CHAPTER SEVEN
MASSACHUSETTS, PRESENT DAY
I glanced at my bearded face in the motorcycle’s side mirror at the stoplight. The wind blew against my back, whipping my hair forward against my cheeks. Thank God for the helmet, holding it down and keeping it out of my eyes.
“If you don’t cut that shit soon, I’m gonna start calling you Jesus.”
My chuckle rumbled up from my chest at the brief memory of Luke, but just as quickly as it’d come, it was replaced by an ache so deep that I knew nothing would touch it.
It had been two weeks since I’d had my breakdown on the mower, two weeks since I had cried. But grief had a funny way of being evergreen, no matter how much time had passed, and it was as fresh as it’d ever been now.
The light changed colors again, and I was on my way. I didn’t know where I was going today, but I had woken up with that same longing to do something other than sit around the cemetery. So, I’d gotten onto Luke’s bike that morning, opened the gates, and left. Hoping to come across something to scratch this persistent, new itch. I knew it was loneliness. I was familiar with the feeling. But I wasn’t sure what to do with it when all I’d truly wanted since leaving Connecticut was to be alone.
Is that really what I want though?
I never used to like being alone.
The challenge was obnoxious, and I rolled my eyes at my stupid brain as I turned the corner and spotted a tea shop that looked whimsical and intriguing. Of course I wanted to be alone. That was why I’d come up here in the first place. Why the hell would that have suddenly changed a handful of years later? Other than the fact that I’d been more or less alone for that long. Years .
I parked the bike and pulled the key from the ignition, then headed across the street to walk through the door of Jolie Tea Company. Instantly, my senses were hit with the fragrant aromas of Earl Grey and lavender, and although I was more of a black coffee sort of guy, I’d never been known to say no to a nice cup of tea.
The shop was quiet and nearly empty. I wondered if that was normal for almost noon on a Wednesday as I pulled off the helmet and awkwardly approached the counter, where a woman was waiting with a beaming smile on her face.
“Hi!” she greeted me merrily. “What can I get you?”
I was already cursing myself. Dammit . Why hadn’t I been more prepared? I should’ve checked the menu, rehearsed my order, or better yet, put the order in online to avoid this tedious exchange altogether.
“Um”—I cleared my throat, keeping my eyes on the menu on the wall and never on her—“I, uh … don’t really know. Uh, w-what would you recommend?”
I dug my fingernails into my palm, a silent punishment for the fumble over my words, while my face heated with embarrassment. She didn’t seem to notice though as she glanced over her shoulder and pointed to the menu.
“Well, I guess that depends on what you’re in the mood for. We have hot tea, iced tea—”
“W-what’s your favorite?” I asked, both genuinely curious and desperate to not have to speak more than was absolutely necessary.
Her cheeks seemed to flush—maybe she was warm; it did seem like the temperature was too hot in here—as she turned again to address me. “Well, personally, I’m a big fan of the Wonderland Elixir, iced.”
I nodded and pulled out my wallet. “Okay, y-yeah. I’ll get one of those.”
Her eyes danced over my face, settling on my mouth, and I wondered if I had something on me. Crumbs in my beard, leftover from breakfast? I worried my bottom lip as she brought her eyes back to mine.
“Okey dokey.”
She smiled with her own lip trapped between her teeth— she’s mocking me —and turned to make the drink while I peeked one eye over my shoulder at who else was sitting in the tearoom. Any excuse to look at anyone but this woman who was clearly finding amusement at my expense.
Because you’re a loser, Charlie.
I swallowed at the insult and tried to ignore it as my eyes quickly frisked the room. The only other customers were a handful of heavily tattooed and pierced people—one man and two women.
I recognized the guy immediately as an artist from Salem Skin, the tattoo shop I’d gone to a few years ago. He was the same guy who had done the freehand spiderwebs on my hands, chest, back, arms, and shoulders a few years ago. It took three five-hour sessions to complete, and I appreciated his ability to communicate as little as humanly possible with the client, only stopping to ask if I needed a break or a drink a few times.
For the record, I hadn’t.
I assumed the women worked with him to some capacity. The one with the dreadlocks looked vaguely familiar, like someone I could almost place in my memory somewhere. And the other …
“Here you go,” the tea shop employee said, handing the cup and a straw to me. “Um, listen, I don’t normally ask random guys—”
“Th-thank you,” I cut her off, handing her the cash for the drink. “Keep the change.”
Then, with my head down, I was out of there, not caring at all about what the woman behind the counter had to say—and maybe a normal guy would’ve. Maybe a normal guy would’ve stuck around to chat her up or defend himself or ask her out—whatever was appropriate. But I was anything but normal. I thought that much had been established by now.
And after my eyes locked with a hue of green so stunning and otherworldly for a second blip in recent history, I was reminded that there was a place for beautiful, perfect people in this world. People who could suck the air and energy from a room with just one look, and I wasn’t one of them, nor was I deserving of a glance from her jade eyes.
***
“Things are looking good over here, my friend. Very good indeed,” Ivan—the one and only person I could come close to calling a friend—said. He walked slowly past an open grave I’d dug that morning after receiving notice from a local funeral home. “You did that by shovel?”
I shrugged nonchalantly, then nodded. “Yeah, still waiting on the guy to fix the backhoe.”
“He’d better show up soon. It’s going to get mighty cold, mighty fast.”
Ivan wasn’t too much older than me at forty-six, but what little hair he had left was grayer than Nana’s when she’d died, and he walked with a limp due to arthritis. Sometimes, he even sported a cane when the pain got to be too much to handle, reminding me of Mr. Monopoly, especially when he insisted on donning his top hat. I had taken over for him as caretaker after his condition got too bad for him to continue working such a physically demanding job, but he still made sure to stop by every so often, and I couldn’t say I minded all that much.
I didn’t care much for having friends, but Ivan was one I was usually glad to have around. Maybe it was because we had an understanding I hadn’t found in most people.
Ivan appreciated the desire for little human interaction, and we respected each other’s need for solitude. Phone calls and texts were infrequent, if they happened at all, and his visits were typically limited to once a month, if that.
“He said they were waiting on the new bucket,” I explained. “It had to be back-ordered.”
Ivan stuffed his hands into his pockets and shook his head. “What a nuisance.”
“It’d probably be easier to just get a new backhoe.”
“Yeah, but you know nobody’s going to spring for that until the old piece of junk kicks the bucket.” He snorted and glanced my way with a lopsided grin. “Get it?”
I reluctantly lifted one side of my mouth in a tight-lipped smile. “Sometimes, you have jokes.”
“Wouldn’t kill you to smile every now and then, Chuck. Might be exactly what the doctor ordered.”
Ivan limped along toward the house. While I normally moved at a brisker pace, I never walked faster than he did. He never commented on it, but I knew he must have noticed because every so often, he’d try to pick up speed, only to wince and slow down again.
“Take it easy, old timer,” I’d tease, never mind that he was only eight years my senior, and he’d roll his eyes and mutter something about getting off his lawn.
But today, he didn’t bother moving faster than he was comfortable as we moseyed along to the cottage. Maybe it was the weather—delightfully cloudy and always two seconds away from raining—or maybe it was the company.
For me, surprisingly, it was both.
Ivan’s visit today had caught me off guard, but it’d scratched half of that insistent itch to feel some semblance of companionship. I hoped it would be enough to refill my proverbial bucket before his next visit.
“I’m getting married,” Ivan blurted out, completely unprompted.
I tucked my hair behind my ear as I glanced at him, startled by the news. “Why did I think you were single?”
“I was until a month ago,” he explained, a whimsical smile on his face.
I widened my eyes, taken aback. “And you’re getting married ?”
“Kid, I’m forty-six years old. At the rate I’m going, I have far more years behind me than ahead of me. I met Lyla at a bookstore, and we … oh, I just don’t know, Chuck. I always thought that whole love at first sight thing was a farce, invented by the same people who believed in Valentine’s Day—”
“Because it is,” I interjected, laughing incredulously.
“No,” he argued lightly, shaking his head and keeping his eyes on the ground as we turned up the path. “It’s not. You’d understand if it happened to you.”
“Well, listen”—I pulled my keys out and unlocked the door to a place we’d both called home at one point or another—“if you’re happy, I’m happy for you.”
“Oh, I’m happy.”
“Then, I guess I’m happy too.”
I hung my keys beside the door and pulled off my jacket, just in time to catch the dubious look in Ivan’s eyes. It was enough to furrow my brow as I hung my jacket up on the coat rack.
“What’s that look for?”
“Well, no offense, Chuck, but I don’t know that happy is the word I’d use to describe you.”
A noise akin to a growl rose in my throat. “Ivan. Seriously. You know I hate it when you call me Chuck.”
Ivan ignored the complaint—he usually did—as he pulled off his black-framed glasses and used the hem of his shirt to buff them clean. “I’ve known you for years, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you crack a real smile.”
There was no reason to honor that statement with a reply. So, instead, I asked, “Coffee?”
“One cup. I have to skedaddle in a few minutes. Need to hurry home and cook dinner for my lady love.”
Lady love? I released a huff that sounded more begrudged than intended on my way to the kitchen.
It wasn’t that I was particularly against the idea of love or romance in regard to other people. I was accepting of the happiness others found in their lives, and I had witnessed my parents’ devotion to each other up until the day they died. But I couldn’t help my own miserable luck in that department—or Luke’s for that matter.
“Been drawing anything good lately?” Ivan asked as I walked into the brick-walled kitchen and opened a cabinet.
“I haven’t been drawing much, period,” I replied.
“What’s this then?”
I glanced through the open doorway into the adjacent living room to find Ivan peering down at the open sketch pad on the table between the wingback chairs.
Grabbing two mugs from the cabinet, I replied, “I did that a few months ago.”
“Well, it’s excellent,” he said. “I know I’ve said it a hundred times, but you’re very talented.”
“More like a thousand times, but thank you.” I grabbed the canister of instant coffee packets. “Decaf?”
Ivan groaned before replying, “No, but … yeah. I have to be up early tomorrow. Going to Connecticut to check out some bakeries. Lyla and I both agree that a memorable cake is an absolute necessity .”
Connecticut . My feet froze on their way to the kettle. My lungs stuttered and coughed. I wouldn’t ask. I wouldn’t demand an explanation as to why they were tasting cake in Connecticut and not Massachusetts when I was sure there were perfectly good bakeries here in Salem. But I wouldn’t draw attention to my anxiety and panic. Instead, I forced myself to think about how strange it was that Ivan was suddenly in a relationship while the ghosts of past broken hearts clawed their sharp, spectral nails up my throat.
“Maybe we should double date. Lyla has a younger—”
“Oh, no,” I interrupted, leaning my back against the counter and crossing my arms, grateful for this change in topic. “I’m thrilled for you; don’t get me wrong. But I don’t do that double-date stuff.”
“All right.” He smirked and lifted his shoulders. “I’m just saying, Lyla is quite the looker, and her sister is just as beautiful.”
The kettle whistled, and I poured the water into the two mugs. The black powder billowed in the clear water before being swallowed into darkness. The scent of strong, bitter instant coffee hung heavy in the air.
“Milk?”
My friend hummed with contemplation, then said, “No, but I’ll take some sugar if you have any.”
I took the jar of sugar down from off the fridge and carried it into the living room with Ivan’s mug and a spoon. I placed them on the end table next to the wingback chair he’d taken a seat in.
“Help yourself.”
“Thank you kindly, my good man.”
I went back to the kitchen to grab my own mug, and when I returned to the living room, Ivan had already begun sipping his coffee, then wincing and scrunching his nose.
“Oh Lord, that’s sweet as molasses,” he groused, smacking his lips and sucking his teeth. “Absolutely delightful.”
I sat in the identical wingback chair across from his and crossed one leg over the other as I leaned back. While Ivan might’ve liked his coffee to be full of enough sugar to rot his teeth from his skull, I preferred mine to bite at my tongue with the strength of its sharp, nutty flavor. So much that while it might’ve been decaffeinated, the taste alone was enough to keep me jolted awake for hours.
Whatever it took to keep the nightmares away.
For the next ten minutes, Ivan and I drank our coffee and talked about recent books we’d read. Neither of us had found anything quite worth recommending, so instead, we critiqued and nitpicked until our mugs were empty. Then, he stood with decorum and announced it was time to head home to his better half.
“I’ll give you a ride to your car,” I said, already grabbing my jacket and keys.
“You’re a gracious man, Chuck. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”
“Nobody else tells me shit, Ivan,” I muttered as I opened the door. “And nobody in my life has ever had the balls to call me Chuck.”
Not even my worst enemy.
“You gonna cry, Charlie boy?”
Where the hell did that come from?
I resisted the urge to flinch at the never forgotten, but rarely thought about nickname as Ivan reached up and patted my cheek.
“That’s because nobody else has ever loved you like I do,” he said, smiling and making his round cheeks even rounder.
***
I pulled the utility truck into the lot near the front gate, where Ivan’s car was parked. He opened the passenger door and carefully dropped himself out, wincing when his feet hit the ground.
“How’s the hip doing?” I asked, offering an empathetic grimace.
“Not great,” he replied honestly before shrugging. “But we can’t do anything about the hands we’re dealt, Chuck. All we can do is hobble our way through life and thank the man upstairs that things aren’t worse. Because they can always be worse, my friend. Always .”
For as long as I’d known him, Ivan’s attitude toward life had always been one of nonchalant realism and aggravating gratitude. He rolled with the punches and tolerated each and every one, and I guessed maybe that was another reason we got along. I might not have been as grateful, but I was skilled at simply tolerating life and trudging my way through, even when giving up entirely seemed like a far more comfortable option.
“I’ll come back soon,” Ivan promised, looking up into the truck’s cab. “I’ll bring a wedding invitation.”
The idea of attending a party of any size was enough to make the top three layers of my skin tingle with buzzing wasp-like nerves and red flags. But I forced a nod and wished my friend a good night. Then, he closed the door and limped away to his little sedan.
I waited as he got inside, making sure his hip didn’t suddenly give out on him, and offered a half-hearted wave as he drove away. Then, I lingered for a moment, looking out the gate toward the hotel across the street from the cemetery, reminding myself, as I did every now and then, that there was an entire bustling world outside of my forty acres of quiet seclusion.
A woman with long black hair came into view, her face tipped downward as she looked at her phone. She wore an outfit of all black—sweater, lug-soled boots, and the tightest jeans I’d ever seen. A black leather satchel was worn across her chest, the bag smacking rhythmically against her hip as she walked.
I couldn’t know for sure why I felt the need to watch her initially. Honestly, I felt a little like a voyeuristic creep, eyeing this beautiful woman as she walked alone just after sunset. But my gut felt the pull, felt the need to keep a watchful eye over her, and so I did. And that was when I spotted the tall, hooded man rapidly approaching her from behind.
My spine straightened as I narrowed my eyes at him, watching as he sped up. The woman quickly glanced over her shoulder, then hurried her pace, but she wasn’t fast enough. The guy grabbed her by the arm, forcibly pulled her along as she struggled, and disappeared through the row of towering rhododendrons against the hotel’s shadowed outer walls.
“Dammit,” I grumbled as my hands clenched the steering wheel, simultaneously angry that pieces of shit like this existed in the world and angry that I’d have to get out of my car because of it.
But I did without hesitation, leaving the key in the ignition as I ran through the open cemetery gate and across the street, already dialing 911 for the second time in my life and narrowly dodging an oncoming car as I spoke to the dispatcher. I gave her the address of the cemetery, told her the hotel was across the street, then hung up as I listened for the woman’s muffled pleas coming from behind the screen of bushes. I followed the sound of her voice as I slipped through the narrow crevice between the hotel’s entrance and the trees.
Then, as my eyes adjusted to the shadowy dark, I spotted them. The front of his body was pressed against the back of hers. He held one hand over her mouth while his other worked to undo his jeans—hers were already pulled halfway down her thighs. Only a sliver of pale skin was visible beneath the length of her sweater, but I prickled at the sight. Violent fury rushed through my bloodstream, hot and angry. I didn’t say a word as I made my quick approach, reached into my pocket, and pulled out the box cutter I kept on me. In one smooth, fluid motion, I released the blade and wrapped my arm around his throat, holding the box cutter’s sharpened tip just beneath his chin with my other hand.
“Holy shit!” he cried through a surprised gasp, as if he had any right to be afraid.
“Let her go,” I hissed into his ear. “Now.”
The woman screamed beneath his palm when she realized they were no longer alone, and whether that scream was out of relief or an escalation of fear, I couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter. She’d know soon enough that I wasn’t someone to be afraid of.
Her assailant didn’t move a muscle though, apart from his pathetic, fear-induced quivering. “I don’t know what you want from me, man—”
“I want you to let her go ,” I repeated, enunciating every word as the tip of the blade pressed deeper and pierced his skin.
“Shit, shit, shit.” He panicked, his breathing escalating close to hyperventilation. “Okay, okay, man. I’ll let her go.”
He removed his hand from her mouth, and she gasped, hiccuping with a sob.
I stepped backward, taking him along with me. What her sweater and dropped jeans didn’t cover was now exposed to the elements and watchful eyes. With the blade still pressed to his chin, I turned us away, giving her privacy.
“We’re not looking. Get dressed,” I ordered, trying to tamp my anger down enough to speak gently.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she chanted in a quivering whisper, and I listened as she shakily pulled up her underwear and jeans.
Sirens sounded in the near distance.
“You hear that?” I said to the man I still held by the throat, my mouth moving against his ear. “They’re coming for you.”
“Ah, fuck, man,” he wailed, and I realized he was crying. I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. “I’m on probation!”
“Then, I guess you should’ve been on your best behavior, but …” I sighed, feigning disappointment. “Oh well.”
The flashing lights approached and stopped, a cascade of red, white, and blue broken by the shadowing trees surrounding us, reminding me of one Halloween night I’d rather forget entirely while knowing I never ever would. The guy continued to cry and shiver as I held the blade to his flesh, and I listened to the sound of car doors opening.
“You gonna be a big boy and go out there yourself, or do I have to take you?”
“I-I-I'll go.”
“Well, okay. But just remember, if you run, the cops will catch you. And if they don't, then I will. I'm pretty fast.” I gave his chin a nudge with the blade, turning his head to pin his wide, frightened eyes with my glare. “Do you understand?”
His head jittered with a nod. “Y-yes.”
I released him from my hold and gave him a hefty shove forward. “Good boy. Now, go.”
He shook his arms out and began to step out from the bushes. “F-fucking psycho.”
“Hey, asshole, I wasn't the one grabbing women off the street,” I countered with a roll of my eyes, turning in the direction of the woman with the black hair, still standing against the building's shadowed exterior.
Then, I asked in a gentler tone, “Are you okay?”
The flashing lights revealed more of her face to me now, and— oh shit —I recognized her. I’d recognize her anywhere. She was that woman from Jolie Tea this afternoon, the one who'd been sitting with the tattoo artist. I'd bumped into her weeks ago, right outside of that restaurant, Village Tavern. The one with the most ethereal green eyes I’d ever seen in my life. More vibrant than every emerald and peridot unearthed from the planet’s crust.
Those eyes were wide and frightened now, like gemstones swimming in a sea of crystal tears, as she barely nodded.
“Th-thank you,” she whispered, understandably shaken as she wrapped her arms around herself to grip her elbows.
“Just doing what anyone would have done,” I muttered, retracting the box cutter’s blade and tucking it back into my pocket.
“No,” she replied, her voice breathless and hushed. “N-not everyone would’ve.”
I held her gaze for a moment. It was a statement that begged a question, and it also held a truth I knew too well. My intuitive gut tugged, and my curiosity demanded that I continue the conversation, but she had to speak with the police, and I had to get back to the utility truck, and it was better for both of us if we went our separate ways.
The adrenaline from the altercation was already wearing off, and there were my nerves again. Reminding me that pretty women and I never mixed well.
“Come on, Charlie. Give her your number.” Luke broke through the fog, and I huffed in reply.
“No,” I said to her and the voice of my faraway brother, focusing on nothing but speaking that one simple word and taking a deep breath. “I-I guess not.”
Then, I turned and slipped away, denying myself one more glance at a woman like her, too beautiful to deserve the attention of a monster like me.