Moments In Time: A Collection of Short Fiction (64 page)

“That had been my plan, but, thanks to you . . . ”

“He wouldn’t have left without your address.”

“Yes, he would have, because I would have given him a phone number to call for directions instead. A phone number that wasn’t mine.”

“Oh,” she said softly, confusion twisting her expression. “But why? You said you had a decent time the other night.”

That was precisely the problem.

“It was fun and all, but I don’t want him getting the wrong idea, Pam. He’ll be gone soon, anyway. He was in today for his consult with Dr. Adaire. Robbie already said he wouldn’t get surgery to fix his arm. He’s not staying. He’ll be back to Dutch Harbor the second he completes his at home physical therapy instruction.”

“And how do you know that?” she pried, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Because I might have read his file.”

“That’s not what I meant, Cris. I meant how do you know he’d leave right away?”

“Um, because his job is hundreds of miles away and he wants to get back to it?”

She shrugged at me dismissively.

“We’ll see about that.”

• • •

I couldn’t have been more flustered by the time I arrived home. Thank God I had recently gone to the grocery store, or we would have had ketchup sandwiches for dinner. Then again, maybe that wouldn’t have been the worst idea ever. It hardly encourages one to linger.

Racing in the door, I only had a couple of hours to get everything ready to go, and, thanks to a puker at work, I also had to shower and wash my hair. I don’t know if any ended up getting in there, but I wasn’t willing to take that chance, no matter how uncomfortable I was at the idea of my dinner date.

In record time, I was showered and ready to untangle the mess that was my thick, curly, black hair. It took forever to dry and required a lot of product to tame it, one of the reasons that it was typically held back in a loose braid. Wrapped in my towel, I stood bent over for what seemed like an eternity, trying to diffuse my hair to some semblance of manageability. When I figured it was the best I could do for the time being, I left it alone, allowing what was still damp to air dry.

I made my way to my room and opened the bi-fold doors to my closet. Staring at its sparse contents, I settled on something plain, boring, and extremely unsexy. A large, gray Aran sweater and skinny jeans would be the outfit for the evening—an outfit that practically screamed that I was originally from South Florida and always cold here. The current temperature outside hardly warranted that much wool, but I was a warm weather kind of girl. Anything below seventy degrees was almost insufferable to me, which was precisely why I chose Alaska for my final move. Anyone who knew anything about me would have deemed this to be the last place in the world I would have ever chosen to live, right behind Siberia and the Arctic. I just hoped it was enough to keep Mateo away.

Mateo . . .

As I closed the closet doors, I caught a glimpse of my black duffel bag. On the closet floor, it looked benign enough, though in truth it was anything but. It was my getaway bag, complete with passport, cash, essentials, and a burner phone—and it also contained an illegal 9mm handgun. I hoped to never use it, but I knew that if, at any time, I was cutting it close enough to need to use my stashed bag that Mateo would be right on my heels. If I needed to buy myself time―or save my own life―I would shoot him with no hesitation.

I don’t know how long I had been standing there starin
g at the bag, but an abrupt knock on the door startled me back to attention. My heart leapt into my throat when I glanced over to the clock: 5:14 p.m. Robbie wasn’t due over for another forty-five minutes. I never had visitors stop by randomly. Never.

My eyes looked back down to the bag, my palms sweating. I bent down and reached into the duffel, sliding the weapon out and tucking it into the back of my pants. With a deep inhalation and a racing heart, I slowly made my way to the front door of my apartment. The knocking became louder just as I neared it. My breathing stopped entirely. I leaned in to look through the peephole, my right hand gripping the 9mm all the while.

“Don’t play hard to get, Cris,” Robbie called out playfully. “I’ll keep knocking until you go insane or your neighbors complain. Either way, you’re not likely to get rid of me anytime soon.”

“Christ,” I exhaled, sweat breaking out across my whole body. The sweater suddenly seemed to be overkill, even for me. I quickly tucked the gun back into my waistband and covered it with my sweater before I fumbled with the locks on the door. I’d had a couple extras installed when I moved in, for the obvious reason. When I swung the door open, Robbie stood there with a smile on his face and a bottle of red wine in his hand.

“Hi,” he said cheerfully.

“You just scared the shit out of me!” I replied, looking like someone who’d just seen a ghost.

He eyed me strangely for a second before responding.

“I apparently did.” He couldn’t keep the look of concern from his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out. I didn’t know that being early was that frightening . . . ”

“Why are you so early?” I asked, blocking the entrance to my apartment, loaded weapon still held in place against my back by the waist of my pants.

“Well, I was thinking that it wasn’t entirely fair for you to have to make me dinner after working all day, even though you do owe me one,” he explained with a wry expression. “So, I thought I would come over early and make dinner for us.”

I stared at him blankly.

“Listen,” he continued. “My mama raised me right. I never come to a party empty handed.” He raised the bottle to show he’d met that requirement. “But, she also taught me to be independent. I can cook. In fact, I’ve always been the best chef on the ship. So, if you play your cards right, I’ll not only get you drunk but I’ll make you dinner as well . . . that is, if you let me in.”

I hesitated for a second, then regained some measure of composure.

“Yes, sorry . . . of course, you can come in.”

He strode into my home like he belonged there, heading straight for the kitchen that opened into the living room, separated only by an island with seating for two. His confidence was remarkable, and mildly unnerving, though in an attractive way. For the briefest moment, I watched him like he did belong in my home. In my life.

And then I moved slightly, the gun at my back shifting in my pants just enough to remind me that he didn’t. Nobody did.

“I’ll be right back,” I called, heading to my room. I quickly put the 9mm back where it belonged and closed the closet door. When I returned, he’d already started rummaging through my fridge to see what he had to work with.

“You haven’t left me with a ton of options here, Cris,” he said, his body bent over to allow him to look deep within my fridge, which left his ass to stick out past the fridge door as he spoke.

“You know that nobody else calls me that, right?” I asked, taking a seat at the island as I continued to watch him. He popped his head out of the fridge just long enough to flash me a mischievous grin before diving back in to find the ingredients he was after. “And I can see that you don’t care.”

“It can be our thing,” he said in earnest, emerging from behind the door with an armful of food.

“Or not,” I quipped.

“Whatever you say, Cris.”

I sighed heavily, reaching for the bottle of wine.

“I think I may need to get started with this. It makes your boyish charm so much more palatable.” My dry response garnered me a serious glance over his shoulder. For a minute, he looked affronted until he remembered that I was the queen of all things sarcastic.

“In that case, I’ll pour you an extra large glass. You’ll think I’m the ultimate catch by the time you’re done.”

“Or I’ll be passed out on the couch.”

He shrugged in response before pulling two wine glasses from the hanging rack beneath the cupboard

“There’s always next time, Cris. I’m a patient man.”

“I can see that. You waited a whole two days to hunt me down and embarrass me into accepting this date. Patient indeed.”

“You forced my hand. I had no choice but to play dirty. And, with Pam on my side, I knew you weren’t going to be able to wriggle your way out—not that you really wanted to.”

“Is that so?” I asked, taking the glass of wine he’d poured for me.

“It is.”

“And you know this how?”

“I told you,” he replied, turning back toward the stove. “I can read people. But what I can’t do is figure out where you’ve stashed your pots and pans.”

“Lower cabinet, to your left,” I instructed, still marveling at his hubris.

I continued to marvel at it for the next forty-five minutes or so while he cooked, chatted, and flirted. His easy nature made it impossible not to join in. Flirting was dangerous, dangerous territory, but I ventured there anyway. Fueled by a massive glass of red wine and an empty stomach, I soon found myself ensnared in his web of charm.

“Tell me about your family,” I implored, taking a bite of the salmon he’d expertly prepared and served.

“That’s a short story. I have no siblings. My dad died when I was in high school. Mom passed away just over a year ago.” His eyes were again distant for a moment, just as they had been on our first date when he thought about his father. Recovering quickly, he continued. “Life on the Bering Sea is hard on everyone, both fishermen and their families. My parents got divorced when I was little, and mom never quite bounced back. She was a great mom, don’t get me wrong, but she took it hard when I said I wanted to join the fleet. She had already lost one man she loved to the sea, figuratively at first, then literally. I think she was afraid she’d lose another. In fairness, this did nearly happen on multiple occasions.”

“It’s amazing to me that you put yourself in harm’s way like that just for your career,” I replied, thinking I’d spent the past five years trying to escape harm.

“It’s the life I love,” he said softly. “I accept the dangers that accompany life on the Bering Sea so I can enjoy it.”

Standing on the other side of the island from me, he stared at me cautiously as he gently put his fork down beside his plate.

“What about you? Do you have family?” he asked, gazing at me intently as he reached for his glass of wine.

“My family situation is complicated,” I said evasively. I don’t really like to talk about it.

“Is that what you’re running from?” he asked without pause.

“I’m not running anywhere. I’ve been here for almost a year now.”

“I don’t buy it,” he said, pressing lightly. “There’s a wildness in your eyes. I’ve seen it when you get uncomfortable or things get too personal. It’s there now. You don’t have that for no reason. Something puts it there.”

“Anyway,” I started, trying to change the subject. The night had been so strangely enjoyable that I couldn’t understand why he wanted to try and sift through my past again. What could he have possibly hoped to find there?

“See? You’re doing it now.”

“Doing what?”

“Running—in a sense.”

“Or I’m sitting, eating dinner.”

“You know what I mean,” he replied with a sigh, picking his fork up again to take another bite of his meal.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“You don’t want to tell me because you’ve convinced yourself over time that you can’t trust anyone. That’s why you didn’t want to go out with me in the first place,” he stated as a smile overtook his face. “I mean, come on, who can say no to all of this?” He used his hand to highlight himself in true game show fashion.

I laughed despite my best efforts not to.

“Obviously nobody, because you con your way into getting what you want. If a girl slams the door on you, you just find a window to climb in.”

“Now you’re catching on. But back to my point, all I’m trying to say is that you can’t get through life on your own, Cris. Eventually you’re going to need to lean on someone. Trust someone.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just fine on my own.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “Or maybe you’re lonely as hell and desperate for some security.”

Security
, I thought to myself.
What a pipe dream that is.

After an awkward silence, he changed the subject to lighter, more entertaining things. He regaled me with stories from the sea, all of which left me laughing uncontrollably. He was a storyteller, to be sure, but the animation with which he told his tales captivated my imagination. I couldn’t have told him to stop even if I’d wanted to.

With every minute that ticked by, I saw him in a different light. Behind all that joviality and charm was a truly extraordinary human being. The kind a person could trust.

As the wine in the bottle lessened, so did the thickness of my emotional armor. I needed to reinforce it quickly, but I couldn’t, and worse yet I didn’t seem to want to. The longer the evening dragged on, the less resistance I had to his charms. The very thing I had denied earlier that night was the very truth that found itself nearing the tip of my tongue. When he finally noticed that I seemed to be struggling with something, he stopped his endearing antics and led me into the living room, sitting down next to me on the couch. His expression was one of pure concern. I silently battled with my need to keep myself and those around me safe. My desire to remove the burden that had weighed on me so heavily for the past five years was overtaking my resolve, even if I consciously knew talking about Mateo was a bad idea.