Jeremiah Quick (2 page)

Her parents named her Pretty for some
asinine reason. Pretty Leticia Loberg. They were of Scandinavian
descent, and Pretty had the typical fair skin and blonde hair.
Perhaps the most distinctive trait of her family line were their
eyes, bright blue irises surrounded by a dramatic ring of navy.
Pretty had them, too. They were her favorite feature. She differed
from her family, though, in stature. Instead of a tall and sturdy
build, she'd always been small and delicate. She supposed she was
pretty, and grateful for it when she interacted with or observed
women who had bullish bones, thick bodies, and hog-like snouts, but
it was a ridiculous name, and she'd always hated it.

In college, she'd adapted her middle name to
'Letty', and most other people adapted, too. But throughout high
school she was "Pretty" – to all the teachers and all the
classmates who had known her since kindergarten.

Jeremiah already had her full attention, and
never needed to call her name to get it.

She'd been a shy child, introverted, often
playing by herself in her room with dolls and stuffed animals,
trying keep quiet, trying to escape the notice of her hypercritical
mother. As she grew older she fell into books, eschewing parties
and after school activities in favor of long journeys into storied
lives.

She was wooed for the cheerleading squad and
the dance team because of her looks, but never tried out because
she lacked athletic skill, and because the thought of being on
display was horrifying. And the notion of being "popular" made her
feel stick to her stomach. She had disdain for the popular girls,
although a tiny part of her envied the fact they clearly felt they
belonged somewhere. She had always lived with a sense of
unbelonging, a chasm undiminished by their attempts to invite her
in.

She was not like Them, and she knew it.

After Jeremiah, she knew a little better
why.

But he left before she knew what to
do
about it.

And then there was Drew and the awful thing
he did – leaving Pretty with even less of an idea what to do, how
to be someone different. But there was no connection between
Jeremiah and Drew, excepting her own grief.

Everything crumbled, once Jeremiah was
gone.

She swallowed all these thoughts without
choking, and said, "I thought you weren't. Alive, I mean. I posted
the poem to honor you, because I was sad."

His voice came like a weapon, then, vicious
and hateful and spitting. "Good. I'm glad it made you sad to think
I was dead."

Something in her chest folded in on itself,
as his words indeed became anger-tipped darts that tore into her.
She could almost keen the pain right out loud. But what right did
he have to find her after all this time just to hurt her? She
stiffened and reached to take her groceries back.

It was easy to become the child she'd been
before, hopelessly innocent, middle-class born and bred,
brainwashed. The only fallback she'd had, the only way she could
cope with his cruelty, had been first to agree with him, and then
acknowledge they were so, so different.

She tried it now.

"Yes, I mourned you. I never felt like we
were done. No goodbye, nothing. I attached myself to you and
stayed. You were the one who left. I was so ready to fall for you,
but you wouldn't allow it. You made your mark, but you never knew,
did you? So, yeah. I can see it would make you glad."

Jeremiah sidestepped Pretty's reach, almost
wary in his refusal to respond to her challenge.

She said, "I should have given you a
sandwich instead of chocolate. You were too thin."

He dropped all three grocery sacks at his
feet, then raised his arms and held them out from his sides, palms
facing the darkening sky. "What the hell difference does that make
now?"

She shook her head, unwilling to explain
about regret.

"My old man kicked the shit out of me as
many times a week as I managed not to avoid him. You gave me
chocolate nearly every day. Believe me, it was appreciated.
Sometimes it was the best part of my day, and the only thing I
could predict with any certainty."

"I'm sorry," she said, more whisper than
voice. "I didn't know."

"I didn't want you to know. I didn't want
anyone to know."

His hands flew up to the sides of his head,
pinkies searching for strands of hair to tuck behind his ears. It
was a gesture so classically Jeremiah that she forgave his hurtful
words, stepped into his space, and wrapped her arms around him –
exactly what she should have done the moment she saw him.

He responded the way he'd always responded –
a tightening of his shoulder muscles, a tilt of his head back and
as far away from hers as possible, his whole body going taut and
tight as if she were hurting him. His hand patted her back three
times, and then he was trying to pull away.

She held on tighter. "Can't you just relax
and accept a hug?"

And then he was fighting the embrace,
respirations increasing until his breath came in soft puffs of air,
trying to lean out of her space, away.

She let go of him before his escape attempt
escalated to thrashing.

"Another time," he said, his voice shaking.
"Not here. Not now."

Quick picked up the plastic burdens again,
and gestured Pretty to lead the way. She led him to her car, a very
common and not new Impala. Four doors, because it's so much easier
with three kids.

The backseat was filled with her daughter's
assorted clothing detritus, and the boys' abandoned backpacks. She
stared at Quick's hands as he dumped the groceries amidst the
clutter, then stared at his profile when he settled into the front
passenger seat.

"You look just the same," he said, then gave
her the smile/grimace thing. "Mostly."

She didn't. She had twenty pounds on her old
self, crows' feet crinkles, and a permanent frown squint in the
middle of her forehead, but she took the words as a kindness. Her
eyes were the same blue, and her smile still came easy.

"So do you," she said. "All you'd need, to
give me a flashback, is the jacket."

It wasn't exactly a lie, he did look
essentially the same. But there was something different about his
bearing, something quieter and almost... hollow... that made him
not at all the same. He'd always been twitchy, filled with a
never-quite-able-to-be-still energy, like the way he fought being
hugged. But the trait seemed… less, now.

She didn't know where to take him. Her
house? A make-out spot? A bar?

"You loved that jacket," Quick said, and
Pretty heard a real smile in his voice.

"I used to think it would hurt to hug you,"
she said, and then remembered it
had
hurt to hug him, the
few time she was allowed. He never seemed to have a clue he was
crushing her face against his spikes. But maybe he did. Maybe it
was the price for getting too close.

He leaned his head against the seat-back.
"Yeah, you don't think my wearing armor to high school was an
accident, do you?"

She supposed not. She knew it was armor,
she'd just never had enough time with him to convince him he could
remove it when they were together.

Regrets, regrets. No, she didn't want to
think about that.

She turned the key in the ignition, but
nothing happened except a loud click. She tried again. Still
nothing.

"Damn. Something's wrong with the car."

Normally she'd call her husband, except he
wasn't home. He wasn't even in town. He'd taken the boys, ages nine
and ten, to a regional karate tournament. Their daughter was at a
friend’s house for the weekend.

"Do you want me to give you a ride?" he
asked.

She didn't. Now that she was used to him
alive again, she had a ball of dread in her stomach. She wanted him
to have stayed dead so he couldn't change her, because he'd changed
her more in the course of a school year's worth of lunch periods
than anyone else had over the course of a lifetime. She didn't
expect him to stop doing it now.

She sighed, nodded, and watched him collect
her stupid Walmart bags from the back seat, then followed him
across the parking lot.

His car was a huge two-door tank with bench
seats, from an earlier era than their youth, a land yacht. Old and
beautiful, a collector in primer and gleaming chrome. She gave him
directions to her house.

When they arrived, Pretty held the door open
for Quick, who carried the meager goddamned grocery sacks that had
been between them for what felt like hours. He fought his way past
the dog that tried to lick him into submission. He flinched and
sidestepped and bared his teeth at the dog, and Pretty got the
feeling he wasn't exactly a dog person. "Don't you lock your door?"
he asked, setting the bags on the counter.

They'd never locked the door, didn't even
have keys for it. Pretty and her husband laughed about it
sometimes, but only worried about it when they went on vacation.
"Nope," she answered. "The kids can't keep track of their keys.
Besides, we have a dog. And it's not like we keep the crown jewels
here. There's nothing to steal, not really."

She flitted around the kitchen, putting the
things from the bags away: frozen pizzas, frozen chicken strips,
ranch dressing, ketchup and mayo.

"Gross," Jeremiah said, making a face when
he handed her the bread. "Soft white bread, the kind you can't
swallow because it turns to sticky gunk in your throat. God, you're
so fucking middle America."

And before she could respond, he trapped her
against the refrigerator. "Tell me, Sunshine Girl, do you still
brush against the Dark?"

"Of course," she said, trying to keep the
nervous squeak out of her voice. "I'm a lot darker now,
myself."

The noise he made – a laugh, a snort of
derision? - was loud enough to startle her, and his almost-clear
eyes glittered like polished glass. Pretty could see herself in
them, nostrils flared, her own pupils dilated, caught between some
kind of inappropriate anticipation and a basic,
in-the-nerve-endings kind of enthralled fear.

His portentous presence was dark, too dark
for the cheerful, yellow-painted room. He smelled male – sex and
sweat and cigarettes. The odor of him filled her kitchen, pungent
but not unpleasant. He smelled like wind and campfire, a breeze
ghosting over a hot bed of coals. Somewhat free, somewhat
dangerous.

Jeremiah Quick didn't belong in her kitchen
or in her average life.

His arms tightened around her, pulling her
hard into him, and then she did squeak a little, and tensed, then
relaxed. And finally sighed. It felt like the favorite memory she'd
never had, his scent surrounding her, his long lines holding her in
a firm grip, giving just the tiniest hint she was helpless.

"What? The naughty books you write, porn
sentence by sentence rather than frame by frame? That doesn't make
you Dark, sweetheart, only a little braver than you used to be.
You're as sheltered as ever. Comfortable home, husband who takes
care of you. Two-point-four children and a dog."

She looked up into his face and could see he
hated her more than ever.

"Stop," she said, and pressed a hand against
his chest. She put pressure on it, urging him to step back, but it
wasn't much pressure, and he ignored it. "Is that why you're here?"
she asked, her voice low but hard. "To make fun of me? To be
cruel?"

"No," he said, in a softer tone. He lifted
his hands to her hair and petted her almost all the way down, top
of head, cheeks, the sides of her throat. He let both hands whisper
over her jutting collarbones, then down her flanks to her hips,
never touching anything strictly private. "I just needed to see
you. To see how you are, now."

Chapter 2

S
he.

She puts away the crap food from Walmart.
She's nervous, not comfortable with me in her space.

Good, I like it.

I like it so much I step right into her
space and pin her against the refrigerator door.

Walmart, for fuck's sake. And yes, I found
her, and yes, I followed her.

No, I didn't damage her car. That was magick
and the way things work for me.

I want to punch her or shake her or kiss
her. All of those, but I don't know in which order.

She'd always been out of my league. She
still is. Nice house, nice neighborhood, and just like when she was
a kid, she doesn't seem to have to struggle or work for any of it.
She doesn’t even have to pay attention. It fills me with a sort of
rage, a longing to hurt her.

She.

Delicate throat. Scared eyes.

She became mine back in high school with the
first offer of candy doled out to me in tiny rectangles, piece by
piece, as if attempting to tame me, somehow.

And piece by piece I accepted them, allowing
the taming.

It's hard to explain.

She wouldn't stay away from me, and I had no
idea why. Some days I hated her, not for who she was, but for what
she represented. Middle class America. Status quo.

I never lied to her. I didn't pretend nice
when I felt hateful.

She was mine, but I didn't know how she fit.
Not anywhere. Not into my life, certainly not into my bed. She was
a puzzle piece, same as I, but if I was an odd-shaped middle piece,
she was a straight solid edge. Or maybe she was from a different
box altogether. We could hardly comprehend one another.

I ended up trying to teach her, but clearly
I failed.

She'd been so innocent, so clueless.

And even now, she's still like Sunshine,
still feels like mine, still clueless. How can that be?

The remembrance she'd written was dated
years ago. Years and years, but I found it a few months ago. She
never forgot me.

So… maybe I was hers, too.

I fill up her kitchen. I know I do, and I
know she feels it.