Chapter 27
Julian
Three-ish Years Ago
The dangling raw hamburger that used to be my forearm is making me kinda nauseous.
Maybe it’s the head gash causing the nausea.
I don’t know how bad it is, just that I have blood trailing into my eye.
I try to sit up, but the wave of dizziness has me sliding back onto the gravel.
It’s so dark outside I can barely see my hand in front of my face, so I can’t tell what shape my bike is in.
If my body is any indication, the bike is toast.
I hear the rustling footsteps before I see the bobbing orb of the flashlight coming at me. I struggle again into a semi-sitting position. Taking a breath is like inhaling broken glass. I clutch my chest with the effort.
“Are you okay? Should I call 911?” Her voice is soft, sweet, like a melody.
I can’t see her in the pitch black, but I can tell her hair is light colored, illuminated by the flashlight.
“I heard the crash from my house. It’s just up this embankment.
” The crunching footsteps get closer. “Lucky you. I’m the only house for miles.
” Her voice is next to me. “How bad are you hurt? Do you know what happened?” She’s kneeling beside me in the dirt and gravel and reaches out to touch my face.
I jerk back, causing her to do the same.
“I’m not going to . . . I just want to . . . Let me help you. You’re hurt.”
“No shit. And I don’t want any help. No one can help me.”
“Honey, let me just get you inside. Wait here. I’m going to get my car. You’re not gonna make it up my driveway and I can’t carry you.”
She doesn’t wait for my response. She hasn’t asked me a question anyway. Her crunching footsteps fade as she leaves, presumably to get her car and give me a ride to her . . . driveway?
Maybe I’ll die before she gets back. Then all the pain will stop. The nightmare will be over. No such luck. I hear the motor of a vehicle just before the headlights spotlight me, blinding me until I put my hand up to shield my face.
She leaves them trained on me as she parks halfway in the ditch and gets out. “Oh my God, you’re pretty torn up. I think I should take you to a hospital.”
“No. I’m fine.” I try to stand up, but my body won’t cooperate. I turn sideways and get on all fours, wait for the wave of dizziness and nausea to pass and try again.
She’s instantly beside me, helping me stand.
My vision starts closing in on me. I know I’m going down if I don’t let her help me.
She walks me to the passenger side of her car, a Toyota 4Runner, and eases me into the seat.
My body slumps against the door as she closes it.
My head feels sticky. I know I’m leaving blood on her window.
I’m trashing her nice car with blood, dirt and gravel.
Her choice to put me in it, I think, like an asshole.
Before I can straighten myself in the seat or pass out, the door is opening again, and she’s walking me up a front path onto a lighted porch and through her front door.
I have no reference of time, but it feels like I sit at her kitchen table for hours while she meticulously pulls gravel out of my arms, head, face and torso.
“I’m Allie.” She looks older than me but not by much. She has a pretty face that matches her calm voice. She looks physically fit but petite. And obviously strong enough to half carry me to her car.
I’m not exactly a small person. Maybe a little thinner than I usually am, but not small by any means.
She doesn’t ask me any questions. I know she can smell the alcohol on me.
I can smell it. I guess life has other plans for me than my death wish.
I didn’t exactly try to kill myself driving my motorcycle intoxicated.
Not consciously anyway. Although death would be preferable to this searing pain in my chest.
Remembering why I was drunk and riding too fast in the first place causes a fresh wave of nausea.
I can’t swallow the urge this time. I stand and fight the dizziness and bolt for the kitchen sink and throw up everything in my stomach—which is alcohol and bile.
I can’t remember the last time I ate. With my hands gripping the edge of the counter, my head dangling over the copper farmhouse sink, I try to apologize for fucking up her pretty sink.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .” Another wave of dizziness cuts me off.
I dry heave into the sink. There’s nothing left to throw up.
“Let’s just sit you back down. How about the couch? I’ll bring you some water.” She helps me walk into the open floor living room and over to an L-shaped, linen-colored couch.
I protest sitting on it and sink to the floor in front of it. I already fucked up her car and her sink. “Pretty sure blood won’t come out of this white sofa.”
That got a smirk and a nod from her. “Well, when you’re steady enough, we’ll get you in the shower.”
“Why are you being so nice to me? What if I’m a serial killer?”
“Well, no offense, but if you are, I might be able to take you in your current state. And if you’re faking to get the upper hand, your makeup people are phenomenal, because that blood looks real. And that fake vomiting scene in the kitchen? Oscar worthy.”
I chuckle, then immediately grab my ribs. Yep, pretty sure a few of those are cracked.
“Look, if I’d caught serial killer vibes from you, I would’ve left you on the street and called 911.”
“Fair,” I concede. I extend my arm and take the glass of water she’s offering, still gripping my ribs with the other. The water soothes my throat, raw from vomiting. I take small sips to test if it will stay down.
“I’ve got some sweats and a hoodie you can change into. Wanna try a shower? Just go slow and hold on to something in there. I don’t wanna have to come in there and rescue Naked Crash Stranger.”
I vaguely wonder who the clothes belong to. Not that I care. I just wonder if some husband is going to come home and find me in the shower and kick my ass. Maybe he would put me out of my misery.
A hot shower does sound amazing. Every part of me throbs in pain. I hunch onto my knees and slowly get to my feet, balancing my hands on the coffee table. No nausea, just mild dizziness. I think I can make it through a shower. I follow her down the short hall into what I assume is a guest bathroom.
She places a fresh towel on the counter and disappears upstairs.
She’s back in a blink with some folded clothes and sets them near the towel.
She moves past me, turns on the shower and leaves me standing in the blue, ocean-inspired bathroom.
“I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done.
Take your time and holler if you need me. ”
“Thanks, uh . . .”
“Allie,” we say in unison.
“Yeah, memory works.” She softly giggles and closes the door.
I wish it didn’t.
I don’t know if it’s her kindness, the alcohol or the concussion I’ve likely given myself, but I’m suddenly overcome with emotion.
I peel off my torn, bloody clothes, step into the steamy spray, sink to the floor and hug my knees and let the water pound my skin like a thousand tiny hot needles.
I don’t know how long I sit on the tiled floor under the stream, shaking, crying into my folded arms with my forehead on my knees.
She can’t be gone.
I don’t want to live in a world without her in it.
Her father killed her. He said she did it.
He said she took pills. He blames me, but he did this to her.
And he wouldn’t let me see her. But I loved her.
She loved me. He did it. By not letting us be together.
By threatening to send her away. If he’d just let her stay, let us be together, she’d still be here.
God, I wanted to kill him. He said if I ever showed my face around there again, he’d have me arrested.
For rape. How could he say that, think that?
I would never. We loved each other. He said other stuff too.
About how he could convince a judge it was felony statutory rape because I’m an adult now.
So I left. It doesn’t matter now because I won’t be back. There was nothing to go back to.
Everything I’ve ever loved about that town died with her.
I wish I had too. I wasn’t consciously trying to kill myself when I tore out of there on my bike.
I just wanted distance between me and the searing, soul-crushing pain of losing Taya.
Taking corners sideways and well over the speed limit, all it took was a little loose gravel to send me sliding off the road down the embankment in front of Allie’s house.
That and slow enough reflexes from the alcohol to render me incapable of recovering the turn.
I didn’t know what small town I was even in.
They all went by in a blur from the moment I downed the fifth I picked up at the liquor store, where I hit the road in a fury—no destination in mind.
I purposely drove in the opposite direction of South Point.
No good could come of me confronting Bennick.
He owns that town and they’d be rallying around him in his grief.
No one knew about me and Taya except him.
I could disappear and no one would miss me.
Not even my parents. She was the only good thing I had going for me in my shit life.
She made me feel like someone, like I was worth something.
The water turning colder drags me out of thoughts and into the now.
I force myself upright, feeling the soreness more now.
My entire body screams, my ribs ache, my head pounds like it’s caught in a vise.
The cuts on my arms, head and face sting in the ever-cooling spray.
I quickly lather my body, ignoring the sting from the soap on the open wounds.
Once I dress in the sweats Allie offered—commando because my boxer briefs were full of dirt, gravel and blood—I make my way back to the kitchen, my clothes and towel piled in my arms.
Allie is placing two mugs of steamy liquid down on the kitchen table when I walk in. She sets one in front of a plate bearing a grilled cheese sandwich and a pickle wedge.
“Sit. Eat. I’ll toss your clothes in the wash.” She takes the pile from my arms and disappears through a door off the back wall of the kitchen—laundry room I surmise.
I’m not sure I can eat, but I sit anyway and vow to try because this guardian angel cared enough to make it for me. And she must be a guardian angel. Either that or a figment of my concussed imagination.
I take a tentative bite of the sandwich to test my stomach. It happens to be the best grilled cheese I’ve ever tasted. My stomach growls in approval. I take another bite. Bigger this time. I must’ve made a sound of approval because Allie speaks up behind me.
“I know, right? I make it with garlic buttered bread. Takes a plain grilled cheese to another level.”
“M-hm,” I agree with my mouth full.
“The tea is a favorite of mine. My go-to calming, stress-reducing blend. I promise it doesn’t suck.”
“Why?”
“Why doesn’t it suck?”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask around a mouthful of sandwich.
“Oh. Well, the obvious answer is because you needed help. And you sort of waved that ‘help wanted’ flag right in front of me by crashing your bike outside my door.”
“That’s fair. So . . . thanks for all this, but I’ll just get out of your way and . . .”
“And? Go where? With what? And how?” She folds her arms across her chest like a mom scolding a child. Not my mom, but regular moms I assume. Like TV moms do.
“Look . . . Allie, you seem really nice and uh, kind, but I could be a serial killer.”
“Are you?” She raises one eyebrow and waits.
“No, but I’m an ugly drunk. And not very good company.”
“What’s your name?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m nobody. Nothing.” I unclench my hands I unknowingly fisted and look at the scrapes, rubbing my sweaty palms down my thighs.
“Well, Nobody Nothing, as unfortunate as that name is, I have a place that’s empty.
It could use some work. I’d planned to hire someone to help me fix it up.
I mean, you’re not in any shape to . . .
do much of anything right now, except heal.
But would you . . . want a job? A place to stay?
” She places dishes in the dishwasher as she talks.
“What makes you think I want a job? Or a place to stay?”
“Let’s call it a hunch.” She folds her arms across her chest again, tilts her head and studies me.
“You’re too trusting.” I shake my head slowly and put the last bite of sandwich in my mouth, staring down at my plate as I chew.
“I’d like to think of it as being a good human and hopefully solid at reading people. Sleep here on the couch tonight. We’ll assess your injuries in the morning and see if you need a doctor.”
“What about your husband?” I pick up the pickle wedge as she takes the plate from in front of me.
“No husband. The sweats were my dad’s. And in case I’m bad at reading people, I have a black belt in karate and I’m pretty sure I could kick your ass—even without your injuries.”
That earned another bark of laughter that has me gripping my ribs again and hissing through clenched teeth at the stabbing pain. I drop the pickle on my napkin. “I’ll be fine. But, uh, thanks. Allie. For . . .” I stop to breathe through a wave of nausea.
She doesn’t wait for me to finish my sentence. “You’re welcome, Nobody. Glad you’re not a serial killer.”
“It’s Jay—Julian.”
“Jay Julian? That’s different.”
“Just Julian.”
“Okay, night, Just Julian. Get some rest.”
Before I drift off into a fitful sleep on the pretty white couch, I decide that if God won’t put me out of my misery and let me die, maybe I’ll stay and help this woman who was nice enough to help me. Even if I believe she’s dangerously too trusting.
What else do I have going for me anyway?