Chapter 18
18
M ACKENZIE
His eyes stay locked with mine, and I stare at him in silence, lost for words.
I don’t know what to say.
I haven’t thought about it at length.
Of course I thought about him and the stuff going on upstairs, yet in my mind, I’ve always considered him a good man.I didn’t want to think he was the villain.
It didn’t appeal to me and didn’t matter.
But now, somehow, it does.
And oddly, he is the one who brings it up.
His attention is sharp as a needle, and he seems interested in my opinion.
What if he is involved with some bad people?
What am I saying?
He is involved with bad people.
The real question is… How rattled am I by it?
My words fail to come because there is no good answer.
I can’t write him a blank check of trust.
I can’t say it doesn’t matter what he’s doing.
I’ve never thought about it seriously about this.
If I did that, everything would be upside down now. I wouldn’t be here. And I’d have to reconsider a lot of things.And I’d be scared.
I am scared. And I’m profusely sweating.
Should I trust him? Can I afford to do that?
My life has always been a struggle, an endless fight to strike a balance, survive, and keep things under control.
I’ve always walked a narrow line, never relying on anyone other than myself.
That comes with some freedom. It also comes with little room for mistakes.
If someone like him destroys my natural habitat, creates havoc, and brings chaos, I might as well become a casualty.
His waiting for an answer comes to an end as he peels his eyes off me, turns on the ignition, and casts a glance away.
“What would you like to do?” he asks in a somber voice that carries the rubble of disappointment.
“What do you mean?”
He shifts his eyes to me and makes an effort to smile.
“It’s Christmas Eve. What would you like to do?”
His question turns me into a silly, blabbering girl.
“Are you talking about you and me?” I shrug before getting an answer from him. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t want to go back home. In fact, I’m not sure I want to live there anymore. Should I call the police?”
He says nothing.
“Yeah. All right… Probably not,” I go on. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Anyway. I’d rather not go home. And other than that. I don’t know what else to do. Most people are home,” I say, a tinge of melancholy in my voice. “Is there any place open?”
“There are places open,” he says quietly, studying me with infinite patience. “How come you’re alone?” he tosses at me out of nowhere, catching me unprepared.
“You mean…? What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
Of course I know what he means.
Tension spins like a disco ball in my chest.
Of all the topics we can discuss, this is the most stressful one. Except for when I filled out official documents or faced bureaucratic questions, I never had to get into this with anyone.
Kayla vaguely knows my story. Not really. As kind as she is, she has never insisted on knowing my entire story, and there wasn’t much to tell.
“Are you going to tell me?” he says. “How come you have no one?”
“I have you now,” I joke, trying to divert his attention from the panic I swirl in.
“Mackenzie?” he says, unfazed, not falling for my tricks.
I push out a sigh.
“Why is it so hard to tell me?” he asks quietly.
“Because… It’s nobody’s business,” I retort softly.
“What if it’s my business now?” he replies, and emotions soar through me.
“It’s never been anyone else’s business…” I argue, panicking and barely pushing the words out.
“Things can always change,” he says, a kernel of understanding beaming in his voice. “I have nothing to gain from your story. And I won’t use it to hurt it. I just want to know,” he says, his eyes hard to avoid.
It takes me a few moments.
“I’m one of those infants left on the steps of a church with a handwritten note next to them,” I said my voice made of brittle glass, my blood cold, my face unmoving like a slab of concrete.
Surprise washes over his face, hardening his features.
“I grew up in foster homes,” I go on. “Other than that, I learned how to take care of myself, earn a living, and pay my bills. And stay away from most people.”
“Why’s that?”
I softly shrug.
“There’s much more to lose than gain with them. And I can’t afford to lose much. Anything can knock me over. If you know what I mean.”
He drags a pensive look over my face.
“I do,” he says quietly, suddenly downcast.
“I hope I didn’t ruin anything for you,” I comment, my eyes on him while he focuses on the car, smoothly steering it away.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says absently, and a few moments pass. “Let’s go for a ride,” he adds, his voice reminding me of one of those movies in which someone is about to get whacked and is invited for a ride.
The car moves slowly, guided by his touch, rolling through intersections and past homes with joyful lights tucked behind the windows.
I can’t say I’m not a little envious.
I wish I were in one of those homes with him. Or Kayla. Or someone else. Forget for a few hours that we are otherwise alone.Imagining that we could stop time and feel like we belong.
Snowflakes float their way to the ground, enhancing the silence.
He drives without looking at me and seems more familiar with the area than I am.
Soon, we cross the Brooklyn Bridge, and the majestic skyline of Manhattan shivers, wrapped in thousands and thousands of gleaming lights pulsing on the evening backdrop.
Here, Christmas is a noisy, vivacious affair.
People are still walking the streets. They’re going out, visiting their friends. It’s a different way of celebrating.
It’s been a while since I visited Manhattan. The last time I was here, I was interviewing for that job. The job I’ll be hopefully getting in January if I’m lucky.
I worked in Manhattan before, but somehow, I rarely got to move around and explore it.
We drive through it as he shows me around.
My eyes move over the most amazing decorations, lights, and Christmas trees.
The most magical corners, stores, and restaurants.
Our trip is as relaxing for him as it is for me.
It’s pure escapism to think about something other than being hunted down by some weird, crazy neighbor.
“So, where were you going?” I ask, moving my eyes to him. “You’re dressed nicely,” I say, pushing my stare down.
He flashes a smile, and I know that because I catch sight of it when I lift my gaze.
“I’m always dressed nicely,” he says with humor.
He veers the car toward Central Park and drives slowly, looking for a parking spot.
“Tell me,” I say, unimpressed with his attempt to avoid my question.
He finally finds a spot and stops the car before throwing it in park and focusing on me.
“I planned to go to a club,” he says, secretive about something.
And amused.
Is he entertained by me?
My question?
Or the fact that I sound like a girlfriend?
Or a wife?
And he suddenly feels accountable to me?
We pretend that is the case.
“And do you know whether you’ll be going there or not?”
He lowers his eyes, a playful smile on his lips.
“I’m here with you, aren’t I?”
He brings his gaze to me, and his eyes reflect the memory of last night.
My words fall out like the winning lottery numbers from a spinning ball.
“Were you planning to meet a woman?”
It’s only logical to ask that question.
“Would you be mad if I were?”
This reminds me of the other question I have left unanswered.
The one about him being involved with some bad people. But this is different, and I have an answer.
“Yes. I’d be mad.”
He laughs.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You.”
“Why?”
“You’re so damn cute when you’re angry.”
“This is not me being angry. You haven’t seen me angry. So were you?” I go on.
“Seeing other women?” he asks, his eyes smiling, his voice overflowing with tease.
“Please answer me.”
He runs his teeth over his lower lip, a pondering look on his face.
“How was the other guy?” he eventually asks.
“What guy?”
“The one who dropped you.”
“He didn’t drop me. We weren’t a good fit.”
“I can see why. You’re asking too many questions,” he continues, joking, of course.
“I never cared about where he went or whether he was seeing someone else. I trusted him.”
His eyes glint.
“Big mistake,” he comments. “So you’re not trusting me?”
I jerk my hands up.
“I can’t believe you. How did we even get here with our conversation?”
“I don’t know. You asked me about my women.”
My eyebrows knit into a scowl.
“Your women?”
Lip rolled under his teeth, he nods.
“Uh-huh,” he says, amused with my quest for territoriality.
“I know about your women. That’s how I met you. I wanted to know where you were going tonight.”
Annoyed, I point to his suit.
“Decked out like this.”
“You’re jealous.”
I lift my eyes, throwing flames in his direction.
“I’m not jealous.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Haha. No, I’m not.”
My laugh is phony like my argument.
I am jealous. And vulnerable as hell.
“Forget about it,” I say, gesturing while losing ground.
He clutches my wrist, and I draw still, looking into his eyes, consumed by emotions. Jealousy, anxiety, and embarrassment.
All dipped in a gnawing need to feel his body against mine.
My irresistible attraction to him is obvious and difficult to control.
Outside the windshield, old trees with large branches guard the park, and groups of people walk in and out.
Some have their kids with them. Others walk their dogs.
It all registers with me remotely while my eyes dive into his, and my soul awaits for his to speak, engulfed in flames.
When his smile slowly dies on his face, and there is no trace of teasing and playing, no amusement, and no taunting, my heart drums in my chest, and his grip softens around my wrist.
He lowers my hand and brings his lips to mine, dimming my anguish and numbing my fears while kissing me with purpose as if he’s telling me a story. Teaching me to just stay still and forge my deep attraction for him in blind trust.
I can’t say I’ve ever wanted something more than I want this. His lips pressed against mine, our mouths locked, our minds quieting down, our journey starting.
I don’t know what he has poured into his kiss. Some sort of good poison. An aphrodisiac. A magic potion.
Mushroom dust.
Whatever it is, it takes away my pain in a flicker of time as I get wrapped in his arms and settle against his chest, loving every moment of it.