The Alignment (7 page)

Chapter 8

Trey

I
carry the two
mugs over to the table, set one down in front of Liv and the other at my spot across from her. She immediately reaches for hers.

“Wait for me,” I tease.

She tries to pull back nonchalantly, but I know the effect this tea has. I was addicted to it for seven years. I bring the bowl of stew to the table and set that down in front of her as well. She doesn’t take her eyes off me. As I sit across from her, she takes a few bites of stew and a sip of tea. I take a sip of mine. We set our mugs down at the same time and our eyes lock.

“I am such a lightweight,” she says. “And I take no responsibility for anything I do tonight.”

“Likewise.” I hold my mug up to hers, and we toast.

She must have been starving the way she’s devouring the stew. I grab the newspaper from the counter and open it. Hopefully the tea will allow us to get along. I’m counting on it to tame my nerves so her irritating quirks don’t bother me as much. When she empties her bowl I put down the paper and refill it. She thanks me.

“I bought a piece of replacement glass for your skylight. I was going to install it tomorrow. Would you like to come with me? I could help you clean up your house, and we could secure it better until you can go back.”

She looks at me like an animal that’s just been freed from a trap—an emotion she would have been able to hide a moment ago. “That would be nice.”

Several minutes of silence pass. She gets up and sets her bowl on the counter and returns to her chair. “Isn’t it ridiculous we both have to get drunk to get along?”

“Who says we’re getting along?” I don’t mean to flirt, but I do anyway. I catch myself about to grin at her so I look away. I must have made the tea too strong.

She sighs. It doesn’t annoy me.

“I’m going to dilute this a little.” I stand.

“No! Mine’s perfect.” She grabs her mug with both hands and smiles impishly up at me. I stare into her brilliant blue eyes and start to lose myself. I sit back down.

“How old are you?” she blurts out. Her forehead wrinkles in confusion, and she adds, “I don’t know why I asked that. I wasn’t even really wondering it.”

I chuckle before my answer comes out on its own. “Thirty.” It really doesn’t mean anything anymore.

“I’m older than you. I’m thirty-two.”

I would have guessed late twenties. Or maybe not. I can’t remember.

She puts her forearms on the table and leans forward, her eyes round and serious. “I have to tell you something.”

“Oh, god. Is this the tea talking?”

“No. But it’s easier now. I was wrong this morning. About what I accused you of. And I’m sorry.” She looks genuinely sorry.

“Don’t worry about it.” I stop myself from saying more. I actually don’t want to piss her off. That’s a first.

She stares at her nails. “I missed one.”

“What?”

“A nail. I missed one.”

“You missed one?” For some reason that’s funny to me. But I can’t laugh. It’s stupid.

She absentmindedly pulls the rubber band out of her hair and massages the back of her head. Her hair falls in waves down her shoulders. She puts the rubber band on the table. Then she looks surprised it’s there. She takes another drink and frowns. “Empty.”

I realize I’m staring at her. I go back to the paper. I look at the pictures because it’s too much work to read the words. She flicks the back of the paper, and I almost laugh but stop myself before it comes out.

“I’m empty,” she announces.

“You can’t have any more.”

“Why not?”

“It would put you over the legal limit.”

“This is legal?” She pantomimes shock. “Now it’s no fun anymore.”

“Is your stomach better?”

She acts like it’s the first time she’s thought about it. “Yes.” She peeks into her empty mug. “What is this stuff, anyway?”

“It is a natural remedy for stomach ailments and anxiety. Sometimes it’s called Honesty Tea, because of its side effects.” I pause for her to reply, but she doesn’t. “It’s also called Lover’s Tea. And some other names I can’t remember.” Is that me talking so much? I need to shut up.

“But what exactly
is
it?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” Ironic. I’m sure I’ll have to kill her anyway.

She scoffs.

“Hey, do you want to go for a walk?” I sound like an eager child.

She twists around in her seat to look outside but quickly turns back to me with disappointment creasing her brow. “But it’s dark out.”

“All the better. The moon is full tonight. There will be plenty of light.”

“Okay!” Now she sounds like an eager child.

I put on my boots and pull my flannel jacket out of the closet. She disappears down the hall, so I clear our mugs, throw the remainder of the used tea leaves in the trash, and hide the rest of the tea at the back of the cabinet. She’ll be looking for more when she comes down. So will I, and I don’t want to make it easy for either one of us to find it. I glance out the window. The moon is not very high but it will be soon.

I sit on the couch to wait for her. The sounds of her stumbling around in the bedroom carry down the hallway, and I watch the fluctuation of light on the wall, wondering if she needs any help. Several minutes later she appears in front of me in jeans, a flannel shirt, and hiking boots. Thank god she knows how to dress for the occasion.

I pull another one of my jackets out of the closet and throw it to her. She makes no attempt to catch it, but it lands on her shoulder. She looks up, as if wondering where it came from. I shake my head and stifle a laugh. We head out the front and I lead her in a wide arc around the property, to the back.

“I can’t see!” It’s too giddy an exclamation but it must have come out of her. She stumbles, reaching out for me in reflex, but recovers without my help.

“Your eyes will adjust. Give them a few minutes.”

We walk without speaking until we reach the river. She moves closer to the water, watching it break and roll over rocks. It’s not reasonable to be impatient because my sense of time is warped. Like the unending flow of water over rock, my thoughts consume me. Spending time with someone I’m setting up to be murdered can’t be a good idea. Maybe it’s the most humane thing, to be nice to her in her last days. But I’m not capable of being humane. I should know better than to even begin to befriend a woman, but at this point it doesn’t matter. They already know about her. Or think they know. They just don’t know how mistaken they are.

A better way out of this isn’t in my grasp. Incompetent. Disgusting. Losing my game, with no motivation to do anything about it. This mental drain worsens every day, nurturing an apathy I know from past experience will go undefeated. A change in scenery will only stall it. After I get settled somewhere else, it will come back. It always does.

She turns around, her face bright. A slight breeze stirs her hair around her face. She pulls my jacket from around her waist and puts it on. It swallows her. She tucks her hair inside the collar and raises the hood over her head.

“That cold?” Again, my flirting is involuntary. Damn tea.

She climbs up to where I’m standing and looks up at me in anticipation. I hold her gaze longer than I should, pushing it. Being with her reminds me of someone, of better times. It fills the barbed hole in me with a steel abrasive. I find myself savoring the pain. Wanting more. Wishing I could go back to that time when it almost broke me.

“Where to next?” she asks.

Her words yank me from the irresistible lust for that pain. I should know better than to give in to it while in the presence of others. I can’t trust what I will do.

We walk along the river to the footbridge and cross over. The terrain becomes more rugged, and I let her in front of me so I can watch over her. We head higher and higher. She should be tired by now, want to turn back.

“There better be a payoff,” she says, twisting around, almost reading my thoughts. I give her a look that tells her to be patient. She takes another step and loses footing, sliding down under me on her stomach until I catch her by the jacket and pull her upright. She looks at me apologetically and wipes her hands on her jeans. Her pupils are huge. Mine probably are too. This is dangerous and stupid. But it feels like heaven.

“Your boot is untied.” I point.

“Oh.” She crouches to tie it.

“Double it,” I say when she stands.

She rolls her eyes and leans down to double the knots on both boots.

“So demanding,” she mumbles when she stands again, but I refuse to meet her eyes.

When we reach the bluffs, the moon is high and so bright it illuminates the whole valley. I walk out to the edge like I usually do, and she gasps.

“Too close! That makes me nervous.”

I turn around to face her. I could snap her neck and toss her over right now. Tomorrow would be a pain in the ass, but in a week I would forget any of this happened. Everything would be back to normal. Shit. I’ve got to be more creative than this.

I return to her side. She takes my hand and sits, pulling me down with her. We sit cross-legged and enjoy the view. The nagging feelings return, poking holes in my weakened resistance. Making the tea strong seemed like a good idea for earlier reasons, but now I see the error. I forgot the power it holds over me, the images it releases. Images of her I can handle. But I pity whoever is unlucky to be near me should my thoughts ever dwell on him.

“Are you a ballet dancer?” I ask.

She looks surprised I spoke. “Yes.”

“For how long?” I’m not sure why I care, but it seems important for some reason.

“My whole life. How’d you know?”

Shit. I saw those three pairs of ballet shoes when I was snooping through her house. Time to shut up before I incriminate myself. “Just a hunch.”

The air is thick with sounds of the end of summer. I pick out individual noises—a rabbit’s scamper across pine needles, the creak of tree branches, the undulating breeze—before combining them one at a time until they become a chorus once again.

“Do you get in a lot of fights?”

Fights. I can’t control my laugh. “Why would you think that?”

“Your lip is split. The bruise on your neck. The cuts on your knuckles. Telltale signs. I’m a nurse, remember?”

I look away. “Yes, I remember.” And I’m not going to answer the original question.

“It can’t be healthy.”

I shrug and look at her. It’s hard not to laugh.

“I hope you know your way back.” She scans the landscape around us.

“Sure don’t. I was hoping you did,” I joke. She doesn’t buy it. “It’s easy. Tonight, you can find Orion, and then use the rest of the stars as a guide.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope.”

She shakes her head, the tip of her tongue clamped between her teeth like she’s physically suppressing it.

“There was a time when people used the stars…” I’m talking too much again.

She looks up at the night sky and releases a deep breath. “Will I ever know?”

Her words stab me without motive. “What?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Who trashed my house.”

I hesitate. The temptation of confiding my secrets overwhelms me in sudden lucid possibility, especially knowing she’s not going to be around much longer. I look over at her. The hood has fallen down, and her hair has freed itself with the breeze. I feel my mask return. I look away. “No.”

She opens her mouth again, and I silently cringe. Please just let it be.

“So which one is Orion?” She searches the sky.

It takes me a second to recover. “You have to look for his belt. See those three bright stars right there? If you follow the line they make with your eyes, you can find Sirius.”

“Where?” She looks in the wrong direction.

I grasp her head and point it correctly.

“Oh those three there? I see them now. And which one is Sirius?”

“There.” I point.

She tries to follow my finger but misses. God, I could go swimming in those pupils. She had as much as me and she’s half my size. Overdose. Wouldn’t that be funny.

“You are impossible.” I grasp her head and move it again.

“Ah. The bright one.” Her long bangs catch on her eyelashes, and she brushes them aside.

“Yep, the really bright one.”

“Do you know them all?” she asks, still looking up.

“Yes.”

“How did you learn?”

“Self-taught,” I lie. “Should we head back?” I stand.

She stands and sways, grabbing my arm for support. “Head rush,” she explains with a grin I try to ignore.

I let her get her bearings before we begin our descent. The ground is steep for a while, and I lead the way until it levels out and we can easily walk side by side. Now the air feels peaceful; the energy we had on the way up has been replaced with a strange tranquility that puts me at ease. It’s a nice feeling I wouldn’t mind more of. I’m better off without it.

River blasts through the underbrush, and Liv jumps backward.

“A warning next time? My god!” She tries to catch her breath. “I thought we were being attacked by wolves.”

“Where have you been, girl?” I ask River. She looks like she’s been up to no good. She follows us all the way back to the house and takes her usual spot by the garage. We go inside and I flip on the living room light.

“What?” she asks in response to my gaze.

“You have a million leaves stuck in your hair.”

“I do?” She reaches up, and her fingers find one. She pulls it out and examines it.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you.” My words sound dead. It feels like we have already lost our alliance.

She goes back out on the porch, and I watch her shaking out her hair, combing it with her fingers. When she finally turns to come inside, I collapse on the couch, roll onto my back, and stare at the ceiling. She goes straight into the bedroom. My eyes close before my hands make it to the laces on my boots. I untie them by feel and kick them off. I don’t hear them hit the floor.

Chapter 9

Liv

I
wake up in
utter bliss once again. Knowing it won’t last, I get up and get dressed to make the most of it until my stomach becomes aware of its subdual and strikes back. Along with the sickness, the clouds of doom have also lifted, and I feel like a criminal, cheating a well-deserved fate. I know this happiness is only temporary, and chemically-induced, but it’s impossible not to enjoy this reprieve just a little. Waking up from sound, natural sleep is a luxury I never thought I would feel again.

The silence in the house tells me he must still be sleeping, so I make my bed and head to the bathroom. It’s a surprise to see my face in the mirror while brushing my teeth. This unguarded expression hasn’t surfaced in almost a year.

When I pass through the living room, I try not to make the floor creak so I can enjoy the morning alone. He’s on the couch in the same position as before, lying on his back with his arms open and feet dangling off the end. I try to control my stomach from growling as I tiptoe into the kitchen.

Everything in the refrigerator looks sparkling and delicious. I pour some orange juice and stare out the window, trying to make sense of last night’s events.

The couch creaks in the other room, then the floor. He appears at the doorway, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand. Hair sticking up in all directions, shirtless, barefoot, with sleepy eyes and a goofy look of surprise as he sees me. I bite my lip, trying not to smile. It’s hard to detest him when I feel so well again. Without a word, he turns around. The sound of his footsteps recedes down the hall. A moment later I hear the shower running.

He’d probably kill me if I made breakfast. For some reason, knowing this makes me want to do it more. The cabinets are as spartan as the rest of the house, but I find a skillet and some eggs. I set the table, start the coffee, and go back to tend the eggs as pieces of last night come back to me. Whatever we drank made everything so easy. I might go so far as to say I had fun. Okay maybe not fun. A pleasant time. But that’s not saying a lot considering the state of my life.

“You don’t need to do that.”

Nothing clears the head like an early morning panic attack. “God! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

He snorts. “Sneak up on you? You must be deaf.”

Still on my high, I satisfy a simple need to laugh at him instead of adding another scar to his face. He holds open his hand for the spatula. Just as I thought, a total control freak. I pretend I don’t see the open hand and turn to finish the eggs and turn off the burner. He’s behind me the whole time.

I step around him and serve the eggs to the plates on the table. I pull two pieces of toast from the toaster and put two more in, pour the coffee, and bring milk and orange juice to the table.

He still hasn’t yielded his position.

“Do I have to wait for you?” I mock, echoing what he said last night. I might be crazy, but I swear I see the corner of his lip turn up.

His toast pops up, so he retrieves it and sits. We eat in silence, awkward in our own thoughts. When only the coffee remains, he slides open the back door. Birdsong fills the room. He should have done that sooner. We sip our coffee, working hard to avoid each other’s line of sight. He lets me help him clean up. Once everything is put away, he clears his throat. “I have a few things to load in my truck. If you want, you can ride over to your place with me.”

Weighing my options, I don’t see why not. “Okay.”

I sit in the truck while he loads the bed with various items from his garage. On the ride there, he seems different. Like his usual blatant hostility has been replaced by human thought, yet withdrawn. Depressed. Almost like the fire went out. But I don’t find the voice to ask.

When we park at my house, he turns in his seat and searches my face.

I know what he’s wondering, so I answer his look. “I’m fine.” And I am. I’ve been through much worse. Comparatively speaking, this is nothing. I don’t mind seeing the house trashed again. In fact, I’m anxious to get it all cleaned up so I can forget this ever happened.

I go inside and get to work. Before long, his footsteps are thumping on the roof, and leftover glass rains onto the floor beneath the missing skylight. Once I move all the furniture back to its proper place, I replace all the contents of the boxes I hadn’t yet unpacked and refold and rehang all my clothes, trying to ignore how violently they had been ripped from the dresser and closet. I know this isn’t personal. It only feels that way because it’s such an invasion of privacy.

Hearing voices outside, I freeze to listen but can’t determine who it is so I peek out the front window. Nancy!

Outside, she’s hugging me before I have a chance to say hi.

“Liv you look great! I just wanted to drop by and see how you’re doing. Sorry for my bad timing…” She gives me an exaggerated wink.

“Yeah, I guess he kind of owes me a favor.” Try to make light of it. That’s all this would be, if we weren’t here to repair a home invasion.

“Hon, all the single women in this town are going to be jealous when they hear you snared Trey Bevan.”

“Oh no, it’s not like that.” Other women must not know what a pain in the ass he is. I hold back a smile. She would only think I was giving something away that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“Right. We’ll see. Wouldn’t it just be fate though? Considering how you met?” As usual, her laugh is almost contagious. But I would be laughing for a completely different reason. I’d have to commit a heinous crime for fate to pair me with him.

“I would invite you in but I have the whole place torn apart. Kind of…reorganizing everything.”

“Oh no I don’t want to intrude. I was just nearby and thought I should check on you. So everything is okay? You’re enjoying the place? Making friends?”

“Everything is great.” I can’t help but smile now. Making friends all right, with home invaders who might want to kill me.

“Well, I’m thrilled. I knew you’d love it here. Okay, I’ve got to run. Take care and call me.” The last two words she drops to a loud whisper, jerking her thumb toward Trey on the roof.

I shake my head and wave as she drives away. Trey is standing, looking down at me from the roof. I meet his gaze and hold it. He looks away and goes back to work, probably wondering if I snitched. Well, he’ll just have to wonder. I’m intent on making him miserable.

I just about have the kitchen in order when a searing pain in my stomach seizes me. My knees buckle, and I grasp the countertop and lower myself to the floor, pressing my forehead against the cabinets, tears streaming down my face. This is the worst it’s been. I’m immobilized. I feel like I’m dying.

Something turns me around and through my tears I see two green eyes. I hear his voice but it sounds far away. I feel myself being lifted up, and I cry out, twisting in agony. A sudden softness cradles my body. A warm hand brushes my hair off my face. And then darkness.

It is so bright. My eyelids feel unnaturally heavy but I struggle to open them. As I turn my head, my vision comes into focus. He’s here. Sitting on the chair, staring out the window. I look at the ceiling. The skylight. He fixed the skylight. I try to clear my throat. “Trey?”

“How do you feel?”

“So tired.”

“Can you sit up?” He moves toward me to help me sit up. He returns to the chair.

“How long was I asleep?” I blink the dried tears from my eyes.

“Three hours.”

It seemed so much longer than that. I feel like I should be asking what day it is.

“Were you here the whole time?” I ask instead.

“No. I had to go home and get something to help you.”

His voice is a cold wind blowing through the dead grass of a barren winter landscape, lifeless and bleak. The vivid imagery in my mind surprises me.

“I think it helped.” I wonder what it was he gave me before I realize I don’t care.

“Yes, but it’s only temporary.”

I stretch my legs out in front of me, looking around the room.

“You finished cleaning?” I ask, already knowing he is the only one who could have.

He doesn’t answer.

My eyes focus on an object resting in his lap, the sight of which lowers me into that pit. The one I won’t escape a second time. My mind goes over the object’s soft cover and the silky pink ribbon surrounding it as if it is again in my own hands.

Suddenly, he’s next to me, his face inches from mine. “You have a child?” He sounds like he’s choking.

I shake my head. My heart has frozen, spreading a painful chill to the rest of my body.

He lifts the album, still in his hands. “Is this your child?” His voice is the cold winter wind.

“Yes.” I gasp for air. My lungs are failing.

He lays the photo album on the couch next to him and stares into the room. I cannot breathe. When he turns back to me, his eyes are a harsh green expanding all around me like duplicate tunnels in a fun house—it doesn’t matter which one I pick, they both drop me into the darkness of his pupil. I close my eyes. The dizzying motion settles into a tight ball in the back of my head, turning prickly hot. “Stop it.” I don’t know why I say it. He can’t subdue a chaos that’s inside me.

“You lost a child?”

“Yes.” I want the tears to flood my burning eyes, but I cannot cry. I have cried too much already.

“I did, too.” His voice is a desolate whisper I feel more than hear.

We stare at each other, motionless. Time passes but I can’t break away. Our suffering cements us in place. His pain is my pain. I can see his soul. We are in a lifeboat, together, in the middle of the ocean. I can feel the waves, the gentle rocking of the boat, the sun warming my hair. We are exposed, alone, lost. No one will ever find us here. We will die here.

The boat begins to rock harder. I’m unable to sit still anymore. I have to grasp the sides of the boat to keep myself upright. And like dominoes falling, one by one, I start losing my hard-earned control.

“Where did you find that?” I say. It’s his fault I’ll be imprisoned in the pit again, buried under the weighted darkness. I packed that album away. I wasn’t ready to see it.

He blinks. He can’t speak.

“I want to know where you found that!” Who is that screaming? It hurts my ears. I point to the album.

He looks at the album. He looks back at me, his lips parted, his face expressionless. “In the clutter. On the bedroom floor.”

My ears pound. Someone screams again. “You had no right!”

I lash out, and my wrists are caught. He yanks me to standing. The vertebrae in my neck pop from the force.

His pupils are dilated, his breath comes in short bursts. I see an unstoppable fury unleashed before me. With it comes a clarity, a lightning strike. I was wrong about him before. He wasn’t hostile or menacing. That was a guard, a protective layer. It’s missing now and something’s been released—his temper is now armed with bare emotion. What I see now has put it all in perspective.

I try to twist out of his grasp but his hands are iron shackles. His face is the vicious mask of a killer. Blood to my hands is cut off. My legs are tingling hot with the urge to run, but when facing a predator of his power it’s the worst thing to do.

“Trey.” His name spoken in a way I didn’t plan. Not just an appeal, but a recognition. An understanding.

He drops my wrists like they’ve just burned him. He stumbles one step back. The broken look on his face is my reflection in a mirror.

My breath leaves me and I choke. I cover my mouth, attempt to control a sob but it’s too late. Once it starts it will never stop until I’m a dried husk, blowing away, all my moisture cried out.

“Do you have any more of that tea?”

He swallows hard. “It’s habit-forming.”

“I don’t care.”

I follow him out to the truck. He drives like we’re in a high-speed chase.

Inside his kitchen, he combines three jars of different tea leaves into one and dumps half of it into my palm and half into his. We stare at each other in a silent count of one, two, three. He crams the whole thing into his mouth, and I follow.