panic continues to grow.
Inside, I’m transported back in time. The smell of baby powder is sweet and
comforting and makes me smile.

My lips begin to move, the sound of
Golden Slumbers
ringing in my ears.

Golden slumbers kiss your
eyes,

Smiles
await you when you rise.

Sleep,
pretty baby, do not cry,

And I will sing a
lullaby.

And there she is snuggled in
the crib, butt jutting high under the soft pink baby blanket covered with
fleecy
white lambs. “Emma?” I know it can’t be her. At three she’s bigger, but I want
to believe. It feels surreal like a dream. The one-more-minute I’m always
searching for dissolves into nothingness as I pull the pink blanket away.

A stuffed turtle in an obscene shade of green jerks me back
to reality. I can feel the hot color flooding my cheeks at the nasty practical
joke. I grit my teeth and fold the blanket with quick jerky snaps. Hanging the
blanket over the rail on the crib, I feel a hot tear land on my hand. I shove
the offending turtle into the corner of the crib near some other plush animals,
but I don’t let go.

Pulling it back, I hug it to my chest before sinking into
the rocker.

Setting the rocker in motion as I had so many nights before,
I let the tears come. I haven’t cried since the day of her funeral. I cry for
Emma, but mostly I cry for myself. I cry because I can’t do anything right. I
can’t keep anyone in my life.

Everyone leaves me and every time a part of me goes with
them. Sometimes it’s miniscule and other times it’s monstrous, but every time
someone goes, it leaves a gaping abyss.

I wake hours later and the room is bright with sunshine. I’m
not surprised to find myself sleeping in the rocker in my bedroom. I’m not
drunk. It’s not a dream. Testing my arms and legs, I’m amazed to find they aren’t
at all stiff and sore from sleeping in the chair. I feel light and more
refreshed than I can ever remember. Something happened last night.

Drawing my eyebrows together, I go over the events in my
mind, but nothing quite clicks until I remember my final train of thought
before falling asleep. Everyone leaves me. “But that’s not true,” I sigh,
feeling heavier. “I left Boston.” There’s no one in the room to hear my
admission.

Thinking back to others in my life, I reassess. My mom’s
husbands never left me, they left my mom. Okay, Logan betrayed me, but I’m long
past that. I enjoyed dating the football star, but our relationship had been
shallow, merely a high school crush.

That leaves Emma, taken from me long before her time. She
would have never left and I wouldn’t leave her either. Hell, I can’t leave her
now that she’s gone. She’s always with me. I’ve tried to shut her out, but
nothing works. The time we had together was precious and I wouldn’t trade it
for anything, not even to avoid the pain of loss.

I stood, placing the turtle I’d hugged during the night in
the corner of the crib with care before dashing off to shower. I have something
very important to do today.

Shampooing my hair, I think about what I need to say to
Boston. I have to apologize. I hurt him and it breaks my heart.

I have to tell him everything. He deserves honesty and if
this is going to work I have to trust him. He needs to know all of me and
hopefully understand that I don’t know how to do this. I’m afraid, but willing
because this is important.

Emma’s death has taught me that love is worth the risk of
loss.

Before I head out, I stand in the bedroom doorway, poised on
the threshold. My breathing is quick and shallow; I massage my wrist,
indecision tugging at me. I reach forward to close the door, pausing before I
reach the knob. I pull back.
I’m okay. I can handle this,
I tell myself.
Then I grab the doorknob without hesitation and pull it closed. I’d like to
leave it open, but this is too new and I’m too raw. Maybe tomorrow.

* * *

He’s running right toward me as if chased by demons. If I
wait, he’ll be right here in only moments.

For a while I thought I might be chasing a ghost until I
actually saw him in class. I went to his room, waited for him after classes, and
looked for him at the gym, all to no avail. After he followed me around for
weeks, my inability to find him made my mind buzz with confusion. It’s as if he
disappeared.

Now he’s here, although not yet aware I’m in his path. The
sun is bright, the air crisp, the last remaining colored leaves have fallen,
but there’s no snow. I’m bundled in my winter jacket with mittens and a scarf.

Boston is wearing long loose shorts and a gray tee with ARMY
emblazoned across the front. The cut-off sleeves show off his tattoo much like
when I first saw him. Sweat streaks create a vee from his neck to his belly and
from his underarms down his sides. He’s not at all bothered by the cold. It’s
not warm enough, but that’s what he’s wearing.

He’s going to run past me, without noticing if I don’t do
something. “Boston!” I yell, stepping directly in front of him. He begins to
slow as his eyes meet mine. Then he lowers his head and charts a path around
me. He’s avoiding me and I’ve had enough. I made a mistake and all I want is a
chance to fix it.

Stepping into his path again, I’m ready to be run down,
except I’m not. Boston stops short, his breathing ragged and fast. He bends
down, hands resting on his thighs as he tries to catch his breath. He doesn’t
look at me.

“I need to talk to you.” I lean in looking up at him,
finally making eye contact. “I’ve made a terrible mistake. Please let me
explain.”

“No mistake. You don’t want me, I’m gone.” His nostrils
flare and he takes a step backward, putting distance between us, his arms
stretched wide to his sides. “I told you I don’t give second chances. I warned
you.”

I could hear the tension in his voice and anger too. It
sparks my anger. “If you don’t want me, then why were you following me? Tell me
that?”

He doesn’t answer, taking another step back as I try to step
closer.

“I liked it,” I confess. “I liked the reassurance that came
from seeing you close, the comfort in knowing you still cared. I miss it.” He
doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t walk away either. “Thank you for helping me at
the party.”

“So that’s what this is about.” He turns away as if to
leave, but he stops right away, lacing his fingers together on the top of his
head, elbows pointing outward, frustration pouring off of him. “I’m a fool.”

He turns back and I can see the irritation lining his face.

“You’re not a fool Boston.”

“I am. I don’t quite fit into your life plan, so you lead me
around by the nose, taking what you want, giving nothing in return and pushing
me away when I interfere. Well I’ve been there before and I’m not doing it
again.”

“That’s not true Boston. I care for you and I’m afraid of
what that might do to me. Caring for others hasn’t gone so well for me in the
past, but I don’t live there anymore. I’m willing to try again. I think you
might be worth the risk.”

We’re blocking half the sidewalk with a few straggling
students around. Fortunately there’s nothing going on at the Coleman Center
tonight or a lot of strangers would be party to this discussion.

“You know what I think? I think you were scared at that
party and you’re running back to safety. I’m not your future. I’m just a
security blanket to you. I’m just the guy who’s here right now.”

“Wow. That’s low and so untrue,” I snap. “Our relationship
is different than anything I’ve experienced before. It’s thrilling and
compelling … and frightening.” I reach out, stepping toward him, our eyes
locked. He steps back, maintaining distance between us as if he no longer
cares. “I’m afraid that something bad might happen,” I whisper. “I’m afraid
that I might get hurt, but I have to see where this goes. Life is about right
now. There’s no waiting for the future or regretting the past. There’s just
now.”

“I’m not afraid and I’ve already seen where this goes. You
needed something from me and I gave it, until you didn’t need me anymore. Well
I’ve been through this before and I’m not going to be used and then discarded.
I’m not going to live like that. I’ll see you around.”

He turns and walks away. “Boston?” Then he takes off at a
dead run, back in the direction he’d come from. “Boston!” I holler. People turn
and look, but I don’t care. He runs fast as if possessed. I watch until I can’t
see him anymore.

I look around as if suddenly aware of my surroundings. My
legs wobbly and barely able to hold me, I hobble to a nearby bench. Sinking
down, I try to catch my breath. People pass by, but I can’t hear anything
beyond the blood rushing in my ears. I found him at last after searching for
several days, only to lose him again.

I don’t know how long I sat on that bench, but the sun is
gone now and I haven’t seen another person in quite some time. The cold
November weather has seeped through my jacket and mittens chilling me, but it’s
no more chilling than my failure to make Boston understand.

* * *

‘Sterling? Is that you?”

The voice came out of the darkness. I didn’t recognize it,
but it recognized me and came closer.

“Yes?” I croaked, the cold making my voice raw and my tongue
thick.

“It’s me, Luke. Are you okay?”

“Oh hi.” I try to smile, glad for the cover of darkness.
Moving my cold cheeks is difficult and the resulting smile feels more like a
grimace.

“Why are you sitting here in the dark, in the cold?”

I try brushing him off, making light of my moment of
weakness. “I’m fine, just thinking.” Instead, my response is anemic, telling
far more than my words.

“You’re not fine. What’s wrong?” He sits next to me, warmth
rolling off of him, steam rising in the cold lamplight.

“You’re wet. You’re going to freeze out here.”

“I just finished practice, like every other day, but if you
don’t start talking, I might freeze out here.”

The heat rolled off him, not quite warming, but offering
comfort. Luke is nearly a stranger and I don’t want to confide in him, but
sometimes we find ourselves spilling our darkest secrets to outsiders. That’s
what happened as his warmth began to surround me.

I told him about my commitment to avoid personal
relationships and focus on my education. I explained how Boston distracted me
from that goal. I even confessed to ditching Boston when I realized how serious
our relationship had become.

“Wow. So now you need to fix it?”

“That’s the problem Luke. I tried to fix it and he wants
nothing to do with me. He accused me of using him and then cutting him loose
when I didn’t need him anymore, but I wasn’t using him. It just took me some
time to realize that relationships are worth the risk.”