5
Zara: Paypaled $750 into your account from Smiler. How R U?
Me: Thanks. I’m good. I met Blake.
Zara: I know. You left a mark.
Me: I did? He wants to teach me to shoot the gun. Is he trustworthy?
Zara: lol. About as trustworthy as a thief.
Me: I mean, am I safe alone with him?
Zara: He’s a decent guy with extra-curricular activities. It’s nice that he’s going out of his way for you. Must be love ?
Me: Piss off. lol
Zara: lol
The boy down the hall is practicing on his trombone, and even though he’s way off-key, I still find the foghorn soothing and therapeutic in a strange way. I guess it’s a reminder that there are other people close by and that most people are good, whereas evil people are few and far between.
My therapist once told me that most people are good but do bad things sometimes. I stopped going after that because I felt she was reading from a script and probably told all her clients the same thing, regardless of why they were there.
My apartment is…well, tiny, but it has everything I need. The living space is also where I sleep, with a little kitchen and bathroom, and my luxury item is a small balcony large enough for a single beach chair and two garden pots - one growing cherry tomatoes and the other a pineapple experiment. My plant biology tutor said if you buy a pineapple from the store, chop the leafy top off and place it in water. When it starts producing roots, plant it in fertile soil. It takes 2 to 3 years before it starts producing fruit, but it’ll be worth the wait.
I plant my backside in the beach chair, and my eye finds the sliver of turquoise between two tall buildings where I was earlier today. Blake the thief, and I’m smiling again. What is it about him? Mr. Super Cool, his laid-back attitude, and his devilish smile.
I pick a ripe cherry tomato and take a bite, and the juice and pips squirt all over my dark blue Pixie’s T-shirt, but I’m too consumed by the evening traffic to worry. Everyone is rushing to get home to their families and wives, husbands, and pets. In contrast, there is no one to greet me when I get home, and it’s better that way—being free of other people’s hassles and no one to dictate to me. Yep, freedom is a quiet apartment built for one with a tiny lake view.
Resting my feet on the side of the tomato pot, I place my laptop on my bare, tanned thighs and enter Micheal Lyons into the search engine. His nickname is The Lion, coined from his surname and because he relentlessly and ruthlessly gets results from his swim team. Yeah, I know that fact all too well.
The results from the search are the usual garb – his bio, accolades, his most famous prodigies, and where he resides, which is here on Torres Island, between the lake and the river.
Then, his personal information – married with two teenage children and as an automatic, psychosis response, my fingers find my arm, and before I realize it, my nails have dug into my skin, leaving a mark. Yep, scratching my skin raw is what I used to do when emotions were overwhelming. But these days, I’m aware of my unhealthy habits and retraining to do something else with my hands.
Squeezing a stress ball, drawing flowers, or digging my fingers into the soil works, but the remedy I chose today is to light a joint. Luckily, I have one only an arm”s reach away, sitting on the edge of the pineapple pot with the lighter right next to it, strategically placed there from yesterday.
I light my joint and take a deep draw, blowing out smoke away from the tomato plant since they shrivel up and die from smoke before I’m ready to continue my research on Mr. Lyons, the rapist.
Married with two teenage children. I’ll be killing a husband and father, so what do I do? Let him get away with it and try to continue with my life…or stick to my plans. In my rational mind, I justify this by telling myself that if I went through hell of a court trial and they were found guilty and imprisoned, then Mr. Lyon’s wife and kids would lose a husband and father anyway.
“It was his choice to do that. Not mine.”
I scroll through the faces of the swim team and the prodigies under The Lion. What do you know? There is the handsome face of the swimmer who threw his message to the wrong girl. Now, I wonder what that message said. I guess I’ll never know.
Cormac Bernardi. Bernardi? Where have I heard that surname before? I take another drag from my stunted joint as my body relaxes into the seat. I know my limits, and if I take a third drag, I start to feel weird and heavy in the head. So, I use my fingertips to douse the joint and place it and the lighter back on the side of the pineapple pot.
“Bernardi?” I say aloud as a lint of dried weed that escaped from the joint tickles my tongue, and I remove it with my fingers. “Bernardi.”
Then it dawns on me, and a strange sensation trembles along the skin of my stomach when the image of the handsome silver-haired detective enters my mind. “Surely not.”
Detective Gabriele Bernardi, Detective – just call me Gabe from the Sex Crimes Unit at Torres Island PD. Apparently, he was first on the scene, but I didn’t meet him until I awoke several hours later in the hospital. Going to that time and place in my mind is too hard, so I reach for the joint and light it back up again. I’d rather do something that’ll make me ill the next day than spend the night lying in bed, crying and scratching my skin until raw.
After the third drag, my head starts spinning, and I stub it out and head back inside to hunt for something fatty and substantial to stuff my face with. I swing open the fridge door while chatting to myself because there’s no one else here except my pot plants and that spider on the wall, and I will respect his personal space if he respects mine.
“Bernardi. Does that mean they’re related?” I take a swig of full-fat milk out of the bottle, but it’s not hitting the mark. “Is the silver-haired detective related to Cormac, the next best thing in men’s 200 and 500-meter freestyle?” Ignoring the half-empty bottle of Sav Blanc. “My favorite stroke. Ah, a chicken leg. Cowslick Cormac. Now Smiler has paid me, I can fill my fridge with food.”
Good high school swimmers like me went to Keele Uni to train at the elite level under Mr. Lyons. We were given special privileges and often missed class, and we didn’t care. I was in a group of four girls, and three dropped out quickly once the intense training started. I was placed in a team with university students years older than me, yet I was still faster than many older girls. So Mr. Lyons gave me special treatment, one-on-one in the small hours of the morning or very late in the evening.
But that was another life, a world away, even though it was only two years ago. I’m nineteen, almost twenty, but I feel much older. An ancient.
Mr. Lyons, the rapist’s office was always located in the Sports School on campus, but I don’t know if it’s still there. I guess there’s only one way to find out. Maybe I’ll make that my mission tomorrow between class and learning to shoot a gun.
I sit on the edge of my bed and flick the small TV on while attacking the chicken leg with my teeth. Salty fattiness and some mind-numbing sitcom show are exactly what I need right now to curb my appetite away from the joint outside on the balcony or the Sav Blanc in the fridge left there by Zara. “Damn that, Zara.”
My phone beeps, and it’s my little brother Rory sending me a pic of his pet cicada that he found and keeps in a jar, so I call him for a chat.
“Does Larry sing?” I ask Rory.
“No. He Forgets to sing,” he answers in an utterly gorgeous, sweet voice.
“Maybe it’s time to let him go to be with his family. What do you think?” I subtly suggest. Okay, I’m not subtle at all.
Ignoring my suggestion, “Are you coming home this weekend?” he asks hopefully.
“Yes, and I can’t wait to have a spin on your new bike,” I say enthusiastically.
“You’re too big,” he scoffs.
“That’s a bit rude,” I tease. “Is Mom about?”
“Nah, she’s out,” he answers, “I can’t remember where.” I sigh in relief because I avoid talking to my mom as much as possible. Not because she’s an awful person but because she’s not. She’s the best Mom in the world, and that’s why I feel so tarnished and ashamed that spending time with someone who’s so flawlessly strong makes me feel weaker.
“And Dad’s there?” I ask the obvious.
“Yeah, he’s watching the news on his iPad,” he answers, then yells at Dad that I’m on the phone.
“Nah, buddy,” I tell Rory, “I can’t talk. I’ve got company. I have to go, okay? Love you and see you this weekend.”
“Love you,” he answers, and the line cuts out.
I exhale in relief that I’ve dodged another family bullet, although I won’t be able to do that this weekend. I’d have to grin and bear it.
Me: Any ideas of what to get Dad for his birthday?
Max: Wrong number
Me: Pleeeease!!!??
Max: His fave whiskey. That Scottish brand.
Me: Great idea. Thanks, bro.
Alone again, the sound of the TV blasts into this small space in an attempt to distract me from my stupid thoughts. Half a bottle of Sav Blanc is in the fridge.
“Shut up! I don’t like wine that much and after being in the fridge for several days, it probably tastes like urine.”
However, there’s only one way to find out.