Page 49

"Wait just a minute. What's the rush?"

Is he joking? I can’t tell. I should be home getting my face and hair poked at and pulled right about now, then wrangling my body into a wedding dress my mother chose for me.

I give him a minute and he takes way more while he wobbles on his skates and stares at me. It’s not the video he’s talking about. He mentions a detective he hired, a retired policeman who's been building a file on my family since this shitstorm happened. Charles wants to tell me all about what’s in it as if any of this is news to me.

"My father could be creative with his kills. I found that out in my high school years, when he offed a guy with an anchor," I tell him, not giving a fuck anymore. "My aunt told me over cake with ice-cream at a family lunch, and then she asked if I was dating anyone at my school."

His eyes widen just a smidge, but he looks half way to madness already so it’s not all that noticeable. "So you knew."

"Yes."

"For four years." He shakes his head. "I sat next to your father some Sundays and talked to him about sports, the problems with my knee… you never said anything..."

"You never asked me a single thing about myself that you couldn't put on a Christmas card. Don't stand there now and tell me I hid this from you."

He looks at me for a long time.

"You're marrying him today," he says. "In a church. And you've never once told me you don't want to."

"Charles."

"Say it. Say it and I'll delete the video right here while you watch. Then, you'll never hear from me again, as you wish. That's the whole reason I came."

I try to give him what he asks but I can't. I open my mouth and nothing comes out. The silence goes on and on. Then I shake my head and he must take that as confirmation of a ‘no’.

A flash of … relief? … crosses his face. "Right," he says. "Great. Fine." He turns and skates for the gate. "It's in my bag."

I look at my watch. Way past ten. Oh dear. Time’s pressing.

I follow him, because I am not walking out of this building until I've seen those images of my brother killing a man deleted. The locker room smells of old sweat and the chemical deodorizer they spray in the skates. Charles drops onto the bench and starts on his laces, but his hands won't cooperate.

"Charles. The phone."

"I can't walk in these. Give me a second⁠—"

I want to tell him I’ve already given him more than enough time, but I keep my mouth shut. He gets the left skate off, then he looks up at me with his hair stuck to his forehead. He looks so exhausted now, beyond drunk, washed out. I can’t stand here and say I’m not feeling anything—that would be a lie. It’s not love, exactly—more like grief. Grief for a version of my life I'm not going to get. Not that I still want it. That’s the bad part.

So I cross the distance between us. I take his face in both hands and kiss him. This is my goodbye, the definitive one because I’ve already done this with him. A quick kiss, then it’s over for good. I feel nothing.

For a moment, that's all it is. Then his hand comes up into my hair and closes in a fist around a few strands. No, this is not what I meant…

"Charles—"

He's up off the bench before I understand he's moving, one skate still on, and the wall comes at my back hard enough to knock something off a hook. Now his mouth is at my throat and he's speaking into my skin—you're mine, you've been mine for four years—and it sounds so wrong, like a man talking in his sleep. Like the words are the only thing holding him upright. This isn’t what it’s supposed to be anymore.

I try to pull back but he latches on. "Stop it. Charles. Stop."

I know how to do this: thumb to the eye, the notch, the throat, jaw-strike, knee on crotch. I get the heel of my hand under his jaw and shove as hard as I can. With a grunt, he takes both my wrists and pins them to the wall above my head, holding them with one hand.

My body is not mine anymore.

"Stop. Stop! Charles—" I gasp.

The scream is there. I can feel it sitting in my chest with nowhere to go, because there's no breath under it, because two hundred and sixteen pounds of muscled man is leaning on my sternum. My sweater is coming up and my skin feels raw, exposed.

"Look at my face," I say, my voice sounding alien to me. "Charles. Look at my face."

He isn't looking at my face. He's looking through me, and with eyes that appear flat. Totally blank. And that's the moment the fear and panic go up a few notches, because there is no one home in there to reach. The man is gone. Whatever has taken over is lodged deep within and I might just as well be a stranger. Or more so, a worthless object covered in a meat suit.