COTTON
November 11
Shiloh,
I want to die.
Not literally, I don’t think. I can’t see myself committing suicide, so please don’t worry. It’s more in the “if something were to happen beyond my control, I probably wouldn’t care” kind of way.
You know what I mean?
The past few days, I’ve been remembering Old Man Granby’s lake, the one up by the ridge we used to go to for parties. We’d leap out from those rock cliffs, arrowing down to the bottom until we felt the mud on our toes, and then launching back up into the sunlight. I’ve been remembering that, and thinking that if I were to leap today, I might let myself sink. Just sit down on that muddy bottom and breathe deep.
I know that’s awful sounding. Life is a blessing, and there’s so much I still want to do. But I’m tired of hurting. It’s like…I’m in this pit. Kind of like the one in Buffalo Bill’s creepy house. I’m that girl, stuck in that pit, only I’m not screaming to get out. It’s wrapped itself in on me, almost to where it feels like a blanket.
Heavy. Safe. This black cocoon where I don’t have to talk to anyone, don’t have to feel things I don’t feel like dealing with.
I know this isn’t what you want to hear. I’m sorry, Shy.
THE DAY AFTER OUR IMPROMPTU WINTER COOKOUT,ISAT IN MY RENTAL, WHICHIHAD PARALLEL PARKED ON THE STREET ACROSS FROMBOURBONHOUSEHOTEL, AND TOOK STOCK OF MY APPEARANCE.Demure dress—a gray wool fit and flare that Mother would approve of—check. Kitten heeled pumps—the only acceptable heel for a woman—check. Hair sleeked back into a respectable chignon—check. Tasteful hint of makeup—check. I was my mother’s image of a proper young woman of good breeding, and so completely dull. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of holey jeans and my chucks right now.
With a sigh, I slicked a fresh coat of Bowl of Cherries over my lips, my single rebellion against Mother’s preferences. Red lipstick was for fast women, in her opinion. I looked at it in the mirror for a moment. Maybe I should wipe it off.
No.I’d wear my red lip gloss and to hell with anyone who thought I was sending a message. Collecting my purse from the seat beside me, I opened the door and stepped out. It was quiet this morning, cold and sunny, with a good portion of the community still in church or sleeping in. My family had always attended the early service on Sunday morning, followed by a friends and family brunch at the Bourbon.
Located in downtown Jessup Falls, the Bourbon was a historic hotel known for its ham biscuits, pimiento cheese, and mimosas. It stood across a street separated into two lanes in either direction by a narrow strip of manicured lawn. That strip of grass was planted with Bradford pear trees that put on a show in the spring, but they were currently sleeping and coated with a thin layer of snow from the other night, their spindly trunks a dull gray.
After a cursory glance in either direction, I started across the street, weaving behind one car stopped at the red light and cutting in front of another. I probably should have used the crosswalk, but as small as Jessup Falls was, we tended not to pay attention to formalities like that. In the center strip, I waited for a break in the oncoming traffic, which was mild and respect-the-Lord’s-day sluggish. Why didn’t people speed on Sundays? Did they think that God was paying extra close attention on that day over all the others?
As I started into the lanes the sound of an engine revved and I jerked to a stop mid-stride, my eyes fixing on a dark sedan that came hurtling around the corner.
Well, that person was certainly speeding. They were headed right for me. As my brain battled to direct my body, to make my frozen limbsmove, I didn’t have time to even scream. There was the realization that the driver either didn’t see or didn’t care. There was a shout. I closed my eyes, preparing myself for impact, painfully aware that some small part of mejust didn’t care. And then a heavy mass slammed into me, and I was flying, falling, landing with a thud that knocked the breath from my lungs in a panicked wheeze.
The sedan roared past, its windows heavily black.
I couldn’t breathe. There was a crushing weight atop me, pressing me into the grassy median. Pushing against it with my hands, I realized the weight was a man, arms wrapped around me and cradling the back of my head. He shifted at my push, lifting his chest from mine and allowing me to draw in breath after ragged breath.
It was Brodie. My brain struggled to process his presence. I was seeing him everywhere, it seemed. Hips and legs still pressed against mine, he moved his hands swiftly, almost clinically over me, prodding at my skull, neck, torso, and hips. “Are you hurt?” I didn’t answer. Couldn’t speak, only stare into his eyes so close to mine. Brown. Whiskey.I needed a drink.
“Emery!” His hands returned to my head, questing more urgently now for injury.
Awareness flooded in, and the sensation of hard man pressing me into the ground sent the first shaft of alarm spiraling through me. I bit my lip. This was Brodie. My brain recognized him, even if my body didn’t. He was no threat to me. I knew this.
All the same, I pushed against him. “Fine…I’m fine. Get off me.” The words were a rasp, but he heard and pushed to his feet, reaching down to help me. I brushed myself off, moaning low when I found a tear in the side seam of my dress and a button missing over the bust. My mother would have a fit. “Thank you,” I finally said, reaching to pull the ends of my dress together. “What are you doing here?”
Brodie stood silently beside me, his hands twitching like he wanted to help me put myself together. “Just happened to be here,” he answered finally, his eyes moving from my breasts to my face. “Why the hell didn’t you didn’t move?”
My purse was a few feet away, contents spilled out upon the ground. I bent and started shoving them sightlessly into it.Keys. Lipstick. Tampons.Brodie bent beside me and helped, gathering a pack of tissues, a handful of pens, and a notebook in his hand. I jerked it away, flushing. “I was frozen,” I muttered. “Did you happen to get a plate number?” I looked past him for the car. It was long gone, of course, but reaction was setting in and I was shaking. Shaking at nearly dying, or shaking that I had done nothing to prevent it? “Fucking dumbass,” I muttered.
“Mm.” His agreement was a low growl that awakened nerve endings gone dormant. “Piss anyone off lately?” His hand came up, pausing when I flinched away from it and waiting until I stilled. “Your hair…” He brushed a lock behind my ear, and I realized it had fallen from its neat chignon. His touch sent an electric tingle coursing through me and took a half-step back, resisting the urge to sway closer.
I reached up to let the rest down. It would be impossible to repair without the proper tools. “Not that I know of.” My lips twisted. There was Justin. I was sure I’d pissed him off at some point. But he wouldn’t be in Virginia. His home was Texas, and Texas was a long ways away. “I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” I motioned to the hotel. “I’m headed over there, so I guess I’ll… thank you.”
I gave him a shaky smile and started into the street for the second time. Brodie stopped me with a hand on my arm. “I’m headed that way, myself,” he said, taking my arm and tucking it firmly around his.
“I can do—”
“Humor me.” Through his jacket I felt the musculature of his arm, firm and warm. He led me across the street, and I allowed myself a few seconds out of time to feel treasured and protected. It wasn’t something I was used to. I’d never felt particularly secure at home, and after I left, I’d had to adopt a hard, capable exterior when I joined the army. After four years it was second nature.
