Chapter 5 #3
"Yeah, but I'm an ignorant shithead." He smiles at me, and my stomach seems to twist and to melt and to flip all at once. "You're a fuckin' genius and literal fuckin' saint. Ain't much of a comparison, sweetheart."
"I have yet to see any evidence that you are an ignorant…what you said. Perhaps you are mistaken in your assessment of yourself."
He shakes his head, wrinkling his nose. "Nah. There's a few things you don't know about me." He grabs me around the waist, lifts me like an ice dancer preparing to throw his partner into a triple axel, and deposits me on the step above him. "C'mon, Gorgeous. Best not keep Sheriff Mannix waiting."
He seems oblivious to the fact that I cannot breathe. He touched me—he had his hands around my waist. I know it meant nothing to him, but it does to me.
I am still regaining my mental and emotional equilibrium as we enter the police station.
It is a calm, peaceful place. Uniformed deputies sit at desks doing paperwork and using computers and whatever else policemen do when they aren't on patrol.
Riley greets them all by name, trading handshakes with them and asking after wives and girlfriends and kids and pets—he is known and well-liked.
He leads the way through the office, which is fluorescent-lit, with thin industrial blue carpet on the floor and a drop-tile ceiling, a mostly open space with desks facing each other in three rows of two abreast. Cole Mannix's office is at the rear of the building, with a direct line of sight to the front door and the reception desk—the office is glassed off with built-in louvered blinds, the door propped open by a thick tome of Michigan's laws.
Cole is a large man, not as large as Bear but more heavily muscled than Riley.
His golden hair is cut short and brushed to the side, a little messy from his hand passing through it, and a short, neat beard frames a strong jaw.
He has blue-blocking glasses on his face as he stares at a large computer monitor, frowning in concentration as he shifts his attention from the monitor to a stapled stack of papers on the desk, a silver ballpoint pen moving from line to line.
Riley knocks on the doorframe.
"One sec," Sheriff Mannix mutters, not looking up. He finishes his line-item comparison and then looks up, a grin spreading across his face when he sees who it is. "Rye, what the fuck are you doing here, bro? Come to turn yourself in, finally?"
Riley goes tense, his shoulders hunching. He did not like that joke, for some reason. "Nah, man. You know me, I'm a good boy." He juts his chin at the desk. "That looks fun. Love the sexy specs, Manny."
Sheriff Mannix whips the glasses off and tosses them on the desk.
"Ah, fuck you," he says, his tone implying affection and humor rather than offense.
"Bein' the big boss means going over several hundred pages of expense reports, line by fucking line.
Staring at that damn screen all day kills my fuckin' eyes.
Some days, I'd rather go back to being a lowly deputy. "
“Three Rivers wouldn't let that happen, " Riley says. “You're gonna be in that office till you retire, buddy."
Cole laughs. “Yeah, I know. I just hate paperwork, and I hate computers." He turns his gaze to me. "Who's your beautiful new friend?"
I feel my cheeks burn under the heat of his compliment and his curious eyes. "I am Cadence Creswell, Sheriff Mannix. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
He half-rises from his desk to shake my hand, his grip firm but gentle. “Pleased to meet you, too, Cadence.” He juts his chin at the two chairs facing the desk. “Have a seat.”
"Cadence is in town raising funds for a medical mission trip to Sudan," Riley explains as we sit.
"We're hoping you can help get the first responders of Three Rivers on board. We’ve got Mrs. Aldis working on the Chamber of Commerce, Noelle is going to her parents about the church folks, and now we're here hittin' you up. "
"Fundraising, huh?" He looks from me to Riley, and then to our hands, which are—yet again—joined. I hadn't even noticed, so accustomed have I become to Riley's insistence on holding my hand wherever he takes me. “How much? I can pass a hat around the office."
Riley chuckles. "This ain't pass-the-hat shit, bro. We’re putting together an event."
"Hmmm," Cole hums. "So, how much?"
"Eighty grand," Riley answers. "And change."
Cole snorts. “Yeah, passing the hat won't cut it." He glances at our hands again but doesn't comment on them. "So…what do you need from me?"
"Just spread the word about the cause. She's presenting to the Chamber on Monday. I’m thinking we pack out the town hall."
I squeak at this. "Riley! A memorized presentation of a PowerPoint to a handful of executives is one thing. Giving that presentation to a significant percentage of the town is a whole other proposition. I am not comfortable with the latter scenario."
"You'll be fine," he says. "I'll be with you every step of the way."
"I wish I shared your confidence," I say.
Cole rises from his desk and moves around to lean back against the front corner of it nearest to Riley; his gun and gear belt hang from the back of his chair.
"So, Cadence. South Sudan, huh?" He stares away, thinking.
"Riley wouldn't hitch his horse to your wagon if he didn't believe in you and your mission. If he's in, I'm in."
Sheriff Cole Mannix appears to be a competent, rational man, an authority figure, and Riley's best friend.
Where Riley has the air of a court jester, Cole seems to be more serious.
Therefore, his willingness to throw his weight behind my cause simply because Riley has done so speaks volumes as to Cole's opinion of Riley.
"You both used the same phrase," I say. "Regarding hitching one's horse to a wagon."
Riley chuckles. "Great minds, right, Manny?"
Cole just snorts. "Some kinda minds, at least." He pushes off the desk.
"Much as I'd rather shoot the shit with you two, I'm gonna be at that expense report all damn day, so I gotta get back to it.
I'll rally the troops, though, and put the word out about the cause.
Soon as you have info on the event, let me know and I'll pass that along. "
"Will do, buddy. Thanks for your time. Dinner and drinks with the gang, later?"
Cole frowns as he rounds his desk and sits down. "Is there a plan? Hadn't heard."
"There is now. I'm callin' it."
Cole nods. “I'm in. You seen Nyxie recently?"
"Not for a few days. He had a big-money frame-off restoration he was doing for some rich cat up in Petosky. You know how he is when he's got a project on."
Cole nods, putting his glasses on. "Ah, yeah, that explains it. Assuming I get this done," he taps the paper on his desk, "I could meet up around six, six-thirty."
"We'll be at the Cellar. Usual table." Riley backs out of the office, both middle fingers raised. "Later, dickhead."
Cole returns a middle finger without looking. "Backatcha, fucknut. Don't let the door hit you on the way out." He looks up and smiles at me, and my goodness, his smile is nearly as dazzling as Riley's. "Cadence, it's wonderful to meet you. Keep our boy outta trouble, yeah?"
I frown. "Is he prone to run-ins with your department? He appears to be rather law-abiding, in my experience, limited though it is."
Cole laughs, believing me to be joking, I think. Which is when I realize my error—he was joking. Of course. "Nah, he got that out of his system a long time ago. We just like to give each other shit."
"Yes…obviously." Embarrassed, as usual, I turn on my heel and walk away before I can say anything else idiotic.
It's only when I’m outside that I realize my abrupt departure could be construed as rude. Riley emerges after me by a few moments, having hung back to finish his farewell to his friend. "Hey, you okay?"
I sigh. "Yes."
He frowns at me. "Bullshit. What's up?"
"It is difficult to explain." I turn away.
He moves around, staying in my line of sight. "Whoa, hey. Cadence, I’m lost. What are you upset about?"
"I am embarrassed. I embarrassed you. I was rude to your friend." The storm of feelings rages, perpetually, inside me, chaotic and confusing and impossible—overwhelming and disorienting.
"The fuck are you talking about? No one embarrassed anyone. You weren't rude. I'm so fuckin' lost, babe."
He tries to take my hand, but I am overwhelmed and cannot tolerate physical contact—I pull away and hold my palms out to keep him at arm's length. "Do not, please. I need a moment."
"Uh, sure. Sure. Okay." He backs away, hands up, palms out. "Sorry."
Inside, I am a hurricane of feelings and thoughts, paralyzing me. I cannot breathe. Cannot move. Cannot even blink. I suppose to Riley, I must look supremely strange, standing stock-still on the sidewalk like a statue.
I cannot seize upon a single thought or emotion. There are too many, and they move too fast, like bats trapped in a belfry.
"Cadence?" His voice is low and quiet, the calming, soothing, patient tone he used when I was turtling on his floor.
Something truly extraordinary happens, then.
"Hey, so…I'm gonna hug you." I hear him, but I cannot formulate a response.
Do not.
That is my response.
Touching me when I am functionally frozen like this is typically problematic.
I have been known to melt down because of it.
I have gotten better about managing myself, and I have not had a real meltdown in a long time.
But so much has happened since yesterday that I simply do not know how to cope with—the walk to the Crenshaws, losing their support, the walk back, crying, meeting Riley, being attracted to him even though I know it is a hopeless case for me, forgetting my beloved rucksack and having to interact with Mr. Crenshaw again, the alarm situation, and now all of this? My social faux pas was the last straw.
Therefore, when Riley announces his intent to embrace me, I expect it to cause a full meltdown.
That is not what happens.
His arms circle me gently, and then he pulls me against his chest. I am as stiff as a board, arms at my sides.
Instead of the paralytic agony of sensory overload, I feel…
Comfort.
This is nearly as overwhelming.
It should not be. Yet, it is.
He smells divine—pine, cedar, soap, clean laundry. The fabric of his T-shirt is soft against my cheek, and I hear his heart beating under my ear. His arms encircle me, but rather than imprisoning me, they shelter me, they anchor me to the earth when the maelstrom within threatens to carry me away.
I cannot measure the time it takes for me to calm enough to emerge from the functional freeze, but past examples have lasted upward of ten minutes. Riley merely holds me through it.
He asks no questions.
Demands no answers.
He does not shift in discomfort or boredom.
He is a steadying, calming presence.
Warm.
Patient.
Kind.
When I am finally able to function again, I look up into his eyes for as long as I can, still in the shelter of his embrace. "I believe I owe you an explanation."
"Don't owe me a goddamn thing, Cadence." He is serious, but despite the aggression of his cursing, he does not appear to be angry.
"Surely you must be wondering what is wrong with me," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Nope."
I frown up at him. "How can that be? You obviously do not understand the way I function. I find it impossible to believe that you have not once wondered what is wrong with me."
"I'm curious about you. It's true, I don't always understand…
well, a lotta shit. The things you say, the way you talk, why you're so literal about things, and why you don't pick up on certain things.
But I've never once thought there's anything wrong with you.
" His eyes, so pale, so blue, so intense, so hypnotic, search my face. "Because there ain’t. There’s not a single goddamn thing wrong with you. "
Tears spring into my eyes, and I hide them by burying my face in his shirt again.
He tucks his finger under my chin and lifts my face, passing a thumb under my eyes, one and then the other. "Hey, what's this?"
“You cannot…" I shake my head, hating the tears—the intensity of the emotion causing them as well as the physical discomfort of them, the salty burn, the tightness in my throat, the embarrassment of them. "You cannot understand."
"Maybe not," he whispers, "but I'd sure love a shot at trying."
"Can we return to your home, please?" I whisper, fighting for composure. “I have had enough of being out in public for the moment."
He pulls away, and his next action nearly sends me into another tailspin.
He kisses my cheeks, under my eyes. "C'mon. Let's get you outta here."
Soft.
Sweet.
Gentle.
"Oh, do not give me hope, I pray," I breathe, but Riley is ahead of me, pressing the button on the light pole to engage the pedestrian crossing lights, and he cannot hear me. "Please, Riley Crowe of Three Rivers, do not give me hope. I cannot bear it."
Yet when he takes my hand to escort me across the street, his smile is so genuine, so bright, so dazzling that I cannot help but hope.
Risking death to aid others is frightening, yes. But I understand the risks. I have seen the worst that can happen, and I have to come to terms with the possibility of it happening to me.
What truly terrifies me into paralysis is the prospect of letting myself hope that this man, Riley Crowe of Three Rivers, could develop real feelings for me. That he could accept me as I am. That he could—
I cannot even think it. It is impossible.
There is no hope of that.
But for all that he has done for me, I owe him answers. I will tell him my truth, and I will accept the results, whatever that may be.