3
Mom: Are you coming home for your father’s bday this weekend?
Rory: I hope you’re coming home this weekend. I can show you my new bike.
Dad: It’ll be great to see you this weekend. I hope you can make it.
Max: U better be there this weekend for the old man’s bday.
I do believe I’m being ambushed. This is Mom’s work, collaborating with everyone to encourage me to go. Of course, I hadn’t forgotten Dad’s birthday, but I was not keen to drive back home for the weekend. My car couldn’t handle the four-hour drive, which was my excuse many times, but I know I can’t miss an event as important as my father’s birthday.
I have grown distant from my parents since that day when The Four ripped me to shreds. They know that it happened, but they don’t know the worst of it, and I guess I’m shielding them from pain. If I tell them the truth, it’ll destroy them.
But they’re struggling to grasp why I call less, why I rarely visit, and why I moved to the other side of the country for two years to live with my aunt while pursuing my studies online. It didn’t make sense to them, and it never will, but I needed time to heal, yet the time away only made me bitter, festering in rage, eager to seek revenge.
My little brother, Rory, is only eight years old and doesn’t know me any other way. But Max, my older brother by two years, witnessed the dying of a once vibrant soul with many friends and always with a smile on my face to becoming someone who lost interest in everything. I stopped swim training and going out and socializing with friends, preferring to stay inside and watch movies and eat crap. I developed a strange skin condition that no one could see and was diagnosed as psychosomatic, but I thought it was real. My skin would itch so badly, particularly after I bathed, that I would scratch it raw until I bled. Frequent bathing was another issue because it didn’t matter how often I washed my body or how much soap I used; I failed to clean the fifth away. So, bathe some more and scrub hard with the body brush to no avail.
My time spent with my aunt on her ranch healed my skin condition, and I stopped bathing five times a day, but my mind was still haunted by that day. I guess my physical body and emotions adjusted to the trauma by turning numb and building resistance, thereby becoming better at dealing with it. Time does heal wounds to a certain degree until you pick the scab off to make it bleed again. At least I’m back on track now, or I pretend to be.
I lean against the corridor wall, waiting for our Sports Science tutor to arrive to open the door, and I feel someone watching me. My major is plant biology, but I’m taking a couple of science papers because I am interested in human anatomy in relation to physical performance.
I do a doubletake of the man in a white T-shirt and black sweatpants and realize he’s the swimmer who scolded me earlier at the pool. Next to him is another guy with a physique like his and two women, probably swimmers.
The tutor arrives full of apologies and unlocks the door, and I frown when I notice the swim team also filing into the auditorium. This is a popular class because our tutor, Ed Willard, is a famous ex-Olympian sprinter, and it’s as if everyone wants a piece of the magic that made him so great.
So, it’s no surprise that I hadn’t noticed the swimmer before now, even though I’ve attended this class several times. Keeping most people at arm’s length has become my safety net.
Once seated alone, I messaged my family.
Me to Mom: Yes ?
Me to Dad: Yes ?
Me to Rory: I can’t wait ?
Me to Max: Wrong number.
When I glance up, his eyes are on me. He’s seated a couple of rows in front, and as soon as our eyes meet, he lingers for a moment before turning around. The girl beside him notices his curious stare and examines me like a jealous girlfriend. Don’t worry, and I have no interest in your man. I didn’t return to Torres Island for romance, although I doubt that’s why the swimmer is looking at me. He’s likely concluded that the girl sinking to the bottom of the pool is purely mad, but hey, all the best people are.
Ruining my peace and solidarity, three students come down my row, probably because no other seats are available, and a brown-haired girl is forced to sit right next to me. I’m about to do the dutiful thing, smile, and give her a friendly hello. But her body language says it all by refusing to acknowledge me and turning her back. I check my underarms to see if I stink because I’m sure I put deodorant on after the swim. Nope, I smell like chlorine, which could be worse.
People are weird. I spend my days at uni alone because I have no interest in making friends, but it’s fascinating how girls, in particular, treat aloneness as a disease. If I prefer my own company over others, then something must be wrong with me. Well…it’s not that far from the truth. There is plenty wrong with me, but I thought I was a master in disguise.
While Ed Willard clarifies some points in our assignment, which is due in two weeks, I spend several minutes clearing my throat, coughing, sniffing, and clicking my pen aggressively to annoy the girl next to me. When she wriggles in her seat in discomfort, I smirk in satisfaction—all in a day’s work.
After reminding us what he was looking for in our assignment answers, Ed moved on to the muscular system and which muscles are prone to specific injuries. As I’m deep in concentration, listening to Ed, the swimmer roughs his hair up with his hand and then discreetly glances back at me again. This time, I shoot him the middle finger. His frown deepens, and he shakes his head in disapproval as he turns back to the front of the class again. I hope I’ve deterred his attention once and for all. Besides, has he forgotten there’s a girl right next to him who has an obvious crush on him? Men can be so blind sometimes.
I check the time on my phone because I’ll have to leave soon to meet Blake, the gun dealer, and I’m strangely nervous about it. This is new territory for me, buying an unregistered weapon on the sly from the thief who stole it. How much prison time would I get for that, excluding the murder part? I’m also imagining Blake being a dangerous type who’d shoot me if I sweat a little. No doubt I will sweat because it’s a hot day, and I’m already freaking out.
I grab my bag and reach inside for the $200 cash I withdrew from my bank account earlier. I’m paranoid that someone will steal it, so I keep checking that it’s still there because I can’t afford to take out another $200 if I lose it. I open my wallet inside my bag to find the four $50 notes and breathe again.
As soon as I closed my bag and dumped it at my feet under the desk, a screwed-up ball of paper flew out of the swimmer’s hand toward me. I’m not sure who he’s targeting, but as it soars over the row in front, it bounces off the head of a student and lands on the open book of the brown-haired girl beside me.
The swimmer signals to me to grab the paper ball, but I ignore him and turn my head to the front of the auditorium to concentrate on Ed.
I hear crackling beside me as the brown-haired girl smooths out the paper, and I flick a mischievous look at the swimmer, flaring my nostrils, enjoying every bit of his horror that the wrong girl is reading his little message. Unfortunately, due to the position the brown-haired girl is sitting in relation to me, I cannot see the expression on her face. But I can see the look on the swimmer’s face, and I have to cover my mouth to stop laughter from escaping and interrupting the class.
The swimmer turns back to face the front of the class, and I can’t help but notice the fine lines of his neck, curving down to those broad, muscular shoulders. His dark brown hair is cut short, only about an inch long, and there’s a cowslick patch of hair at the nape of his neck. I imagine what it feels like to run my fingertips over that small patch that grows in the wrong direction, then trace his lines along his smooth shoulders. I bet he smells nice, or maybe he smells like chlorine like I do.
I haven’t been near a man for two years. Or, more accurately, I haven’t let a man closer than two feet near me unless we’re related. As soon as a man starts showing interest in me, I panic and do whatever it takes to put him off. Before I was ruined by The Four, I loved sex, and even though I was single at the time, I had two regular hookups. Before I became single, I was in a loving relationship with a simple but loyal boy with whom I went to high school for two years. But now, the thought of these men touching me fills me with angst.
If I ever open my heart and soul to someone, he has to be a man who doesn’t know me. Someone who knows nothing of my past so we can start fresh with an empty canvas.
When the lecture ends, I grab my bag and flee quickly, not just to avoid the swimmer but also because I need to drive a twenty-minute journey to Rockford Park by the lake. Avoiding the swimmer”s eye when he turns back to look at me, I focus on my escape and weave through the thick horde of students.
Once out in the corridor, I start jogging toward the exit, aching to get out into the sunshine and the fresh air. My stomach is in knots about meeting the gun seller, and I’m starting to have doubts that I can kill someone. I’m not sure that I can be the one to decide his fate and when he’ll take his last breath. But then I see my enemy’s arrogant face behind my eyes and remember the bruises on my skin, and my mind is changed instantly.
It’s crucial not to get distracted by fleeting things, such as handsome men in nothing but a towel. Keep my head leveled and focused.
Study. Eat. Sleep. Kill.