Fat Chance (19 page)

It doesn't even occur to me that the people in those cars might be laughing, or insulting, or talking about my body. I feel young and alive, my feet pounding along as I pump my arms. Right now, really and truly, I'm just having fun.

It doesn't last long though; my knees heat up with the motion and my calves start to burn, so I slow to a walk and turn back for home. All in all, it was a good first try, and I will do it again.

I grab my purse from the trunk and walk up the stairs to my apartment, smiling. I can feel my blood coursing through me, and I think maybe, just maybe, I've found my thing. Dropping my purse on the couch and locking the door to my apartment, I head for the bathroom, stripping for a shower, and as I approach the bathtub, I catch a glimpse of my rosy face in the mirror.

Yes, I will be doing that again.

"Should we be talking about this?" I ask, turning my head to look into Drew's eyes. He's already watching me; his gaze is sure and steady, the green of his eyes flecked with little bits of brown.

"You don't need to," he says, taking my hand in his. We've been lying here chatting for a while, just looking into the clouds. We've walked the park together, and we've stopped for corn dogs; now we're just resting in the middle of the open soccer field.

"I need to talk about it though, and I've spoken to Dr. Caswell, too. He's discharging me from therapy next week, and he says the most important part of healing, is owning what sent me there, living honestly with it. And since we've been dating a while now, I think it's something I should tell you, and there's never going to a right moment, so ..." he trails off, waiting.

I sit up and turn to look down into his face. Taking his hand in both of mine, I nod, giving him permission to tell me his story.

"I've been in therapy for a while now," he says, with a sigh. "Because I killed someone."

Struggling not to drop his hand in shock, I remind myself that he is a cop, and that in his line of work, violence is simply part of his lifestyle. There is a reason that police officers are issued weapons, and I remind myself of that, too, thinking of how crushed I'd be if something happened to him.

"Okay," I say, taking a breath to steady myself. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"I think I have to. I really like being with you, and I can't stay in this relationship without being honest about where I've been," he answers, and I feel a flicker of guilt for not telling him everything about Rick, for glossing over Rick as if he isn't a problem for me.

"I appreciate that," I say, lowering my eyes to his hand in my lap, held between my hands.

"It was on the job. My partner, Nick, and I were called to a domestic dispute, and the poor wife had been beaten half to death. The husband kept screaming that she couldn't leave him and that he'd caught her cheating for the last time, stuff like that. Nick was with the husband, trying to keep him in line and get him to calm down, and I was with the wife, trying to get her story before the paramedics hauled her out. I was so focused on her, trying to get everything she could tell me. She looked awful; her face was a mess, and they thought she had broken ribs, and ..." his breath hitches, his voice trails away, and he turns his face back to the sky.

I wait, trying to give him space to get himself together, afraid that if I speak, I'll break the moment and he won't tell me the rest. Stroking his fingers, I look out over the field, watching a puppy chase a toddler toward the playground.

"They had a child, too," he whispers, having followed my gaze to the golden-haired boy, still running with his floppy-eared puppy. "Their baby was with the wife's mother that night."

"I was stupid, Cass; I followed the paramedics out the door with the wife, and then I heard Nick shout for me. I was too late for him; the husband had rushed him, stabbing him. He's okay now, though. But me?" A tear slips from the corner of his eye, slowly making a trail toward his temple and disappearing into his dark hair. I wonder now, if the gray in his hair was there, before this story became part of his life.

"I'm a mess," he says.

"But I thought you said Nick is okay."

"The husband, he had Nick on the living room floor when I went running back in, and all I could see was blood. Nick's blood was already pooling in the floor." His fingers have tightened on mine, and I wiggle my hand some, reminding him of where he is. He relaxes, and his eyes meet mine again, before he continues.

"He looked up when I came in, and then he rushed me. All I could think was that the medics were gone with the wife; I'd sent them on because she was in pretty bad shape. There was no time to call for anyone; he was coming at me, and the knife was still dripping blood, and Nick was moaning, and I just -- I just --"

His voice is gone again, his breath is ragged, and his face is rapidly turning red; his effort to keep himself together couldn't be more obvious. My heart breaks for him, and I tug his hand, urging him up. He throws his arm around me, and his hand buries itself in my hair as I stroke his back.

"I killed him. I killed him," he whispers into my hair. He's not crying, but it is painfully clear to me, how hard it was for him to tell me this.

"You saved yourself, and probably your partner," I tell him, leaning back to look into his face. He won't meet my eyes, so I place my hands on his face and guide our foreheads together, holding him until he looks at me.

"You did what had to be done, Drew. He'd have killed both of you."

"The wife died, too," he says, sadly. "And that little girl is without parents. She's growing up in a tug-of-war, caught between her parents' parents. She's not a beloved child anymore; she's a prize to be won. Because I killed her father."

"No," I argue. "You know that's not true, Drew. That little girl is living her destiny, because her father would be in prison for murdering his wife, not to mention you and Nick. He wouldn't have been there for her anyway."

"That's what Caswell says. We've argued over it, me blaming myself, and him coming back at me. I've never met anyone like him," Drew says, and his respect for Dr. Caswell is evident in his tone. "One time, he stood right up in that little office, and while I screamed at him, he screamed right back at me. He tried so hard to make me stop carrying it, to help me unpack the baggage and let it go."

I smile, because I have been in similar situations with Dr. Caswell, where I argue that I'm worthless and he argues that I'm lovely.

"But how can I walk through life unscathed, with the blood of another man on my hands?" he holds out the hands in question, and his misery is so heavy he literally seems to have grown shorter.

Taking his hands again, I do my best to reassure him. "Drew. You know he's right. It feels wrong, I know, walking around and having to carry it with you. But you made a choice that day between a man who beat his wife to death, and your partner. It's a good versus evil situation, Drew, and you have to believe that good won out. You may not see yourself as a super-hero anymore, but I know you see it in Nick, and you did what you had to do to save his life."

He nods his head, helpless to argue with that.

"You are not a murderer," I say, and he flinches against the word, preparing to argue with me. Taking my hand from his, I quickly press two fingertips to his mouth, and I rush on. "You are a cop, it's your job to defend your brothers, and you did your job. Would Nick have done it for you?"

"He has," he whispers, his lips moving against my fingers. I move them, because thinking of his lips moving on my body is entirely inappropriate, though I am helpless to stop the thoughts, now that they've started.

"You are not a murderer," I say again. "And I still see a super-hero."

This time, he is without argument; he simply pulls me close and presses his lips to my forehead. "Thank you," he whispers.

"Thanks, that looks great!" I exclaim, looking over the packages that have just been pushed across the counter to me. I've been saving up for these for months, matching white gold lockets for my sisters. We're having their birthday dinner tonight at Janet's house, and I've been terrified all week that the lockets wouldn't come back from engraving in time, but I finally got the call this morning.

As an extra service for the late delivery, the lockets have been packaged in beautiful little jewel boxes, and they are gift-wrapped in sparkling silver paper with fluffy ribbon bunches on top. The ribbons on Renee's are varied shades of purple, while the ribbons are pink on Chelsea's gift. Both are lovely enough to make me sort of wish I wasn't giving them away.

I'm almost trembling with excitement and nerves as I leave the jewelry store, rushing out of the mall to get to my car. If I'm going to be on time, I really should have been on the road already, but I suppose a few minutes late can't be helped.

Driving to Janet's house, I play my typical soundtrack, jamming to a few new songs that I've added. With the music filling me, the drive seems to fly by and then I'm turning into Janet's driveway. Chelsea's car is in the driveway behind Janet's, so I pull in at the edge and head into the house, packages in hand.

Walking through the living room, I call out to let everyone know that I'm here, and Janet calls back from the kitchen.

"We're in here," she calls, turning as I walk in. "Hi, honey!"

"Hey, mama," I say, pulling her in for a hug. She squeezes me, and then backs away with sparkling eyes.

"Get a room, why don't you?" Chelsea teases from the table.

"But leave the presents!" Renee shouts, laughing.

"You two," Janet says, and then a gasp escapes her as she looks to the door. We all turn, and Rick is there, his arms full of two giant wrapped boxes. Janet is icing a cake, so I place my gifts on the kitchen table and hurry to help Rick.

"They aren't pies," he whispers, when I reach out for one of the boxes. "Have you devoured your boyfriend yet?"

"Had him for lunch today," I whisper back, smiling sweetly up at him. "He was large and rich and delicious. So I guess it's good you didn't bring pie; I'm not hungry."

Growling, he shoves one of the boxes at me, pushing past me with the other. Pasting a smile on his face, he checks the tag on the box he carries, and walks to Renee. Setting it before her on the table, he throws one arm behind him and bends the other in front, dropping into a dramatic bow.

"Renee," he says, and then turns to me. Silently, I hand him the other box, and he repeats the treatment with Chelsea. They've both fallen for him completely, smiling and gushing over the pretty wrapping paper. I have to admit, I can still see some charm in him, when he's like this.

Still, I hope he gets the flu before my birthday rolls around in a few months; I'm pretty sure I don't need another painting done by a local elephant. And if he accuses me of being the elephant again, I'm pretty sure I'm going to punch him.

The twins are opening Rick's gifts, so I grab a dining chair and sit with my gifts, waiting for them to finish. It's a lengthy process; if there's anything Rick can do well, it's buying gifts for the people he cares about. Soon, there is a pile of paper and empty boxes on the floor, as the giant wrapped gifts each held progressively smaller and smaller wrapped boxes. Finally down to a small envelope in each tiny box, each twin receives a gift card to the mall for two hundred dollars.

"Oh wow, thanks, Rick!" they shout, rushing over to hug him, and a part of me hates this, this family scene that I am not welcome to be a part of. In this small way, he still has his victory; I feel like an outsider in the only real home I've ever had. He knows it too; he tosses me a happy wink as he is bombarded by kisses from Janet and the twins.

"That was fun," Janet says. "You'll have to do mine like that one day!"

"Okay, Cass," Rick laughs, eyeing my small gifts, sitting quietly beside each other in the center of the table. "Your turn."