Sara Jane

I am strong.

I am strong.

“Run!”

“Sara Jane?”

“Nooo. No, Chad. Oh God!”

I jolt awake, my heart rate spiking in my chest as well as on the monitor, the ringing becoming a part of my reality. The nurse is here, a hand on my arm, rubbing gently. “You’re safe, Sara Jane. You’re okay.”

The hospital.

A nurse.

The bed.

The blankets.

The . . . Shelly?

My eyes deceive me. It must be because I’m sleepy. I rub my eyes, but she’s here, standing next to me. “Sara Jane,” she says, tears falling from her chin onto my cheeks when she hugs me.

My swallow is heavy, thick with emotion from seeing my best friend. I close my eyes and embrace her. “You’re here,” I manage to say between my own tears.

When she stands back up, she says, “I’m sorry it took me so long.” Her fingers find broken threads on the blanket from too many times in the washing machine. She pulls at it, her eyes fixed on the white cotton. “I . . .” Pausing, she finally looks me in the eyes. “I’m not . . .” I know my friend. I can see the sorrow in her heart. The quivering lips she tries to restrain are pink from pain instead of the latest beauty score at the drugstore makeup counter.

Turning away, I can’t think about Chad. It hurts too much, making the side where I was shot ache. Her pain is too much, just like Alexander’s. “I’m sorry.” I don’t know why I’m apologizing other than I’m sorry she’s suffering. I’m sorry for being the reason the man she loves is dead. My head falls forward into my hands and I break. “I’m so sorry for everything. I’m sorry.” My palms are wet, my tears sliding down my wrists, which are taken gently by her hands and slowly pulled away from my face.

I look into her brown eyes and absorb her pain, her loss, her ability to reveal her emotions so easily when I’ve worked so hard to hide mine. My guilt. The role I’ve played didn’t go unpunished. I know it. Shelly knows it. I say the only thing I would change if I could change just one, “I’m sorry I called.”

“I am too.” Tears don’t fall down her cheeks. An acceptance that we still have each other doesn’t come. A cold chill washes over her features and she releases my hands. Stepping back, she says, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Okay?

Okay . . .

I’m far from okay, but she won’t know that.

Where does that leave us? What does that do to our friendship? How do we move on? Will she ever be able to forgive me? Will I be able to look at her one day and not feel shame and remorse and regret?

When she moves around the end of the bed, she says, “I should go. Chad’s parents are planning his funeral. It’s later this week, and I promised to help.” She takes a step toward the door as if she’s longing to be gone. She doesn’t want to be here, and I can’t blame her.

“Shelly?”

“I can’t, Sara Jane. Not yet.” She turns and leaves before I can say what I wanted to tell her—I love you. The friend I’ve had since I was a child, the one who I could confide anything to and not feel judged blames me for her loss. It’s warranted. I’ll take it. It’s easier than trying to believe I’m not to blame for Chad’s death.

Lying there, I realize there was one time she judged me. She warned me. He was only a year older, but his problems were decades ahead of our reasoning. He was always larger than life, so why would his torment be any different? It wasn’t, and Shelly knew.

Now Shelly is experiencing horrifying loss because of what I refused to believe years earlier. Love may be blind, but turning a cheek to what was real has finally caught up. The problem is, I prefer the dark to the light these days. Alexander’s complications to the simplicity of being with someone else is my preference. Maybe he’s been right all along.

Maybe, just maybe I was born to be the queen to his king.

* * *

Alexander is late.

My mom packs the few things I have here in a tote bag and drapes it on the handle of the wheelchair. With purpose set into the taut expression of my father, he starts to wheel me out of the room. His concerns are overwrought in everything he says to me today. Alexander sets him off like no one else. So even though he’s not showing it, he’s elated Alexander isn’t here.

They won’t take me to the manor, and I’m in no condition to argue. My side hurts from getting out of bed and slipping into this uncomfortable chair. I want to rest, so I don’t have extra energy to expend on fighting them. They’ll be thrilled to be tucking me safely in my old bed like I’m ten again.

When I look up, confrontation presents itself in the form of a gray T-shirt slipped under a leather jacket. Jeans hang low enough to know if I peeked under that tee, I’d find a hard V. Alexander walks toward me on a mission, eyes focused on me alone. His hair is growing longer and I curse under my breath because even when it’s in complete disarray, it’s dangerous to my willpower. My logic falters around him though. I’m putty in that man’s hands. And I know he’s not going to let me be taken away without a fight.

My dad stops, and I hear the annoyance in his groan through a heavy exhale. “Sara Jane, it’s best if you come home with us for a few days.”

“You know that’s not possible.”

He comes around and kneels next to me. “Honey, please think about this. Don’t be intimidated by him. Don’t let his control issues, his obsession with you, cloud your judgment.”

It’s too late for that. “He’s not obsessed. He loves me.”

Alexander smiles and holds out a bouquet of pink peonies. “Sorry I’m late.” No reason is given or none that can be given in front of my parents.

I take the flowers and hold them to my nose, inhaling the fragrance. “Peonies are my favorite.”

“I know.” He leans forward and rests his hands on my thighs and kisses me.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” With a breath to spare, he whispers, “Are you ready to come home, baby?” It could have been loud, for my parents’ sake, but it was said just for me—home. He meant it. Our home.

I’m pushed forward and the footrest bumps into his shins. Alexander’s eyes shift up to my father, who says, “We need to move this along. We’re in the middle of the hallway.”

Alexander stands upright. The smile he was wearing for me evaporates but he’s never one to back down from a challenge. “I can take her from here.”

“Maybe we share the caretaking. We get her for a few days and then you get her for a few, etcetera,” my mom suggests.

My mouth falls open. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

She smiles. “Of course I am, sweetie.” Stepping around my chair, she touches Alexander’s arm. “Please understand how difficult this is for us. She’s our only daughter, she’s what we’ve lived for since the day I found out I was pregnant.”

Pregnant. I hold the flowers against my body. I can’t go there . . .

Alexander is unwavering. “She’ll get the best care, I promise. You can come by any time. You can stay the night if you’d like. We have plenty of guest rooms. But I will be walking out of this hospital with my wife.”

Wife. The word elicits a smile from me. I look up to my dad, and say, “Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”

“Call or text me anytime,” my dad replies, coming around to the side. “Day or night if you need anything at all.”

The offer throws me. He was the one who always reminded me their roof over my head was a privilege. My private school tuition was a privilege. Walking home every day—rain or shine—was a privilege. I’m kind of thrown by the kindness, but almost losing my life has made him realize that life itself is a privilege, and maybe mine was taken for granted by him.

Alexander moves to the side. I don’t have to see his face to know he feels victorious. I hope he’s not gloating. I hold the hands that held me once, protected me for most of my life, even if overly, and squeeze. “I will.”

My mom hugs me around the neck, and we exchange our sweet sentiments. Alexander commandeers my chair and asks, “Ready?”

“For anything.”

“That’s my girl.”

The paperwork has been signed, and Alexander pushes me past the nurses station. Two police officers stand from a sitting area and walk toward us. One has his hand over his holster, two fingers itching to pull his gun out. The other, taller cop adjusts his belt and seems to battle over giving us a smile or reprimanding himself for standing in the first place. “Mr. Kingwood. Mrs. Kingwood.”

Alexander doesn’t stop but does reply, “What?”

“Good to see you’re going home sooner than the doctors thought.”

They’ve talked to my doctors? The thought is unsettling. I glance at Alexander who won’t give them the courtesy of looking their way. “Thank you,” I reply before we pass, eyeing them. Alexander may not be saying much or bothering with them, but the tension extends between them and us, even once we’re out the door.

Cruise is parked out front and runs around to open the door. “Good to see you, Sara Jane.”

I smile. “You too, Cruise.”

A nurse comes out the doors with the police in tow and starts assisting me. Alexander is on my other side.

“Mrs. Kingwood?”

Stopping to look back at the officers, I’m about to reply when Alexander grits his teeth. “Not. Now.”

The shorter one laughs. “You don’t run this show. We do.”

“Neither Sara Jane nor myself will be commenting any further without our lawyer present.”

That sets him off into a fit of chuckles. He slaps his hand against his partner’s chest, and says, “Hear that, Langley?” Starting a poor impersonation of Alexander, he continues with his pinky popped out, “I shall have to call on the family lawyer before speaking to the lowly police.”

Alexander says, “I didn’t say that.”

All pretenses are dropped. The cop comes closer, the nurse ushering me forward, away from the men. Cruise takes over where Alexander left off, helping me into the car. Alexander turns to the cops. “If you’re looking for trouble—”

“Let me guess.” He gets in Alexander’s space since he’s too short to get into his face. “I found it?”

The other cop says, “C’mon, Brown. Back off.”

Brown shrugs him off. “This guy’s going down. I don’t know what part you’ve played in all this,” he says, referencing me, “but we’ll find out. I promise.” He steps back from Alexander, whose facial expression never shifts from indifference. “We’ve been patient, but we’re getting a court order if you don’t give a statement in the next forty-eight hours. Same goes for Mrs. Kingwood.”

I don’t think Alexander has blinked. I’ve seen him mad a few times, but this isn’t mad, this is cold-blooded, make-me-shiver hate. I need to calm him down. “Alexander?” His gaze swings my way, and I say, “I’m tired. I’d like to go home.”

He nods. When Alexander reaches into his pocket, Brown unsnaps his holster. “Slow down there, cowboy.”

Alexander produces a business card. Holding it between his fingers, he waggles it. “My lawyer’s number. Future communication should go through him.”

The cop’s hand eases away from the gun, and he snatches the card. “Yeah, sure thing, Kingwood.” He looks my way. He’s about to say something but seems to think better of it.

I owe him nothing, not even acknowledgement, so I remain expressionless. Alexander closes the door with me inside. Some words are exchanged between Brown and Alexander, though I can’t hear what’s said from inside the car. Alexander comes around, kicks Cruise to the backseat, taking over the driver’s spot. Stretching across the car, he pulls my belt and gently brings it across my body, snapping it into place. “I’ll drive slow.” After a kiss to my cheek, he sits back and snaps his own belt.

Still curious about the exchange I wasn’t privy to, I ask, “What did he say?”

He pulls away from the curb. His eyes are focused on the distance, maybe even a distant future. It’s hard to tell where his mind’s at, and he’s learned to control his emotions so well in my absence. I don’t like being on the outside of his inner thoughts.

“He said the truth always comes out.”

“It does.” I wonder if Alexander even knows what the truth is anymore. It’s clear the cops have it out for him “And what did you say?”

“I told him to go fuck himself.”

“So you’re killing them with kindness.”

His laugh is humorless. “Yeah sure, killing them with kindness.”

But there’s something in his response—his tone—and the way he manipulates the words that catches my attention. I look at him. Really look at him. The sun is setting, and he puts on his sunglasses. His jaw tics to a beat only he hears. There’s a hardness to his features that I’ve only caught glimpses of over the years, usually when he was around his father. I was on the receiving end the night of the dinner party where he told me to leave and never come back. That stare chilled me, nearly broke me, and is one that causes my tummy to twist, my side to ache, and my heart to recoil. I’ve changed over the last few months. Grown. Accepted. Solidified my love for him and our life together. Despite his proclamations of devotion over the last few days, I’m left to wonder if I’m returning to the same man I left months earlier?