"Hey, Mom," I say, hugging her back, before leaning down and rubbing Killer's head. "Hey, buddy."
Killer licks my hand in greeting.
"Did you walk here?" Mom asks, prying my bag from my hand and setting it aside as she assesses me, smoothing my hair and fixing my clothes and downright fussing over me until I push her hands away. "You should've told me. I would've picked you up!"
"It's fine," I say. "It's not that far."
"Still, honey, it's getting late, so you shouldn't be walking alone. You never know what—"
"Mom," I say pointedly, cutting her off before she can launch into her usual lecture on safety. "I'm fine. Really. I've still got all my fingers and toes, my head's still on my shoulders, and I've got no broken bones. No harm done."
She gazes at me skeptically, her expression softening as she smiles. She pulls me back into a hug. "I've missed you. How long are you here for?"
"Just the weekend," I say. "I have to be back for class on Tuesday, but I'm all yours until then."
"Great, great." She pulls away and starts flitting around the shop, putting things away. "As soon as I clean up, we'll get out of here."
Killer runs over and grabs his ball, bringing it to me. He nudges my hand, staring up at me. I yank the ball from his mouth as I back up to the door. "We'll wait outside."
She starts to object but I ignore her, opening the door for the dog to run outside. Patches of grass surround the shop, so I lead Killer around the side of the building, tossing the ball toward the back of the lot for him to retrieve. He barks enthusiastically, bringing it back to me over and over again.
It only takes my mother a few minutes to step out, locking the door as she lugs my bag with her. "Come on, guys!"
She drives a beat up Jeep Grand Wagoneer, the only car I've ever known her to own. It's older than me, large and rumbly, a beast of a vehicle filled to the brim with memories. My things have been boxed up and crammed into the back at least a dozen times, routinely taking me to a new life, a fresh start, in another city, so much I'm surprised I even know who I am.
Mom tosses my bag in the backseat, and Killer jumps in with it, as we climb up front. She lives ten minutes from Watertown, outside the city limits, in a small place called Dexter. The house is tucked in among some trees in the middle of nowhere, along a river, the land overrun with flowers and plants.
I was just here a few months ago for Christmas, but it feels different now—smaller, more secluded, not as cheerful as I remember it being. The paint is chipping, white flakes coating the front porch.
She has more locks on the front door now, so many it takes her a good minute of fumbling to get it unlocked. Concern stirs up inside of me as I wait for her to open the door, but I don't say anything.
I think it, though. She's getting bad again. The signs are there, signs I remember from when I was younger. Heavily locked doors and barred windows, nights with no sleep as she paces around, listening to the howl of the wind and thinking it's out to get her. She'd be fine for weeks or months, sometimes even a year, before she started acting like the walls were closing in on her, the world pressing upon her.
I hoped she finally found a place where she felt at peace, where she felt at home, but all of those locks make me uneasy. Locks are supposed to keep you safe. Locks, with her, are a sign of vulnerability.
My old room is just how I left it, smaller than even the dorm. It's suffocating. I drop my bag right inside the room before venturing into the kitchen as my mother starts making dinner. I pause by the window and gaze out into the vast overgrown backyard, watching as Killer runs through the trees in the distance.
He won't go far. He never does. I think that's why my mother treasures him so much. He never leaves her, never wanders from her side for too long.
When he plops down in the yard, my gaze shifts from the pane of glass down to the windowsill, noting the thick nails sticking out of the old wood, indiscriminately hammered in.
She nailed the windows shut recently.
"Everything going okay here, Mom?"
"Sure," she says. "Same as ever."
She doesn't sound very convincing.
The night flies by as we catch up. She seems relaxed, happy even. It eases my worries a bit.
Maybe I'm just overreacting.
Murder is premeditated killing of innocent...
…wrong because it's just not right to kill...
…considered immoral by society because...
…what I seem to be doing to this fucking essay.
I'm murdering it.
Sighing, I scribble out the words on the paper. I lean back in the old wooden chair, my feet propped up on the counter as I sit behind the register at the flower shop. My mother is scanning through the plants, smelling the bouquets and fixing the arrangements. She's had a total of two customers all day, making a whopping thirty bucks.
I don't know how long she can keep this up.
She doesn't seem bothered or worried at all. Killer lies on the floor near my feet, watching her. It's late afternoon on Saturday, and as much as I love my mother, and am grateful to get the chance to spend some time with her, I'm already bored shitless in this place.
I wonder how Naz is doing. I want to call him, to hear his voice, to see what he's up to, but I resist the urge. My hand absently drifts up to the necklace around my neck, and I tinker with the small pendant he gave me. I wonder if he's thinking about me, too. I wonder if he misses me yet.
"Is that new?"
My mother's voice draws my attention back to her. She's watching me. "Uh, yeah."
"It's pretty," she says, stepping closer. She grasps the necklace, eyeing it. "Where'd you get it?"
"It was a gift from a friend."
Her eyes narrow as she reads the inscription. "Carpe Diem."
"Yeah, it's a Latin saying." Standing up, I switch the subject. "I'm hungry. Is that hot dog place still around the corner? I can grab us some lunch."
"Yeah," she mumbles. "How about I come with you? I'll close up a little early today."
I wait for her to finish what she's doing, crumbling up my pathetic start of an essay and toss it in her trashcan. We head out, strolling down the sidewalk, Killer wandering along right behind us. My mother seems on edge now, eyes darting around nervously. Halfway there she stops abruptly, shoulders squaring, body tensing as she scans the traffic flowing by on Main Street.
"Mom?" I grab her arm. "Are you okay?"
She blinks a few times, turning to me, and forces a smile. "Yeah, I've just been thinking... this town is getting so big lately. So many new people. Nothing like it used to be."
"It seems the same to me."
Even smaller, maybe.
"I don't know," she says hesitantly. "I think it might be time to move on now."
"But you love it here," I say. "And you have the shop."
"I can open a shop anywhere," she says. "Maybe out west. Finally get away from New York for good. You've always wanted to see California."
"Yeah, but..."
I don't know what to say.
"We can get a little house near the water," she says. "Killer will love the beach. It's perfect. It'll be just like old times, you and me on the open road, starting over brand new somewhere. What do you say, Kissimmee?"
"Mom, I can't move to California."
"Why not?"
"Because I have school," I say. "I have a life in the city."
"You can have a life anywhere."
Her blasé attitude about it frustrates to the point that it almost hurts. Will she ever understand my need for stability? My need for somewhere to finally call home?
"I like my life here," I say. "For the first time, I have friends, friends that really know me, friends I want to keep. I don't want to leave them."
She shakes her head, appearing distraught, like she hadn't anticipated me resisting. It was different when I was younger. When she said go, I had to go. But now I'm grown. Now I'm off on my own.
"You don't
understand," she says. "The city is just so dangerous."
"It's not… no more dangerous than anywhere else. It's my home. I can't just move again. I'm happy where I am."
She says nothing else about it.
She says nothing at all, to be frank.
She walks with me to get lunch, walks with me back to the shop, and drives us to the house in Dexter without uttering a single word to me. The night is strained. I go to bed early, lying in the small room and staring at the ceiling.
Guilt is eating away at me.
I hear her pacing the house, mumbling, words I can barely make out and am frightened to hear. The words 'Carpe Diem' come from her lips like she's a broken, skipping record, and I clutch the pendant of my necklace tightly, fighting back tears. Because I know she's talking to him, appealing to an invisible man named John, the one who walked out on her when I was born.
I know it's not my fault. Not my fault she's this way. Not my fault he left her. But fuck if I don't feel guilty anyway.
My door creeps open as I lay there. The latch on it never worked, making it easy for Killer to come in. He jumps up on the bed, taking up residence near my feet, curling up close to me.
Service is shoddy out here, the signal on my phone wavering between one and two bars, barely enough strength for me to make a call. I dial Naz's number, holding the phone to my ear, and drape my other arm over my eyes as I listen to it ring.
I don't know why I'm calling him, and I feel silly when his voicemail picks up. It's an automated message. I don't even get to hear his voice.
Sighing, I hang up without leaving a message and set my phone aside as I close my eyes, trying to get some sleep.
I wake up early Sunday morning, sunlight streaming through the windows. I start to climb out of bed, hearing my mother moving around the house, when my phone beeps at me. I pick it up, glancing at the screen. One missed call. Naz.
He didn't leave a message, either.
Sunday's better, as my mother immerses herself in all things Easter, fresh lilies on the table and a vast array of food to eat. We watch movies and talk about good memories, neither of us mentioning any of the bad.
But Monday morning, when I wake up and pack my things to leave, the shame hits me like a freight train to the chest. We've reverted a few months, back to last August, like I'm leaving her for the first time all over again.
She has tears in her eyes when she drives me to the bus station. "Promise me you're being careful. Promise me you're staying safe."
"I promise, Mom."
For a second I wonder if I just lied to her, wondering what she'd think if I told her about Naz right now.
She'd probably kidnap me.
"I love you, Kissimmee," she says. "I'll call you, okay?"
I give her a quick hug, petting Killer as he pokes his head up from the backseat, and get out of the car before I make this any worse. I don't want to dwell. I can't dwell. My guilt will make me want to stay.
But every other part of me needs to go.
My paper on murder is only half written, scribbled on notebook paper on the bus on my way back to the city. I was too exhausted when I made it to the dorms to finish, too distracted to worry about typing it up all day.
My mother isn't answering her phone. Either I've upset her and she's avoiding me, or she's deep in the middle of moving already. Either way, it makes my guilt flare, and I spend all morning leaving messages, wishing she'd call me back.
Karma.
Before I know it, Melody is rushing me out the door, shouting we're going to be late for class if we don't hurry.
Where did the time go?
I'm quiet as we make our way to the building, lost in thought, until Melody laughs under her breath. "Well, look at that…"
I look, out of sheer curiosity, and my footsteps falter. The familiar black Mercedes is parked in front of the philosophy building. Naz leans against the side of it, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a single blood red rose, twirling the flower as he stares down at it.
My breath hitches at the sight of him, my stomach flipping and flopping, as I'm suddenly lightheaded. Hesitantly, I step toward him as Melody makes her way inside the building, not wanting to be late. Santino makes a spectacle of tardy students.
"Got a hot date with a philosophy professor?" I ask, pausing in front of him.
He smirks, his eyes shifting from the flower to me. "I'm actually hoping to nail one of his students."
I laugh as he pushes away from the car, stepping up on the sidewalk, but my humor dies when he walks past me, right in the path of a petite blonde girl. I don't know her, but her face is recognizable. She's in philosophy with me.
"For you," he says, holding the rose out. "A pretty flower for a pretty girl."
She takes it, blushing, as she rushes into the building, nearly running right into the door. Naz laughs to himself, like it's the most amusing thing ever, a young girl flustered by his charm, but I feel only molten lava brewing in my gut.
It burns.
"Why did you do that?"
"She looked like she could use a cheering up," he says, turning back to me, raising his eyebrows at my expression. "You're not jealous, are you?"
It's ridiculous, I guess... maybe I'm silly, or stupid, or naive, but it's the first time I've stopped to consider I might not be the only one. Sure, I see him a lot, but there are hours, sometimes days, when we're not together and I don't know what he's doing during that time. He works, of course... he says he works a lot... but he doesn't keep the usual type of schedule.
There could be others when I'm not around.
I hate being insecure.
"You are, aren't you?" The humor is gone from his voice. "You're actually jealous."
"Are there others?" I ask quietly. "There aren't, right?"
"Other what?"
"Other girls."
He stares at me, no amusement in his expression as he leans closer. "There are no girls. I don't mess around with girls. They have nothing to offer me. I need a woman. And if you're asking me if I'm seeing anybody else, if I'm fucking another woman, the answer is no. I'm not interested in anybody else, Karissa."
His response relieves me, while also knocking me off kilter, startled by the passion in his voice.
"I told you I loved you," he says. "What am I going to have to do to make you believe it?"
"I, uh…" I stammer, hoping it's a rhetorical question, but his expression tells me he actually wants to know. "I don't know."
"Don't I show you enough?" he asks. "If you need something from me, if you need something more, tell me and I'll give it to you. I'll give you the world. I just need to know what you need."
"I don't need anything," I say.
He hesitates, his voice dropping even lower. "Have I given you reason not to trust me?"
"No."
"Then trust me," he says. "I'm asking for your trust now. If you want me to walk in that room and take that flower back from that girl, if that's what it'll take, I will. I'll rip it right out of her hands and give it to you."
"No, I don't want you to do that," I say. "I just… I didn't know."
"Well, now you do," he says, pressing his palm against my cheek. He leans forward, pressing the lightest kiss to my lips. "I love you."
Those words make me melt. If it weren't for the fact that he's touching me, kissing me, holding me, I'd swear I was nothing but a puddle at his feet. He kisses my lips and then my forehead, wrapping his arms tightly around me in a hug, before finally—hesitantly—pulling away. "You should get to class. You're late now."
"Ugh, I am," I say, scowling as I turn to the building.
"I'll walk you in," he offers, pressing his hand to the small of my back to get me to move. I head inside with him beside me, in no hurry as we stroll toward the classroom door. I can hear Santino talking, already in the middle of a lecture.
I begrudgingly walk inside and try to slip into the empty desk beside Melody undetected, but it's pointless. The second
Santino turns my way, he catches my eyes, and stalls mid-sentence. Strained silence chokes the room, everyone waiting for him to continue, but he seems to have forgotten he was even talking.
"Ah, Miss Reed, how kind of you to grace us with your presence," he says, causing over a hundred sets of eyes to turn to me. "Please, have a seat, get comfortable. Make yourself at home. I'll wait."
He does. The bastard waits.
Everyone watches as I sit down, putting my bag beside me on the floor. "Sorry I'm late, sir."
"Oh, no, I'm sorry," he says. "I do so hope coming to class hasn't been any trouble. I'd hate to be an inconvenience or take up too much of your precious time. I know you have much better things to do than philosophy. Your grades certainly reflect that notion."
Ouch. Awkward murmurs flow through the room. They die down when Santino launches right back into his lecture, still dwelling on the topic of murder. Sighing, I glance around, noting a few sets of eyes still lingering my way, while my gaze drifts back to the door. A blast of humiliation rushes through me, making my cheeks flush. Naz is still standing in the hallway, right in front of the doorway.
He heard every word.
He doesn't look at me, his gaze following Santino at the front of the room. He lurks there for a moment before taking a step back, shaking his head as he walks away.
I turn back around and pull out my notebook and pencil, determined to pay attention and take notes, but I'm already two steps behind and before I can seem to catch up, class is over. I'm up out of the seat, stuffing everything into my bag, when Santino's voice carries through the classroom. "Miss Reed, if you can spare a minute, I need a word with you."
Melody shoots me a sympathetic look, mouthing 'good luck' as she heads for the door without me. I don't blame her. I wouldn't stick around either. I take my time, waiting for most of my classmates to clear out, before moving to the front of the room. Santino's erasing the chalkboard and doesn't acknowledge me for a moment, even after glancing behind him and seeing me standing here.
"Sir?" I say. "Is there a problem?"
He sets the eraser down and turns around, staring at me through his thick glasses. He doesn't look angry or hostile, like I expect. He looks disappointed. Without speaking, he reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a paper, holding it out to me. I see the red scribble all over it, my name written along the top. My test on Confucius, complete with a big, fat D in the top corner.