Stolen (12 page)

Present
day . . .

The energy in the room has shifted. As I look around,
I take in four sets of eyes, four sets of emotions, and all of them different.
Bruce looks confused, but also hurt. I never meant to hurt him, but he had to
know I would grow up at some point, right? Is this me growing up? I hadn’t
meant for it to be a big deal, but maybe it is.

Mom looks worried. I think it was a relief to her to
know I had Bruce, that some of the burden of my “situation,” as she has
referred to it in the past, was being carried by him. Now she may have to go
back to shouldering the entire burden that is my life on her shoulders—not that
she ever did, really. Bruce was always there; has always been there.
What
now?
is probably the neon flashing sign of a question blinking in her mind.

It’s a legitimate fear, I suppose, but it still hurts
to think she may feel that way, that she may see me as a burden. I’ll prove to
her, to everyone, that I’m not, that I can stand on my own two feet perfectly
fine, damn it!

Cass isn’t so easy to read. Maybe she’s confused by my
seemingly sudden change in behavior or maybe she’s afraid that this sudden
change is because of Kyle.

Speaking of Kyle . . .

He’s the easiest to read. It’s the same intensity, the
same heat that had been there last night. Was it really just last night? It seems
so much longer ago than that. It’s there, though, in those eyes that seem to
hold answers to questions I never thought to ask. There’s something about him
that I’m drawn to, a pull toward the answers I’ve been desperately seeking for
three years now.

He isn’t my stalker. I don’t know how I know this, but
I do. He’s going to be the one to help me find the truth, though. Another
mystery as to how I know that, but for once I feel like I’m in touch with the
Cosmos, or maybe it’s Rogan. Maybe he heard me last night, is here with me now,
guiding me through this as if he were right alongside me.

It’s funny how I never used to believe in psychics,
ghosts, and witchdoctors—and I suppose I still don’t, not really—but I do
believe in Rogan, in the love we shared. I don’t care how many times people
tried to dismiss our love as “young love that would never last”; it would have
lasted had things been different. Maybe it’s still lasting, just in a
non-physical way. Maybe spirits do exist.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Who cares about the maybes? Right now, all I care
about is pulling myself together. If Rogan is with me, so be it; if not, it
doesn’t change anything. A new road has been paved in my world, and I intend to
follow it to wherever it takes me. I’m not sure who I’ll be when I get there,
if I get there, or if anything good will come of it, but I’m going nonetheless.

That was quite the pep talk my internal pieces seemed
to have had with themselves, but it sounds nice. It sounds like a plan. It
sounds like the first solid thing to come into my life since Rogan.

Kyle is quiet, our eyes still locked until he breaks
the silence, asking to speak to me outside. Before I respond, his long strides
have already put him in front of the back door, holding it open for me to pass
through. I keep my head down on my way toward him, hoping beyond hope that
Bruce doesn’t say anything.

No such luck.

“I’m not leaving before he does, so either make it
snappy or expect me to be here all day,” he says in a hushed voice to me while
holding firm to my elbow.

He’s not joking.

I don’t know what to do, what to say. I suppose
there’s nothing to say. Keeping my head down, I nod reluctantly. My first day
as an adult isn’t starting off so well. Shouldn’t I be able to stand up to him,
tell him I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself? Oh, who am I kidding?
Even if I can take care of myself, Bruce will always be here as my protector.
It’s a given that I need to accept. 

I pass by Kyle as he closes the door behind us.
Resuming my position on the built-in bench, I sit and wait for Kyle to speak. I
don’t have much to say, but I’m going out on a limb—a short limb—that he has
plenty to say.

He stops pacing, something he’s been doing for the
past five minutes or so, by the way, before coming to sit by me. I still don’t
speak. His hands are resting on his knees, legs parted, head bent down, breaths
slow and cleansing, as if he’s preparing for a big event. I want to touch him,
reassure him in some way, but what reassurance do I have to give?

Finally . . . he speaks.

Head still hanging low, he begins by saying my name in
a hushed voice, as if it causes him pain to say it. Who knows, maybe it does.
His hand is resting on my knee now. “Jess, I’m sorry about last night. It
should never have happened.”

An audible gasp on my part causes him to correct
himself quickly.

“No, Jess,” he says with earnest while piercing my
eyes with his intensity. “I didn’t mean that I didn’t want it to happen, just
that it shouldn’t have happened like that. I told you already that I like you,
that I’d like to get to know you more. I’m just really hoping you want that,
too.”

 It isn’t supposed to be a question, I know, but
it deserves an answer anyhow. Tentatively mirroring his hand, I place mine on
his knee, attempting to formulate a coherent sentence. “Kyle, before you go on,
I want you to know that I don’t regret anything we did. But you’re right, it
shouldn’t have happened like it did, especially considering Rachel found us
like that. I’m not sure if you were aware of it before, but she kind of has a
thing for you. Well, probably not anymore.” I nervously laugh aloud.  

“I have to admit I was probably dense in that
understanding before last night. I was always so focused on you, I admittedly
never really paid much attention to her. I feel like an asshole even admitting
to that. I know she’s your friend and all.”

A sound somewhere between a hyena and a hungry pig
escapes my lips. “I’m thinking that’s not so accurate anymore. Girls are funny
like that. For some reason going after another girl’s crush never fairs well
with the friendship,” I declare in a sarcastic tone. “I’ll be lucky if she
speaks to me again without words even Webster wouldn’t want in the dictionary.”

My heart sinks at the reality of that statement. So
much for having a friend.

“I’m sure she’ll get over it. I’m not that great of a
catch. Oh, who am I kidding; I’m an awesome catch. The awesomest catch anyone
was ever awesome enough to catch,” he declares, with his arms above his head,
seemingly cheering himself on in all his awesome glory.

I can’t help the snicker that comes out at his
proclamation . . . and his introduction of the word
awesomest
to my
vocabulary. I try, I really do. He doesn’t need his ego catered to any more
than it already is, which I’m sure happens plenty, but he tends to bring the
untroubled side of me that I thought was long gone out again. It’s refreshing,
I’ll admit. No one wants to be in the dark forever; just happens that most of
us aren’t strong enough to find the light switch.

“So, anyway, as I was saying, despite my truly
awesome
personality, she’ll get over the loss. You, however, I would like
not
to
get over it. I think that maybe if we can just hang out, get to know each
other, you’ll find I’m an okay gu—“

“I slept with someone last night!” I blurt out without
thinking. I’m not sure why he deserves to know this; I guess it only seems fair
that he know what a cheap slut I am—or have become in the last twenty-four
hours anyway.

To his credit, he hides the shock fairly well. There’s
a moment of rapid blinking, but otherwise no telltale sign of disgust.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. I mean, I didn’t seek
it out or anything. It just sort of . . .”

“Happened,” he finishes my sentence in an
understanding tone.

“Yeah, I guess so. I was not okay last night, not at
all. I’m not sure why I’m telling you. I just think you need to know the truth
about me so you can walk away now. I’m not worth anyone’s time, trust me.”

All joking is behind us now, reality back with a
vengeance. What happens next will undoubtedly be painful to bear and probably
more painful to hear.

Firm hands close around my face, not allowing me to
look anywhere but into thunderous eyes. He’s angry. Gripping my hands into
fists at my side, I wait for the slew of insults to come tumbling at me.

 Nothing. Nothing at all.

His hands are still unyielding, his eyes still clouded
over, but no words are spoken. This silence is so much worse than any words I
was prepared to hear. There’s a reason the silent treatment is such a horrible
form of punishment. Whoever is on the receiving end, wants to be yelled at,
screamed at, scolded, anything but ignored.

“You better listen to what I tell you. You’re not
worthless. You’re not a waste of time. So you’ve done something you aren’t
proud of; who hasn’t? That doesn’t make you a bad person. I can tell that
you’re not. Sometimes shit happens that we don’t want to happen and that we
can’t take back, just pick it up and throw it out. You don’t have to dwell on
it as if it defines who you are now. I can’t say I’m not jealous, though,” he
admits, straight-faced but lighthearted.

“Is there any part of you in there that’s listening to
any of this right now? Nod if there is,” he says while nodding my head for me.

 I try to speak, but my lips are squished
together in his tight grip, so it’s just a bunch of mumbled noises intended to
be words. His hands drop from my face, settling comfortably on my lap, when he
realizes I’m trying to say something.

Thinking about what I’m about to say my heart does
some sort of flippity, floppity thing that could either be from excitement or a
heart attack, not too sure yet.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say? I get that
people do stupid things all the time. I get that people make mistakes. And I
get that most of them get over it, that you think I’ll get over it, but that
just isn’t me. I can’t seem to get through to you that you need to stay away
from me, so I’m just going to have to hope somewhere in that brain of yours is
common sense. Stay away, Kyle. Go back to your life, your friends, a
girlfriend, I don’t care. Just don’t come around me anymore, okay?”

It’s a heart attack. Yep, definitely a heart attack.
At least I hope it is. This hurts . . . bad. I don’t want to see him go, but
I’ll only hurt him if he stays. I’m not trying to be a martyr, I swear, but
sometimes it’s a position that has to be filled when a person is trying to do
the right thing, and, for once, I want to do the right thing. I want at least
one person I know to stay safe and be happy. The only way I know how to
guarantee that is by staying as far away as possible.

“Come with me to the party tomorrow.”

Is he serious? Has he listened to anything I’ve been
saying? God, I’m trying to do the right thing here and he’s inviting me to a
party? “Is there something wrong with you?” I ask in an accusatory tone. I
can’t help it. I think something is seriously wrong with this man.

Laughing, he says, “Of course not. I’m just not
listening to your ridiculousness. Ya know, you have as much ridiculousness as I
have awesomeness. While that should be impressive, really it’s just sad.” He’s
smiling, shaking his head in disapproval.

Shoving his arm, I scold him, telling him he’s an
idiot; not exactly kind words from someone who so recently was on the road to
becoming a martyr. What can I say? The road took a turn.

“Come with me. Please . . .” he begs, his lower lip
quivering over his top.

He’s pouting. He’s actually pouting! When was the last
time a man was seen pouting? I imagine that would be never. I hate to admit it,
but he looks pretty damn adorable right now.

This is all reminiscent of what I just went through
with Bruce in this very spot, except I was doing the pouting. I don’t know what
happened that I ended up on the receiving end, especially when I was trying to
let him walk away with some dignity left before I blew that up in his face.
Instead, he’s resorted to pouting; pouting and relentlessly begging me to go to
the party with him.

“Kyle . . .”

He puts his hand to my face, officially silencing me.
“Don’t you go off again, telling me I can’t see you or shouldn’t see you, or
whatever else you keep trying to say. I’m not going away. Call me a masochist,
but I’m sticking around whether you like it or not,” he finishes, crossing his
arms over his chest as if this topic is settled.

“I don’t get you, I really don’t. I don’t know what
you think you’re going to get out of this,” I gesture my hand back and forth
between us. “God, I don’t even know what to call this, but whatever it is, I
can assure you, you won’t.”

“Listen, I don’t know what kind of guy you think I am,
but I’m not a bad one. I want to get to know you, hang out with you, that’s
all. I’m not trying to hurt you. I don’t want anything from you. I like you.
I’m sorry if that bothers you, but I’m afraid it’s true.” As if his pursed lips
weren’t enough to tell me he wasn’t really sorry, the limp shrug confirms it.

Shaking my head, mentally scolding myself for the
stupid choice I’m about to make, I agree to meet him at the party.