6

The Good Girl

I'm unsettled. I ask myself over and over, how could I have let him touch and hold me, stare at me, talk to me like that? I ask myself but have no answer. With him, life unfurls. Against my better judgment, I end up floating. It's feels too good.

Why do I think of him so often? Why do I spy on his cabin after delivering his food? Why do I have these fantasies that no amount of prayer can dissolve?

I keep looking at my hands, coarse from good labor but not varied in experience. Am I being loyal to my Order, my faith, by choosing blindly without comparison?

My father encourages me now in small ways to interact with Cassius Gunner. He wants us to achieve a mutual regard for one another, as he did with the man's father. For all his strictness, Papa is nostalgic when it comes to that man. And he trusts me to be responsible.

Other than for archery, I wasn't interested in exploration before. Should I be now?

The music Cassius Gunner played in the cabin was unexpectedly lovely. The guitar. The voices. I could have curled up in that song and fallen asleep, or bathed in it, or just kept swaying with him. It wasn't until I got home that I missed the music. It had been so long since I tested my own singing skills, but that night, I prayed and then hummed the tune from our dance.

It seems I do have more than one opportunity to speak. In the way I move through the fields. In the way I care for my family. In my faith, which feels even more expansive to me now when I sit in church and when I kneel. In my service to neighbors. Yes, all these things.

But in addition to that, I start to dream of a bow and arrow. Moreover, I dream of a man who isn't my beau. Who isn't even Catholic and who has only been here for four weeks. Someone who isn't going to be here forever.

Now, it's October. We've returned to avoiding one another, but it's not easy. I catch glimpses of him working or talking to my father. I'll be hanging laundry outside, and I'll crane my neck, searching. Whenever I wash the dishes, I peer out the window. I regularly pull his drawing from my bedside table and admire it.

Today, I see him across the wheat field stacking hay bales. Puddles of sweat darken his thin shirt against his straining muscles. His arms constrict as they bend, lift, twist, and toss. Wet heat soaks my mouth…and other places I'm too ashamed to dwell on.

Giggles skip into the air, popping from the ravenous mouths of Catherine Cartwright and Mary Tossle, who are also watching him instead of doing their work. Their pink faces catalogue every one of his muscles before moving on to appraise his backside.

Clearly, he's a mind reader, because he glances their way, and then at me, smiles, and winks at me. And they whimper, despite his affections directed at me.

I disdain Cassius Gunner with every fiber of my being!

It occurs to me, in a rather painful and embarrassing way, that he was most likely trying to compromise me during our dance. I shouldn't underestimate that roguish side of him. It is evident in the way he talks and moves: This man isn't a virgin. He knows how to approach girls.

This reckoning disillusions me for the next twenty-four hours. I've listened to Catherine and Mary talk about sex before. Pregnancies have happened, followed by swift nuptials. I don't judge those girls for this. I always planned to give myself to my husband, not so much out of principal, but as an orderly progression of events. It simply makes sense as a ritual of courtship and marriage. It's uncomplicated.

I haven't allowed emotional or physical variables to derail the equation. But then, I've never felt these sorts of stirrings until now.

Life progresses to disastrous proportions the following afternoon, when I dash into the house to wash my hands and push open the door to the bathroom. The sculpted profile of Cassius Gunner's body in the shower grinds me to a halt. His head is bent, palms pressed into the wall as he leans into the water. Steam rises around him. He doesn't notice me.

I feel dampness between my legs, and my nipples harden. I do more than peek. And then I dash away.

That night, I clutch my sheets and remember the droplets riding down his skin. My hands rub over the front of my underwear, trying my hardest to rid myself of this foreign ache I feel between my thighs. I beat my head against the pillow but still hear the water streaming.

What is happening to me?

David picks me up on Sunday evening. His tanned face is polished and smooth. Once we're married, I will miss seeing him like this. Unity men grow beards when they become husbands, but I'm fond of his unhampered features.

We head to Mary’s house for our weekly gathering with friends. It's always the same thing. Board games, gossip, Catherine and Mary talking about clothes, boys and music.

Tonight, I actually listen to them. Their stories remind me of my passions. If I'm honest with myself, I let David's reasoning override my desire to try archery. Should I have listened to him? Should I still listen? It's not too late.

David covers my hand with his. "Are you okay?"

I'm not concentrating on the game we're playing. It's not surprising that he's noticed. Nothing about this night is surprising.

I stare at my lap. "Are you ever surprised by things?"

He blinks at me. Too much contemplation makes him uncomfortable.

"Or do you want to be?" I question. "Are you ever curious, like Catherine and Mary? Like about music, for instance. Do you ever want to know more?"

He frowns. "Why?"

I know that frown, so I give up. I'm being absurd. This is the right life for me. There's no reason to question it now.

As David walks me home, I tip my head back and inhale the autumn breeze, admiring the blankets of corn framing the lane on both sides.

Out of nowhere, his eyes prune me like a hedge. "I don't like that Cassius."

I'm put off by the judgment in his tone and simply gape.

"I don't like him talking to you. I don't like him working beside you. I don't like the way he looks at you. I don't like the way he's influencing you."

I reel back. "I don't like you accusing me of being weak."

"Annabelle, he's not one of us. You don't know him."

"Neither do you," I defend. "You've met him once."

"You've been acting strange for weeks. Why all of a sudden do you care what Catherine and Mary do? What's all this talk about surprises and music? If it's not because of him, then what it is? Me?"

"No—"

"I'm worried. You're sheltered. He could jump all over that if he wants."

"And you think I'd let him?"

"A few weeks ago, I would have said no way. I'm not so sure anymore," he asserts.

"Cassius Gunner is a self-indulgent hound. He doesn't matter to me in the least!"

"Your voice is getting awfully high over someone who doesn't matter."

I bristle, because I fear he might be right. I want to promise David that I'm not falling for some temporary intruder, but David ruins everything with his next words. "I will not let him take what's mine."

My feet are pounding down the lane while my head tries to catch up. What's his? I am not a kept woman. I am not his property.

David is my friend—my beau, my future. Of course, the husband is in charge, but I don't care for him prematurely exercising his marital rights. I don't care for the reality of it.

"Annabelle," he pleads, appearing beside me. "Please get in. Don't be mad."

I swing my arms, whipping a curtain of corn stalks out of my way, and cut through the field. David's voice fades and then dies along with my tolerant mood. I am unforgivably cross. I need release.

I can see the roof of my family's home, but I bypass it, using the hike to settle the uproar inside me. I walk until I'm breathless and partially satisfied. Bursting through the field, I head through the wooded area and double-back to the house.

"Rough night?"

Cassius Gunner's voice is a chain jerking me to a standstill. I glare at his shadow leaning against a tree. I've seen him naked, I think to myself wickedly. Naked and wet. The profile of his body, at least. Which was more than enough.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, noting his leather jacket and the fact that he's not stationed inside the cabin. One thing is for sure, he isn't out here to stargaze. That dark halo of hair is a falsehood.

The accusation drops from my lips like a boulder. "You're sneaking out."

He struts over to me. His face is piebald, darkness and light.

"And you're pissed," he says.

"Not at you," I answer, though that's not completely true. I'm mad that he asked me to dance. I'm mad that Catherine and Mary like him and he knows it. I'm mad that he drew me that picture of my hands and headdress. I'm mad that he told me to find out, when I was perfectly content with my role in this life before then. I'm mad at him for insinuating that I could pick up a bow if I wanted. I'm mad at him for not being part of Unity. I'm mad at him for believing our choices are limitless.

I'm mad because I'm not walking away from him. But I'm also mad at my beau. "David and I—"

"Don’t mention his name to me. Not when they’re connected with you."

He releases a deep breath that somehow finds its way into my bones. There's a moment of indecision. Then backbone. Decision made.

"Wanna get out of here?" he tempts.

Doubt and excitement. I cannot pick which feeling is stronger. I think about his wanton ways and scrutinize his intentions.

"I will not be toyed with," I state.

He reads my face. "That makes two of us."

Reluctantly, I let him take my hand, marveling at the warmth of his skin and its instant calming effect. He guides me to the outskirts of the farm. I keep asking myself what I'm doing with this strange man, why it's easy to be accept the offer of a stranger, while I hold my ground with people I've known all my life.

Cassius Gunner is a kite I can't help chasing. Yet my heels dig into the soil when I see the motorcycle. It's hidden behind a bush near an unpaved road. He notices my shock and puts a finger to his lips to shush me.

I snap, "You didn't!"

"No. My friend Bailey did. When my brother Dylan came to see you, Bailey drove him. They scoped out the area and then Bailey described this spot and told me he'd find a time to leave the wheels for me. He figured I'd need a breather at some point. Guess it took a few weeks for the coast to clear."

"Cassius Gunner. This is against the rules."

He grins.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I say, I’m a bastard who doesn’t care — so come with me." He straddles the motorcycle. "Let me show you my kind of fun."

I step back. Our Order teaches us to beware of the rebellious spirit. I can't do this. Can I?

"Annabelle." His tongue whips up my name like butter. "Those feelings running through your veins right now. Aren't those honest? How fast is your heart beating?"

I turn away. "Don't ask me that."

"Why? There's nothing wrong with your life if it makes you happy. But don't you want to explore first? Discover what else is out there, all the other ways to live before you make a choice? How can you be sure if you've known nothing else?"

"What good has it done you?" I shoot back. "This life you've lived. That world."

His face clouds. An invisible line inflates between us. I think about my family, my home, Catherine and Mary, David, the parts of me still coiled and taped up.

I cross that line and get on the bike. He offers me his helmet, which is slightly too big but will protect me from the wind. He sets my hands on his waist.

"Don't let go," he says.

I don't think I can.

Then we're flying. The landscape blurs. The air is unimpressed with my coat and tries to yank it off me while my skirt dances around my knees. Farms disappear, replaced by forest and a two-lane road separated by a yellow line that flashes in and out of my vision. I latch onto to the man taking me away from home. He veers around a corner, the motorcycle leaning at a dangerous angle that should scare me but doesn't.

I laugh. I laugh into the helmet. I'm glad he can't hear me.

We zip from one route to the next to the next. I feel like a bird, flapping and sailing and gliding. I lose track of time. I'm another girl, but I'm still myself. I'm amazed and scared.

I'm lightheaded as we cruise up a hill and putter to a stop. Ahead of us is a vista of the city, a giant crown glittering with lights and skyscrapers so tall that I'd forgotten people could get so close to heaven. I find myself envying those people and their thousands of lives filled with heights and stars.

Cassius Gunner slides off the bike and pulls the helmet off my head. "Now was that fun or what?"

Pointing to the metropolis, I ask, "Is that where we're going?"

"Nah. That would be too much sensory overload too soon."

"I'll have you know, I'm not a cave girl."

He grips the bike on either side of me and leans in. "Patience, Duchess. Seeing things from a distance is the first step. You have to be stoked little by little."

He smells of leather and wood chips and a sweet kind of spice. He studies my position splayed over the motorcycle and then draws back, leaving me breathless. He sits on the grassy knoll and pats the ground in invitation. I camp beside him, tucking my skirt under my legs. A whisper of inches separates us.

The view is a palace of steel and concrete. I hear the faint echo of a siren, maybe an ambulance or police car. Raw, untamed, unpredictable life.

"Do you miss it?" I ask.

Cassius Gunner is quiet. I'm used to him spitting out whatever he thinks. Seeing him in contemplation is striking, like I'm talking to a sketch of him instead of the tornado I've come to know.

He shrugs. "My brother and Bailey aren't half-bad. I could stand seeing them again."

"You're being flippant," I disapprove.

He rips out a handful of grass and tosses it. He doesn't want to talk about what's real. I wouldn't want to be pushed either, yet I insist on tripping him off that balance beam of indifference, hoping he'll tumble into the truth. We're good at doing this to each other.

On this hill, we're between the silence and the noise. A neutral spot for us to be together.

"I miss the art," he concedes. He tells me about the faces he's painted throughout his city. "It's the only way to get rid of them, all the faces I've seen that just…stood out in a crowd. Out of my head and onto a wall—that's how it works. Otherwise, it's like I can feel them leading a better life than me, and I want to hate them."

"Perhaps their lives are worse," I suggest, though I feel guilty for implying the suffering of others should be a comfort by comparison. "Perhaps you're meant to appreciate what you do have, not envy what isn't there."

He grimaces at the view. "How would you know? You're too chicken to consider what kind of lives other people lead."

"I'm considering yours right now, am I not?"

"I saw your face, too. I painted it."

My heart stops. I don't know what to make of his admittance.

"My father died over a year ago. The night I got arrested, it was the one-year anniversary of his death. I needed to get out of the freaking house, so I left to paint another wall. I just let an image come." Cassius Gunner turns to me. "I painted you out of thin air, even though I'd never saw you before."

The breeze tickles the ends of his hair. They have a tendency to curl.

I venture, "What did you think of me?"

"You don't want to know."

It's my turn to scowl. "Then why did you bring it up?"

"To shock you, I guess."

So I decide to shock him back. I grab his arm and twist it into the moonlight, because I've always wanted to know what on earth would make him mar his skin. The tattoo inside his wrist is a name.

James.

That's not what I dwell on, though. I dwell on the scar beneath it. The rumpled patch of lighter skin. The mark of a severe burn.

"Oh, I...I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't know—"

Cassius Gunner tugs his arm away. "It's my father's name."

"You tattooed it over the scar?"

His silence is painful. He doesn't face me, yet he says, "Don't look at me like that."

I gather my courage and cup his jaw, urging him to meet my gaze. Cassius Gunner's eyes darken from blue to black. Another thing my Order has taught me is to beware of being too intimate, for it will never last. The only constant intimacy lies within our faith, as it should be.

I stray from this, eager to comfort him. "You don't have to be ashamed. You don't have to hide. Tell me who did this to you."

He asks quietly, "Do you love your mother?"

"My mother passed away."

"I know. Do you love her?"

I'd suspected his father abused him, but I realize I was wrong. In my expression, he sees my answer and grins wryly. "Neither do I."

That's it. We both grew up with kind fathers and unkind mothers, yet our losses aren't the same. One of us still has the good parent. The other doesn't.

His mother burned him. I wonder even more why he tattooed his father's name over the scar. When I first met him, I thought he was merely being vain. I've misjudged him.

Growing up, I've always believed that ornamentation and wearing different kinds of clothes encourages competition and divides people from each other. It promotes the self instead of togetherness. But what if symbols like his tattoo, or objects like his rings, have a deeper meaning? Emotions like devotion or sorrow? Could I hold such things so dearly? Would I take solace or strength from them?

We melt into the city view and say no more, not as we sit there, not as we ride home, not as he parks the bike behind the bush, not as we navigate the woods to the midpoint between his cabin and my house. Standing there, I absorb his pale face, puzzled by how much I've enjoyed myself tonight. Even though all we did was talk of sad things, we had the glorious ride and vista to console us.

We had each other. We had our honesty. I made him quiet for once. And he made me feel loud.

He taps my chin. "See you later, Annabelle."

I watch him disappear into the shadows, wondering how it will feel the last time he turns his back on me, when these two months are over. I can't reason the void he leaves behind.

I am the good girl.

He is the bad boy.

But together we balance each other out.

And it makes us perfect.