Chapter Thirteen
Samantha
“The thorns which I have reap’d are of the tree
I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed.
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.”
-Lord Byron
It’s over.
There won’t be any fresh start, no happy ending.
I should have realized Todd’s father’s connection to Hollywood would make the rape trial news even overseas. The entire goddamned planet worships celebrity. Jesus may still fill pews on weekends, but it’s celebrity and scandal that sells magazines and powers the twenty-four hour news channels.
I should have known better than to think I could put the past behind me and move on. The past was always here, lurking in my bone marrow like a cancer, providing the illusion of safety when it had the power to resurface and destroy my life all along.
“You can come all the way to Auckland with me if you want.” The middle-aged man with the mangy beard who picked me up slows as we pull into downtown Taupo, but doesn’t pull over. “I don’t mind. I like company.”
I laugh, a strangled giggle that sounds as crazy as I feel right now.
I haven’t said a word to this man since offering my name thirty seconds into the ride, and have ignored all of his attempts to make conversation. I’ve just been staring out the window, chewing on my lip until the skin feels bruised, my thoughts racing as I try to figure out what to do next.
I can’t go back to the hotel and wait for Danny, but I can’t take the car and run, either. Taupo is hours away from Auckland. Even if I leave Danny a note and money for a flight home, he won’t be able to afford a taxi, and I have no idea if the buses around here run that far.
“You want to get something to eat?” the man—Joseph, I think he said his name was—asks. “I could go for a roast beef sandwich. I’m buying if you’ll sit across the table and look pretty for me.”
Look pretty for him.
Like I’m a decoration, not a person, a person whose life is falling apart and who is obviously in some kind of serious distress. Surely not even this lug is so empathy impaired he can’t tell I’ve been trying not to cry since the moment I got into his truck.
No, he can probably tell. He just doesn’t care. The feelings of the flowers in the vase are irrelevant. Objects are meant to be observed and enjoyed. Objects don’t matter the way people do, and to this man I’m an object, whether he realizes that’s how he sees me or not.
“No, thank you.” I reach for the door handle, deciding to jump out of the truck while it’s moving if I have to. My gut didn’t ping when this guy pulled over, but it’s pinging now. “You can just let me out at the next corner.”
“You sure?” he asks, still not slowing down. “I know a good place in the next town over. Great sandwiches and they’ve got the cutest dog that sleeps near the door. Love that little dog. Pet him every time I stop in.”
“I need to get out in Taupo.” My grip tightens on the door handle as my eyes slide to the door lock, making sure it’s open. “My boyfriend is meeting me here.”
“Boyfriend, huh?” Joseph laughs uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t let any girlfriend I had hitchhike on the highway. Busy road. Lots of scabs passing through. You don’t know who might pick you up.”
“Lucky I found you then,” I say flatly, gaze shifting to the traffic light up ahead, willing it to turn red before the truck gets through.
“Yeah. Sure is,” Joseph agrees. “I don’t pick up hitchhikers often, but couldn’t let a pretty girl like you stand out there in the cold.”
The light turns red and Joseph begins to brake.
I don’t wait for the truck to come to a complete stop before jerking open the door and jumping out into the street.
The car behind us honks and the driver shouts something I can’t make out. Joseph slams on his brakes and calls for me to get back in the truck, but I’m already on the sidewalk, power walking in the opposite direction without a single glance back over my shoulder.
I don’t have time for any more bullshit. I already have more than enough shit on my plate.
I duck into a drugstore at the end of the next block, my nose stinging as an aggressive blast of heat attacks my chilled face. Shoving my hot-spring-fuzzed hair from my face, I make my way to the rear of the store. I find a lonely corner, where dusty canvases and boxes of paint so old the oil has probably gone rancid sit next to cross stitch patterns and neat twists of thread hanging in a row, and sit down on the cold tile floor. I pull my legs into my chest, press my forehead into my knees, and do my best to calm the fuck down and think.
One part of me is screaming that I shouldn’t have run from Danny, but the terrified animal crouching inside insists I had no other choice.
I can’t tell Danny the truth any more than I could tell a police officer or a room full of strangers. If Danny knew, a night like last night would never have happened. He would never look at me the same way again. He would never touch me with that easy familiarity that feels so right. I would become something to be handled with care, or not to be handled at all, and we would never be alone in bed again. They would always be there with us, ruining everything they touch, spoiling every sweet kiss with their whiskey breath and their biting fingers.
I pull in a breath and hold it, refusing to go back there, refusing to cry.
Danny is probably looking for me already and is no doubt worried sick. I have to figure out what to do.
If I hadn’t destroyed our phones, I could call him and try to negotiate a truce before we met in person, but our phones are no doubt on their way to a landfill by now and Danny decided against the pay-as-you-go phone once we saw how much they cost. Collect calls to Croatia are cheaper.
Everything here is so expensive. I’m going to run out of money soon, even sooner if I pay for Danny’s plane flight back to Maui.
With Danny by my side, building a new life from nothing had seemed like a scary, but exciting adventure. Alone it will simply be terrifying. A pound of apples costs as much as I earn teaching surf lessons for an hour, and there won’t be anyone in the water until spring. I have experience tutoring kids and babysitting, but who is going to want to hire a girl with no references, whose face they might have seen on the evening news.
A panicked sob escapes my lips, but before I can really start crying a girl’s voice breaks the silence at the back of the store.
“Are you okay?” the voice asks, making me jump in surprise.
I lift my head to see a brunette in a long, flowing, brown dress standing by the gunky paint. She looks about my age, with light brown hair pulled into a French braid, freckles across her nose, and kind brown eyes that look older than the rest of her.
“I’m fine,” I lie, trying to smile. “Just had a fight with my boyfriend. Nothing serious.”
She nods but doesn’t return my smile. “You’re American?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I’d been planning to pretend to be Canadian. My friend Mindy had warned me that some Kiwis don’t care for Americans, but I don’t have the energy to pretend to be someone I’m not right now. Not while I’m so busy lying about everything else.
“My uncle married an American,” she says. “He and his wife live here half the year and in Northern California the other half. They invited me for Christmas last year, but I didn’t want to miss the good weather here. I work as a street artist in the summers.”
“That’s cool,” I say with a sniff. I feel like I should get to my feet, but I’m suddenly so tired, and it’s not like I know where I’m going. I still have no idea what to do aside from pray for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
She smiles. “I’m sorry. I’m babbling. I don’t really know what to say. I just feel like you’re in trouble and need help, yeah?”
She steps closer, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper. “Do you need someplace to stay? There’s a women’s refuge on the other side of town. They take in girls who are scared of their boyfriends or…whoever, help them get back on their feet.”
“That’s really nice of you, but I’m not scared of my boyfriend. He’s…wonderful.” I press my lips together, ignoring the burning sensation at the back of my nose. “I’m just confused. But I’ll figure out what to do. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” she asks. “I don’t mind helping. I’d like to. I know what it’s like to be in a tough spot. My dad used to rough me up and my stepmom threw me out when I was sixteen. I’ve lived all over the place since. It can be hard here without any family to back you up. Hard anywhere, I bet.”
“How did you make it?” I ask, feeling like an asshole. I used to feel sorry for myself about my parents’ divorce when I was younger, but I’ve really had it easy in so many ways.
At least until recently.
“Friends, the kindness of strangers,” the girl says, a big smile creeping across her face. “Thank God for good people, right? It seems like just when I’m about to give up, someone comes along and makes me believe in people again.”
I nod, not trusting myself not to start crying if I try to speak. She doesn’t know how right she is. She doesn’t know how much I needed someone like her right now.
“I’m Meg, by the way,” she says, holding out her hand.
“Sam.” I reach up, giving her palm a firm clasp. “Thank you.”
She laughs. “For what? I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You have,” I say, getting to my feet, my knees feeling stronger than they did a minute before. “You made me think maybe the world isn’t against me, after all.”
She cocks her head sympathetically. “No, it’s not, but it can feel that way sometimes, can’t it.”
She reaches out, giving my arm a gentle squeeze. “You want to grab a cuppa with me or something? There’s a good place down the road. They’ve got free Wi-Fi, and Dave, the guy who owns it, has a bunk in back where he lets people sleep for free. I’m not supposed to tell anyone else about it because the last kid who slept there had lice and it took him forever to get rid of them, but I can tell you’re not buggy.”
I laugh. “No, I’m not buggy. I actually have a hotel room for tonight, but I might take you up on that bunk tomorrow. I need to see how things shake out with my boyfriend.”
“Sure thing,” she says, reaching into her roomy corduroy purse and pulling out a battered old flip phone. “Want to give me your digits, and I can give you a call when I get off work tomorrow?”
“I don’t have a phone,” I say. “But I can write your number down if that’s okay?”
“Of course. I think I even have a card somewhere.” She drops her phone back into her purse and digs around at the bottom before pulling out a brightly colored business card. “Here you go. I work until three, but I’m free all night after.”
I take the card, smiling as I read—Meg Bugsby, street art, cartoons, commissions, free smiles.
“Do call, ’kay?” She squeezes my arm again with one hand, while the other reaches casually for a twenty-four pack of oil paints and slips it into her purse. “I want to know you’re right. And don’t worry about this.” She nods toward her purse. “I’ll pay them back on Friday when I get paid. I just can’t wait that long for more paint. I’ve got a mermaid swimming around in my imagination I need to get on wood before she disappears.”
I shrug. “I’m not in any place to judge.”
“Cool.” Meg winks as she backs away. “I like you. You call me tomorrow. We’ll work everything out. No more tears in the pharmacy, eh?”
“No more tears in the pharmacy.” I lift a hand and wiggle my fingers.
“Seeya, Sam.” She turns and walks away. I stand watching her, holding my breath until her bobbing brown head bobs out the door without the shopkeeper tackling her to the ground and pulling the paints from her purse.
My guardian angel is a shoplifting artist.
Something about it feels right.
I tuck Meg’s card into my purse and make my way to the checkout via the hair products aisle, where I snag a pack of rubber bands. I pay for the ties and step out onto the street, standing in a patch of sunlight as I rake my rapidly expanding hair from my face with my fingers and subdue it into a ponytail.
I’m still standing there, wondering whether I should start walking toward the rafting company only a couple of miles down the road, or try to find a cab or a bus to take me to the hotel and hope Danny ends up there sooner rather than later, when I catch a flash of bright red paint and our rental car pulls into a parking spot across the street.
Danny is out the driver’s door a moment later.
His eyes find me immediately, leaving no doubt I was the reason he pulled over. His body is so tense I can practically feel it vibrating from across the street and the expression on his face is a heartbreaking mix of anger, betrayal, and confusion that makes me wish I was still hiding in the arts and crafts aisle of the drug store.
But I’m not going to run away again. Danny deserves better than that, and just because I’m afraid doesn’t mean I have to be a complete coward. Kind-hearted girls who want to help the friendless still shoplift from struggling store owners. Creepy guys who refuse to let girls out of their trucks love to pet little dogs.
The world isn’t black and white. It’s made up of a thousand shades of gray, and maybe there is a shade that can work for me and Danny.
Maybe there is a way to tell just enough of the truth to keep from losing the man I love.
I take a deep breath and start across the street, praying that I’ll be able to make it work. I can see in Danny’s green eyes just how much I’ve hurt him by running off for less than an hour. I don’t want to imagine how badly I’ll hurt him if I need to keep running for the rest of my life.