We were in a neighborhood, lines of small houses seemingly stacked nearly on top of each other, in neat little rows. The yards were nothing more than weeds; old cars sat parked in driveways or along the street. Rusted metal bars covered most of the tiny windows on the houses, keeping the bad guys out or the good guys in, I’m not sure which.
No kids played outside, no voices carried from backyards or from within the tiny houses. It was eerily quiet, the sun bathing the sky in an orange-pinkish glow as it slowly settled in the west. We trudged uphill, Will keeping his pace even and measured, me trying my best to stay with him, but I was already tired. Exhausted. In pain.
Ready to give up and we’d barely started.
Once we reached the top of the hill, I realized where we were. Not far from the main drag that led straight down to the beach and the boardwalk. I glanced over my shoulder, my breath catching in my throat when I saw the ocean, the sun a yellowish orange ball sinking into the rippling blue. The amusement park was already lit up, the circle of the Ferris wheel a flashing red-and-green beacon, the roller coaster’s towering path lit by white lights.
Regret hit me like a punch in the stomach. I never got to ride the roller coaster with Sarah. I never ate a deep-fried Twinkie like I wanted to, either. I didn’t get to do much of anything.
But at least I was still alive.
“It’s not much farther,” Will promised me, and I turned to look at him, saw the guilt pass over his expression. I wondered if he was lying.
Uncertainty rose within me, as well as suspicion. “Where are you taking me?” I asked. More like demanded.
“Police station.” He flicked his chin in the general direction, one that was all uphill. I seriously didn’t believe I would make it up that stupid hill. “It’s closer to downtown.”
“How close are we to downtown?”
“Not too far.” He dipped his head, his hair falling in front of his face, as if he used it like a shield.
He was lying. I could tell. “Don’t you have a cellphone?” I didn’t. Sarah did. I wished I had one. I bet Mom and Dad now wished I had one, too.
“No.” He shook his head, the slightest sneer curling his lips. “Can’t afford it.”
Without another word he started walking again and I had no choice but to go after him. We huffed and puffed up the hill—me doing more of the huffing and puffing since he was in perfectly fine shape. He hadn’t been shackled to a wall for the last few days, beaten and brutalized and fed nothing but a donut here and a bunch of cookies there, the occasional bag of Doritos accompanied by a Dr Pepper.
I hated Dr Pepper. That I was able to focus on my hatred for a certain brand of soda after everything I’d been through was probably some indication that I was in a state of shock. I didn’t know. I’d watched CSI with my parents and picked up a few criminal/police terms, but most of the time, I wasn’t paying attention.
There were a lot of things I hadn’t paid attention to that I wished I had.
“You all right?” Will called over his shoulder and I muttered a yeah in response. I winced with every step, the muscles in my calves ached, and I shivered when a cool breeze off the ocean washed over me.
Somehow, he noticed. He noticed everything, and I wasn’t sure if I should be afraid of that or not. Out came a light gray sweatshirt from his magical backpack and he handed it over. I took it from him and pulled it on, inhaling deep the scent that clung to the fabric. It smelled of laundry detergent and something else. Something unidentifiable, and I pressed my nose against the neckline, breathing it in. The sweatshirt was soft and warm, the smell comforting, and it swallowed me up, much like his shirt I wore.
“Put the hood over your head,” he told me, and I did.
“Why?” I cinched the ties so that the hood fit me tight, molded around my face.
“Your hair. It’s bright. He might . . . he might recognize you if he happens to drive by.” His voice was hesitant and I saw the wild look in his eyes. “He went in to work. He should be off soon. If he doesn’t stop off at the bar first.”
Everything within me fell. My stomach tumbled and my mouth went dry. God, I felt like I could throw up. I was foolish to believe I could be free of him. He could find me. He could find us both. For all I knew, this boy was leading me to him and I was idiot enough to follow him wherever he went. “Who is he to you?”
He shook his head, his nostrils flaring. “It doesn’t matter.”
We trudged on in silence for a few minutes and his answer weighed heavily on my mind. It wasn’t good enough. He knew more than he was letting on and I was scared. Scared I was making a mistake. Scared I was walking into a trap.
“The thing is, it does matter,” I finally said as I caught up to him, so I walked by his side, my breath short, my feet aching, especially my toes. They curled tight into the cheap flip-flops, trying to keep them on my feet.
“What matters?” He sent me a wary, sidelong glance.
“Who he is to you. I need to know before I go any farther.” Where the strength came from I wasn’t sure, but I lifted my chin, hoping I looked like I meant business.
We both stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at each other, our harsh breaths louder than the otherwise familiar night sounds. A dog barked in the near distance. Cars drove by, their lights passing over where we stood, illuminating us for one brief second before they were gone. A lone seagull flew overhead, its short, harsh cry sad, and I felt like that mournful sound could swallow me up whole.
“It shouldn’t matter,” Will said grimly. “He’s nothing. I’m nothing like him.”
I studied him, lights from a passing car highlighting his face, and I realized he vaguely resembled him. My kidnapper. It was the set of his mouth, the angry blaze in his eyes. Though for some reason, calm washed over me, reassuring that I’d made the right choice. I wasn’t frightened. He’d saved me. Walked me out of that hellish storage shed like it was no big deal, when it had been my prison for days.
“He’s your father.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed but otherwise, he never moved. Neither did I. We continued to watch each other until a horn honked, startling us both. “We need to go,” he muttered.
“You’re not . . .” I reached for him and grabbed his hand, clutching it tight. Too tight maybe, but I didn’t care. Looking down, I studied our linked fingers, thankful for the connection, praying that he wasn’t trying to trick me. Why this boy calmed me, I didn’t know and couldn’t begin to understand. Maybe it was the matter-of-fact way he rescued me. Without thought, without worry over what might happen to him. He was putting himself at risk by doing this. Helping me. I couldn’t forget that. “You’re not—you’re not taking me to him, are you?”
He squeezed my fingers and I didn’t flinch. I needed his reassurance. I needed to believe he wanted to save me. “No. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“You wouldn’t?” I peered up at him, never letting go of his hand. I didn’t ever want to let it go. I curled my fingers around his, felt his thumb smooth over the top of my hand, and a flutter tickled low in my belly.
“Never,” he said firmly, his deep voice in direct contrast to the fear in his eyes. His being scared reassured me as well.
But I still needed to hear his words.
“Promise?”
Will held up our connected hands. And his gaze—so serious—never left mine. “I promise.”
Confronting your fears.
I looked the words up on Google and came up with a ton of good information, devouring all of it in a matter of hours over the course of one long, sleepless night that morphed into two that turned into three. I read article after article, my eyelids heavy, my brain overloaded with tips and tricks, reassuring words and reaffirming quotes.
My insomnia had kicked in big time and I don’t like to take sleeping pills, though I’ve had some prescribed. I don’t like taking any medications. The Xanax, the Prozac, the Ambien . . . I’ve tried it all.
Hated it all, too. The
y made my head fuzzy. I didn’t feel right, I didn’t think right, I didn’t act like myself. I’d rather deal with the demons in my head than become dependent on drugs that dull the pain.
My appointment with Dr. Harris a few days ago left me with an uneasy feeling, one I still can’t really shed. I felt bad, yelling at her, acting like I did. I sort of came unhinged and took it out on my psychiatrist. I’m sure she’s used to that sort of thing, but I emailed her an apology anyway. She reassured me in her reply that it wasn’t necessary, but I’m glad I did it. Glad I was adult enough to realize when I threw a tantrum like a child.
Didn’t help that I came home that afternoon after our appointment and my neighbor Mrs. Anderson let me know that a suspicious man came “sniffing around my house.” I told her it was most likely a reporter looking for me—she knew who I really was, she figured it out pretty quickly after I moved in because she is truly the nosiest person I’ve ever met—but she didn’t appear satisfied with that answer.
Which left me wary.
“Suspicious young man,” she’d said. “He wore sunglasses though the sky was cloudy as all get-out. Gave me some cockamamie story about living in your house when he was growing up. I didn’t believe him. Didn’t quite dislike him, either, but figured he was up to no good.” Her eyes had narrowed. “There was something about him that made me think he was harmless. Maybe an ex come looking for you after he saw you on the TV?”
I almost laughed at her suggestion but held it in. “I doubt that,” I’d told her, and she gave me a little harrumph in answer, not satisfied, I’m sure.
An ex. That would imply I’d have to be with someone in the first place. I’m as single as they come. I’ve never been kissed. Never been held tenderly in a man’s arms, never been made love to—and anyway, is that for real? What does making love even mean? I don’t know what it’s like, to be in a relationship.
Lack of sleep has made me anxious. Reading over the countless websites about confronting what’s been holding me back has contributed to my anxiety. I’ve followed some of the suggested steps, though, and I’ve come up with a game plan.
I’m ready to face my fears.
First, I had to make a list. It was long, but I was able to group together a few things (another suggestion from one of the sites I read), and that helped make my fears list less intimidating. Next, I rearranged my list from least scary to most scary.
The fear I’m hoping I can conquer first? The supposed easiest one? Spending extended time in a crowded public place.
The biggest fear that tops my list? Being intimate with a man.
Since that one seems so incredibly far-fetched and the hardest to face, I figure it’ll never happen.
Deciding there’s no time like the present, I set out to conquer what I thought would be the easiest item on my list. Going to a place that contains so many of my fears—a place that I can’t tell anyone about.
Guilt swamps me as I drive along the highway with the window down, the wind blowing through my hair, the salty tang of the ocean heavy in the breeze. If Mom and Brenna knew what I was doing, they’d flip out. Flip. Out. I’m sort of flipping out just thinking about it. How am I going to deal when I actually get there?
Maybe I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.
The time of year is all wrong, as is the weather, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Once I pull off the highway and start down the road that leads toward the ocean, my heart starts to race. My hands are clammy. I pass the spot at the corner of the road where Will Monroe told me to pull the hood of his sweatshirt over my head and I begin shaking.
I’m at the stop sign, waiting for the other cars to go first, envisioning myself standing on that street corner. The cars going past, the yellowish glow of their headlights streaking across a purplish twilight sky. The faint roar of the roller coaster as it zoomed along the old wooden tracks, the riders screaming in glee.
I always believed I imagined that part. Hearing the roller coaster and its riders. The screaming. It was all in my head, something I made up.
A horn honks, startling me, and I let up on the brake, pressing my foot on the gas. The car lurches forward like a meteor hurtling through space, right in the path of a vehicle that had grown impatient with me and attempted to turn left. The driver lays on the horn and the unexpected sound makes me gasp and curse.
Too late, too late. God, I’m going to die in an intersection mere miles from where I was kidnapped. Mere miles from where I was saved.
How ironic is this?
I dart across the intersection, the wheels of my car never seeming to touch the ground, which is impossible, I know. Glancing to my left, I see the irritated driver give me the double finger, his face contorted with over-the-top rage. I offer him an apologetic look and a wave, but he doesn’t care.
I’m sure he thinks I’m a complete idiot. Worse, he looks like he wishes he could choke the shit out of me.
The moment I make it through the intersection, I pull over, my wheels bumping against the edge of the sidewalk. Throwing my car into park, I cover my face with trembling hands, my breaths harsh and loud against my cupped palms.
Did I really believe I could handle this?
I pushed too hard. Too fast. Going to the scene of the crime—literally—was a crazy idea. I want to be cured. I want to be okay. I want to feel strong and carefree and confident that I can do whatever I want without a care. I shouldn’t have to worry so much, you know? I shouldn’t have to be so afraid.
But I’m none of those things. Confident. Strong. Carefree. Those words belong to the old me. Once innocence is lost, you can never get it back. That’s my problem. I lost my innocence at the age of twelve, far too early. And the man who stole it from me will haunt me forever.
Anger surges and I let it wash over me. I’m mad. Irritated with myself. I need to get over this. Live a normal life. Seek out friends. Date guys. Brenna has offered to set me up more than once. Her boyfriend has plenty of single friends whom she approves of. Nice guys. Regular guys.
But something always holds me back. Like I’m waiting for . . . something.
Someone.
I drop my hands from my face and take a deep breath. Glance up into the rearview mirror to see a car parked just behind me. It’s nondescript. Black. Could be a Honda, could be a Toyota . . . could be anything. A man sits behind the wheel, his dark head bent, his gaze locked on his lap, though I can’t see half of his face considering it’s covered by sunglasses.
All the fine hairs on my body rise in awareness. Is he following me? His head is still bent, his dark hair tumbling over his forehead, a white T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders and chest. He looks young. Harmless. But looks can be deceiving. I know this.
I’ve lived it. Survived it.
Blinking hard, I continue to watch him. In fact, I’m blatantly checking him out in my rearview mirror, my throat dry, my heart picking up speed. Cars rush past, impatient to get to their destinations, but not the car behind me. He waits. Like I wait.
It’s disconcerting.
Carefully, quietly, as if he’s watching my every move, as if he’s literally sitting beside me, I put my car into drive, flick my left blinker on, and slowly pull out into the street.
He doesn’t follow me.
She almost caught me.
Panic rises as I drive approximately seven cars behind her. The street is crowded as usual, even though we’re beyond the busy summer season. It’s a narrow two-lane, usually packed beyond belief in the summer but not as frustrating at the moment.
No, what frustrates me is that she just about figured me out when I pulled my car behind hers. I let her go. I had to let her go. To fall in behind her immediately after she merged back into traffic would have been waving the biggest, reddest flag ever.
Danger. Alert. Stranger following you. Call 911.
Couldn’t risk it.
What the hell is she doing here anyway? I think she’s flat-out lost her mind. She’s going back to the amusemen
t park. I can feel it in my bones, sense it as if I’m sitting in her brain and trying my best to reason with her but she won’t listen.
Will she actually go into the park? Or is she seeking the beach? There are plenty of other beaches close by. I would have preferred the ones in the opposite direction, but she’s not cooperating.
Tilting my head, I try to rise up in my seat to see which way she’s turning. The light is red. Her car is the third one in line. The light is short but not that short, and I hope like hell she turns left. Left means she’s leaving. Left means she has no plans on staying, getting out of her car and walking into the park, none of that bullshit.
The light turns green.
She’s the second one to turn right.
Fucking hell.
The light turns yellow on the tenth car. Three more turn right after the light becomes red. I’m now the third one in line. I have to wait approximately three minutes, but it’ll feel like three hours.
I could lose her. She could park somewhere and walk right into that stupid fucking park and get swallowed up by the crowd. I can’t have it. I must find her. What if something happens to her? She doesn’t get out much. She admitted that in the interview. That she was a bit of a recluse. She takes college courses online (technology is a great thing), she doesn’t have many friends, she doesn’t do well in big crowds.
It’s a Friday. A perfect fall day and the weather is freaking gorgeous, but there won’t be many people at the park because it’s so early.
That doesn’t matter. I still could lose her.
The light finally turns green and I hit the gas impatiently, smacking my horn when the guy ahead of me starts to turn left, then changes his mind and goes right. He gestures at me in the rearview mirror and I give him a thinly veiled smile, one that feels more like a baring of teeth than anything else.