Then There Was You (17 page)

He giggled. “Oh yeah, I saw that girl.”

“What girl?” I asked, stopping dead in my tracks.

Suddenly aware that this was no laughing matter, he said carefully, “That girl that came over right before you left.”

I almost felt my heart rip through my chest. “Kaitlyn? Where? Did you talk to her?”

“Uh… no,” he paused as if he thought he’d made a mistake in telling me.

“And? You gotta give me something, Mitch. Anything.” I demanded, reaching out to the wall for support.

I could feel his hesitation, almost as if it were a living breathing thing traveling through the line, and instantly I wanted to punch something. “Uh… she was with some guy. She was holding his hand. They looked like they were in love.”

In love.
Those two words sucker-punched me. Fuck no. She was not in-fucking-love with someone else. No fucking way.

The moments all came rushing back to me—when I first saw her by the gymnasium, when I sang to her in class, when I danced with her under the moonlight, and when I held my hand to the glass professing my love for her as she drove away.

“Who, Mitch?” I ground out. “Who was she with?” If it was Trevor I’ll fucking kill him.

“I don’t know,” he swore, talking fast to calm me down. “Not that football player though. He was tall. A lot taller. And skinny.”

The realization hit me like a tsunami. A wall of heartbreak slammed into me, knocking the wind out of me, sucking me under. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move.
Oh god, she moved on. She fucking moved on!

My heart splintered into a million pieces and I fell to my knees, letting go of the receiver. It dangled below the pay phone, spinning and bouncing on its long metal cord.

“Chris? Chris?” I heard my brother calling through the speaker.

I managed to compose myself long enough to tell him I loved him and to say goodbye, but the moment I heard the click, I fucking lost it.

I was standing at the sink washing dishes when I got the call. Quickly wiping my hands on a dish towel, I grabbed the phone on the third ring.

“Salem?” Officer Blevin’s panic-stricken voice boomed through the phone.

“Yes sir?” I asked, wondering why he would be calling my home so late in the evening.

“Salem, I need you to come quick! Come back to Fairbanks… it’s Chris… we can’t get him to calm down. We have him in segregation. How soon can you be here?”

I was slipping on my shoes that were lying by the back door as he spoke. “Fifteen minutes, Barry. Give me fifteen minutes.” I sure hoped the cops weren’t staked out tonight.

I hung up the phone and raced to the foyer to grab my keys out of the glass bowl on the lamp table. “I’ve gotta go back to work, Graham,” I called into the living room.

Graham looked up from his laptop. Surprised, he asked, “What? Why?”

“One of my cases needs me.” I didn’t have time for explanations.

Grimacing, his annoyance was clear. With furrowed eyebrows, he grumbled, “Whatever. What should I do with Alexis?”

I glared at him. I wanted to scream.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Completely exasperated, I barked, “You’re her father. You figure it out.” Slinging my purse on my shoulder, I snatched my jacket off the hook and opened the door. “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I snapped.

Rolling his eyes, he huffed, “Try not to be too long.”

I slammed the door behind me, practically sprinting to my car.

I could hear the guttural roar of Chris’s voice the moment I stepped into the segregation ward.

“Where is he?” I asked Officer Blevins.

With an expression of relief that I had finally arrived, he stated, “Cell two eighteen.”

I gestured for him to follow me. “Walk with me. Tell me what happened.”

Barry matched me step for step, gesturing frantically with his hands, as we made our way to Chris’s cell. “I don’t know. I was filling out some paperwork right before I was leaving to go home when they radioed me. I got down here and he was just freaking out. He wouldn’t talk. I thought maybe you might know what’s going on with him.”

I thought back to the events of the day. Nothing really sprang to mind. “Hmm, well, he got to make his first phone call home today. Maybe it has something to do with that,” I speculated.

Barry nodded. “Yeah, maybe.”

By that time we had reached Chris’ cell. Barry put his hand on my shoulder. “Sorry I called you at home so late. I just didn’t want to have to call medical.”

Calling medical meant a heavy dose of sedatives would be injected into Chris’s body, and he’d be down for the count. In some cases it was necessary, but we needed to get to the bottom of Chris’s tirade. Knocking him out wouldn’t help him sort out his emotions at all.

Barry put his hand on my shoulder. Encouraging me, he continued, “You’ll get him to calm down. I just know it.”

I nodded with uncertainty. Considering my experience with Malik, my confidence in myself was staggering. “I’ll see what I can do.” I took a deep breath and turned toward the big, metal door that led into Chris’s cell. I slid open tiny metal slot on the door. Peeking through the miniscule door, I meekly called out to him, “Chris?”

He stood in the far corner of the cell, barely responding to the sound of my voice. His face was red with anger, and the tears streaking down his cheeks clenched my heart. I didn’t know what was going on, but I had to help him. He slumped his shoulders, relaxing them the instant he heard my voice. Hopefully my presence alone was calming him. But a moment later, he slammed himself against the concrete wall of his cell with a howling cry.

“Chris, talk to me,” I pleaded, the desperation in my voice unmasked.

“Why?” he howled, his voice gruff with emotion as he punched the wall with his fist. Tiny red droplets were already splattered on the tile beneath him.

I flinched. My heart raced, and I clutched my chest. To see him hurt himself like that scared me. Watching his blood drip from his fingers, I remembered the feeling I had that day in my car when I saw the blood caused by my own hand. Relief from the emotional pain was replaced by physical pain.

His knuckles were bloody, ravaged by the concrete wall. Apparently, he’d already used the wall as his punching bag. Glaring at me, his voice went low. Eerily low. “Why should I? What’s the point?”

I kept my voice soothing and consoling, as I spoke, “I can help you.”

“No!” he barked, his eyes becoming void. “You can’t!” Another guttural growl escaped him as he thrashed back and forth in the tiny cell, pounding his body into the wall again with powerful force.

I had no choice. If I didn’t do something quickly the officers would be forced to call medical and Chris would soon be in a chemically induced slumber with no emotional sorting to show for it.

“I’m coming in,” I warned him firmly.

He threw both hands out as if to stop me, crying, “No! You can’t help me!”

I glanced at Officer Blevins who looked apprehensive because of Chris’s demeanor, but he knew there was no other choice. I had to take my chance. It was this or the sedative.

He nodded once and unlocked the metal door. Taking a deep breath, I took a step inside. Barry stood right behind me, poised to react if I needed him. I couldn’t help but feel a little nervous about how Chris would respond.

Chris’s fists were clenched by his sides, jaw twitching. His anguished, stormy eyes were fixed on mine. Heaving breaths caused his chest to rise and fall quickly. Dripping with sweat, his wet hair was stuck to his forehead. Nostrils flared while the veins in his neck bulged.

I gulped, nervously glancing toward Barry as he locked the door behind us. He nodded, encouraging me. Standing a little straighter, I quickly returned my gaze to Chris and caught his glare. But, it wasn’t a look of anger. It was pain. Those dark, swirling eyes were full of unfathomable pain.

“Chris, please…” I took a step toward him, raising my hands to show my defenselessness as I blatantly ignored the wild, erratic heart thumping in my chest.

“You can’t help me,” he bit out, staring me down as if ready for a fight.

“What happened?” I asked softly, angling my head with deference, hoping he wouldn’t see me as a threat. I took slow, steady breaths, trying to calm my racing pulse.

“What does it matter? You can’t help me,” he repeated, his hardened glare dissipated for a second, but quickly recovered.

I braved another step in his direction. “Try me,” I whispered, my eyes never leaving his.

Chris glanced toward the floor, but swiftly looked back up again. He was losing his resolve. I could feel it. I inched one more tiny step toward him. I knew if I could get to him, a soothing hand on his shoulder or the thought of just knowing that someone was right there by his side would get him to calm down.

He shook his head bitterly, fixing his cold eyes on me again. “No,” he insisted, with a little less certainty than the last time. “You can’t help me.”

I breathed a small sigh of relief that his resolve seemed to be slipping.

“I know I can’t change anything.” I gingerly took another step and reached with an outstretched hand toward him. “I just want to help you calm down.”

He took a step backward, and bumped into the wall behind him. Shifting his eyes from side to side, knowing there was nowhere else to go and no other choice, he broke. His voice cracked, “I called home.”

“I know,” I said softly, nodding. I felt the squeeze on my heart, sensing his pain.

He squeezed his eyes closed as if he were trying to block out a thought. Then with one violent shake of his head, he opened them, revealing the hurt behind them. His voice was barely a whisper, “She moved on.”

In that moment, I took my final step toward him. My outstretched hand reached him. The moment my fingers connected with his shoulder, Chris crumbled. His legs buckled beneath him and he sank to the floor.

Panting breaths were immediately replaced by heartbroken sobs. “Oh god, she moved on,” he cried, gripping his head in his hands.

I kneeled beside him. “I’m sorry, Chris,” I whispered, “I’m so sorry.” Watching this hardened teenager suffer such gut-wrenching pain crushed me.

Chris hung his head, crying out from weight of his heartache. He reached out, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me toward him. He tucked his head into the crook of my neck while his shoulders shook with unyielding sorrow. We sat together on that cold, hard floor while I cradled his head, gently rocking back and forth, consoling him.

I couldn’t help the tears that streamed down my face too. I remembered the moment I finally broke down in the car that morning. I’d been walking around, wearing the mask of strength for far too long. “It’s okay,” I coaxed him. “Let it out. You’ve been strong long enough.”

He clutched me tighter, burying himself in my arms. The warmth of his hug was a sharp contrast to the cold, barren room we were huddled in.

“I loved her so much,” he said through his tears.

Gripping his shoulder, I whispered, “I know you did.”

“I loved her so fucking much, but that wasn’t enough.”

Shaking my head, I insisted, “That’s not true. You loved her enough to fight for her—to protect her. You saved her, Chris. Your love
was
enough.”

“Why does it have to hurt so bad?”

I patted his back and gave him a tight squeeze. I was wondering the same question, but for different reasons. My response to him was, “I just don’t know. A heart is a fragile thing, I guess.”

After a few minutes, he took a few deep breaths, trying to pull himself together. A catharsis of emotions was exactly what he’d needed.

Lifting his head, he peered up at me with glassy, blood-shot eyes. “Thank you for coming. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’m always here for you,” I whispered, looking down at him. His eyes were begging for the need to be heard and understood. I nodded inwardly.
I hear you, Chris. Can you hear me?

He stared back at me, widening those deep windows to his soul as if to say, ‘I hear you.’