Fade In:
SLIP BACK INTO DANIEL’S SKIN
Your whole world is imploding, and only three days ago, you thought you were on your way. You should’ve had another whole day, playing house with Grace. But now, not only are you back living homeless, but you’re pretty damn sure your tarnished angel has unfolded her wings and flown away.
Angels are nothing more
than glorified birds, Daniel,
when at last they land.
Especially with the right
weapon in your hand.
How could it have gone so wrong so fast?
You could feel her growing impatience with your borderline obsession. But you backed off when her annoyance became obvious. At least, until she went all wild-eyed excited about the prospect of leaving you here in Arizona while she vacations in Hawaii.
Last night after work you were beat. It had been a long, busy shift, the cafeteria abuzz with staff, discussing possible outcomes of the protest at U of A today. Gearing up for the likelihood of injuries should peaceful First Amendment celebrations go wrong and turn violent.
Just as things started to quiet down, everything blew up again when they brought in a cop who was wounded in a gunfire exchange with the two guys who’ve been robbing Tucson eateries and convenience stores. One of the robbers was killed. The other is in custody. The policeman was in critical condition but is expected to live. Dangerous job, law enforcement. Definitely not a career goal.
You’re more of a sneak-in-the-back-door kind of guy than a storm-down-the-street, guns-blazing type. You prefer the odds to be on your side.
Unfortunately, your odds seem to have taken a turn in the wrong direction.
When Grace picked you up, your brain was struggling to turn off the static hum created by the day’s activity. All you wanted to do was go back to her house, shower off the hospital germs, and climb into her big, soft bed for a little “stress relief.”
But she wanted to talk. Not about anything vital. The whole drive home, she kept on about school. Grades. Extracurricular pursuits. College next year. Like any of that means a damn thing to you, except to remind you of how crazy busy her schedule is. It will be hard to fit in time with you.
Maybe ten minutes in, you closed your eyes, tuned her out. Her chatter became background noise and the droning in your cranium blossomed into a full-blown throb.
“Right?” she asked at some point very close to her driveway.
“What?” It came out a bellow.
You didn’t mean it, and that’s what you said, but she sniffed at the apology. “Never mind.”
When she parked the car, she stomped up to the front step without waiting for you to follow. You hurried after her, caught her arm. Too hard, and she screeched.
“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to.”
She jerked away. “What is wrong with you?”
If she only knew. If she only knew.
“I’m sorry, Grace. I’ve got an awful headache. Forgive me?”
“That is no excuse to bruise me,” she complained. But she softened, opened the door and let you inside. “There’s ibuprofen in the bathroom.”
You availed yourself of both painkillers and hot water, hoping when you emerged from the shower, all would be well in the other room. What you found, despite the late hour, was Grace on the phone with Noelle.
The headache was gone, but you were exhausted, and in no mood to sit listening to girls yapping like little dogs. You could only hear Grace’s end of the conversation, of course, but that was more than enough. Finally, you slid your finger across your throat, telling her to wind it up.
Grace scowled, and for the first time she didn’t look beautiful to you. “Apparently I should go,” she told Noelle. “My boyfriend says so.”
The scornful way she said “boyfriend” made you feel like anything but.
That is unacceptable.
She should treat you with respect.
“No, I’m okay,” Grace said to Noelle. “Really. I promise.” After a moment, she held out her phone. “She wants to talk to you.”
You should’ve known better. Obviously, she didn’t want to talk about the weather. But curiosity got the better of you, and besides, there was no good way to say no.
“Hi, Noelle. What’s up?”
Her tone was saccharine. “I just wanted to let you know that I will not let you hurt Grace.”
“Hurt her? I love her. I’d never hurt her.” Your temperature soared.
“Listen to me. Word’s getting around about you. You’re one crazy bastard.”
And . . . you exploded. “No one calls me a bastard!”
You could almost hear her smile. “I just did. That is all. Now let me talk to Grace.”
What did she mean, word’s getting around . . . ? You had no clue, but handed over the phone and sat there, a decent quota of rage and dread churning in your gut, watching Grace’s reaction to their short conversation. Once, her eyes traveled over you, hairline to shoes, and your skin seriously prickled at the intensity of her gaze.
She looked at you as if she thought
you just might be a crazy bastard.
Noelle did most of the talking and Grace ended the conversation with, “Tomorrow, okay?”
“What did she say?” It came off as more demand than question.
Grace didn’t answer right away. Finally, “She said she wanted to talk to me, maybe after the rally, unless I change my mind and decide to come.”
“That’s it?” There had to be more.
“Pretty much.”
“You haven’t changed your mind about the rally, have you?”
“I’m not sure. I’m still thinking it over.”
It was impossible to gauge where she stood in that moment, as far as the rally, or you.
But then she said, “I think maybe you need professional help. Anger management or something.”
That stung, but in the way of a wasp you’ve harassed—deserved. You knew you had to turn things around, so you pretended contrition.
“You’re probably right, but I can’t afford it.”
Even if you could, the notion of confession, whether to therapist or priest, makes you queasy.
“Apply for aid. I’m sure you qualify.”
Yeah, but even if you were willing to try, you’re back to that paperwork problem. “I wouldn’t know where to start. Would you help me?”
That had the desired effect. She melted into your arms. “Of course.”
Testing her resolve, you bent down for a kiss, and she did not refuse, though it was not the kind you’d hoped for—more friends kissing than lovers.
She turned on the TV, tuned into a favorite cable show you’ve never heard of because you rarely get to watch television, except streaming on your phone. When you reached for her hand, you half expected her to resist. But she didn’t.
In fact, she seemed to relax. And when you went to bed, she made love to you, though perhaps with a bit less enthusiasm than the night before.
When you wake up this morning, she’s right there beside you, asleep, one slender arm across your chest. All is well.
You believe. For about sixty seconds.
Because when she stirs, you try to persuade her into your arms, and when she opens her eyes, sees your face so close to hers, she visibly tenses.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Sorry. I’m not used to waking up to someone in my bed. What time is it?”
You glance at the clock. “A little after nine.” You trail a finger gently down her torso. “I love you, you know.”
Her muscles relax a little and she sighs. “Love you, too.”
Better. But not totally convincing.
“Wanna do it?”
She rolls away, sits up on the edge of the mattress. “Don’t you ever get enough?”
Give it one more try.
Push harder.
You move closer, rest your hand on the protrusion of her hip. “I can never get enough of you, Grace.”
“I’m not sure what time my parents will be home. Better get dressed.”
And . . . she’s up and gone.
You lie back against the pillow, drift in a sea of confusion. She says one thing. Does something else. Changes her tone. Disappears. This is not what you expected. Not how you want things to be. Something hammered a wedge between you. Or maybe someone.
Noelle.
If that proves to be the case, you will make that bitch regret it. You have the means, and plenty of practice, to make someone’s life hell. You maintain a couple of anonymous social media accounts and use them when the need for revenge arises.
Could be you once doxxed a particularly obnoxious teacher who displayed obvious favoritism toward his white students. And, once or twice, you might have harassed girls who openly snubbed you. It’s even possible you circulated obscene pics with Tim’s face superimposed. It would not be difficult to create a similar campaign for Noelle. In fact, it would be fun.
No one. NO ONE will take Grace
away from you.
For now you force yourself to reel that rage back in, or you’ll drive your girl away all under your own power.
It’s back to the old routine tomorrow. Taking advantage of what’s left of today, you follow Grace’s path to the bathroom, join her in the shower, revel in the scents of soap and shampoo, the luscious feel of lather against her beautiful body.
“Can I kiss you?”
You ask to make her understand you want it to be a gift, not something taken. You ask to make her unchange her mind. You ask to rend her heart just a little. When she agrees, lifting her chin so your lips meet, the heartbreak is mutual.
As you’re toweling off, the home phone rings. Grace lets it go to the answering machine. It’s her mom, informing her they’ll be home around three. Good. Plenty of time. The morning is steeped in domesticity. Grace fixes breakfast. You wash one last load of clothes, so you’ll leave with your entire wardrobe clean.
You’re folding them into your duffel bag when Grace’s cell buzzes. This call, she answers.
“What . . . Are you serious . . . For what . . . Sure, I can come right over. . . . No, it’s okay. I’m not doing anything important.”
She doesn’t think you’re important.
“You’re here with me! That’s important!” You didn’t mean to yell, but you did.
Grace shoots you a nasty look, says into the phone, “I’ll stop by the ATM and should be there in twenty minutes. . . . Of course. Why? . . . He’ll get over it. He has to leave soon anyway. I’ll see you ASAP.”
All the anger you stuffed earlier is released again, in a big mushroom cloud. “Who the fuck was that? Noelle?”
“No. It was Rand. He needs me to come babysit Waylon.”
“Right this minute?”
“Yes. You’re about finished there, right? Please hurry. I’ll grab my purse.”
With no further explanation, she hustles you out to her car. “Where should I drop you?”
She shakes her head. “Better not.”
As she backs out of the driveway, you ask, “Will you please tell me what’s going on?”
“Sorry. It’s a private matter.”
She doesn’t trust you.
But she’s the one hiding things.
What isn’t she telling you?
“Grace, we can’t keep secrets from each other.”
“Daniel, this has nothing to do with you, okay? When I know what’s going on for sure myself, I’ll let you know. Now tell me where to take you.”
You have only a couple of choices. “Main library, I guess.” It’s around the corner from the park where you and other homeless people hang out when there’s nowhere else to go.
This episode has ended so abruptly, it’s upset the entire sense of balance you’ve so recently discovered. You’re listing. Sideways. Back toward where you came from. The question is, can you right yourself?
Grace detours a couple of times, doing her best to miss the mess around the university. The rally’s going full swing, and some roads have been closed to through traffic, so it takes longer than usual to turn onto Stone Avenue, where the library is located.
As you approach the front entrance, the question that you’ve been forming over and over in your head for probably the last twelve hours blurts out of your mouth. “Will I see you again?”
She pulls to the curb to let you out. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because it feels like you’re dumping me.”
“Daniel, I’m just dropping you off.”
“I hope so.” You lean over for a kiss. “I love you.”
“You, too.”
That’s what she says before driving away. You, too. That’s not nearly good enough.
You heft your duffel bag, carry it to the front door. Shit. Library’s closed for the holiday. Of course it is. Good thing your phone is charged. You’ve got some research to do.
You perch on a big planter and look up Rand’s address. You’ve ferreted out more common names in order to dox the people attached to them.
Maybe a surprise visit is called for. A little drop-in, to make sure Grace is on the up-and-up.
One thing’s certain. You’d better not find Grace with him, or any other guy, because that would get real ugly.
At this point, you don’t have a lot
left to lose.
Fade Out