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  Gordon was the quintessential jock from every high school movie I’d ever watched and rolled my eyes at – always the first to make fun of the nonconformists who refused to bow down to his clique of followers. If there’d been lockers at college, he would’ve been the one stuffing freshman into them.

  He also seemed to have a problem with rejection. After our drunken hookup, I’d fled the scene as quickly as possible. Though he’d tried to contact me numerous times since, I’d always turned down his offers for a repeat performance. Four impossibly long minutes of a sweaty behemoth grunting on top of me had been enough Gordon to last a lifetime, thank you very much. There wasn’t enough tequila in the world to convince me otherwise.

  “Aren’t you gonna give me a proper hello?” He said, lips pursed in a seductive expression I’m sure he’d practiced in the mirror.

  “Hello, Gordon. Goodbye, Gordon,” I said, spinning around to face a wide-eyed Lexi and my table. I heard the band launch into their first song, a Bon Iver cover I loved.

  “Not so fast, Brooklyn.” His hands wrapped around my upper arms tighter this time, with enough force that I knew I’d likely have twin bruises tomorrow. He gradually increased the pressure as he pulled me back against his chest once more, causing my eyes to water in pain. Lexi, recognizing that this situation was more than I could handle, hopped off her stool and made a beeline for the door, no doubt in search of Billy the bouncer.

  “Let go of me, asshole,” I demanded through clenched teeth. My arms were aching and my breaths were getting shallow. I didn’t like to be casually touched by anyone unless I was in control of the situation, and this was far more than I could handle.

  “Brooklyn,” he whispered, his mouth in my ear and his rapid breathing hot against my neck. He was excited by this, by hurting me; he was sicker than I’d originally given him credit for. “Why can’t you be nice to me, baby? You were so nice last spring. Don’t you remember?” He shifted suddenly, and I could feel his erection pressing against my lower back.

  I looked desperately for Lexi, but didn’t see her anywhere among the crowd. Everyone else in my vicinity seemed conveniently occupied – either too intoxicated, scared, or self-absorbed to get involved. Finn’s voice filled the air around me, singing lyrics about running home and former lovers. I tried to focus on it but all the sounds from the club were quickly dimming. Everything seemed somehow distant now, blurred around the edges. Gordon continued to whisper to me, but it was no longer his voice I heard in my ear. It was another voice, a voice I’d tried to forget for fourteen years.

  I’ll fuckin’ kill her. Don’t you fuckin’ come any closer or she’s dead.

  A gun pressed against my temple. A grip so tight I couldn't breathe. Blood, so much blood. Yelling police officers. Wailing sirens.

  Put down your fuckin’ guns or she’s dead.

  I couldn't get a breath into my lungs. Gordon was still talking, but I was long past hearing. My eyes squeezed shut as I tried to make it all go away. Distantly, I thought I heard the abrupt sound of the music cutting off, but I wasn’t sure of anything at that point. My head was spinning from a lack of oxygen.

  Then, as suddenly as it had taken hold, Gordon’s grip was simply gone. I crumpled to the floor and didn’t even attempt to stand up this time, knowing I was out of commission. Hearing the unmistakable sound of fists meeting flesh, I lifted my head enough to see Finn straddling Gordon, repeatedly punching his face.

  “Don’t you ever fucking lay your hands on her again.” Finn snarled. Gone was his normally playful grin; he was feral, his brutality fully unleashed on the writhing linebacker beneath him. Though Gordon was bigger by at least thirty pounds, Finn was clearly faster and more skilled.

  “You hear me, fucker? If you so much as think about talking to her again, I swear it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

  Gordon moaned in response, unable to form words.

  Abruptly, Finn stopped raining down punches and the rage cleared from his face. He leapt off Gordon, who didn’t look like he’d be getting to his feet anytime soon, and was at my side faster than I’d have thought possible.

  His arms hooked beneath my knees and around my shoulders as he scooped me into his arms, not unlike he’d done the first day we met. I immediately turned my head into his shoulder, blocking out the rest of the world as he carried me out of the club.

  When we reached a truck in the parking lot, he opened the door and climbed up onto the front bench seat without ever loosening his hold on me. When the door shut behind us, he continued to cradle me in his arms, his mouth pressed into my hair. It was silent except for his occasionally murmurs.

  “You’re okay, Bee. You’re okay. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

  I was still hyperventilating. With conscious effort I tried to slow my breathing.

  “That’s good, Bee. You’re alright now.”

  My hands were fisted in his t-shirt in a death-grip and I was shaking with repressed sobs. I wouldn’t cry. If I cried now I might never stop.

  Time passed – it could have been minutes or hours. Finn didn’t seem like he was in any hurry to leave; he didn’t push me, or tell me to stop crying, as any other boy would have. He simply held me and let me breathe.

  Eventually, I stopped shivering and felt the panic dissipating from my system. My voice was nearly unrecognizable when I tried to speak, a cracking, shaky whisper that surely belonged to someone else.

  “What…” I cleared my throat before trying again. “What happened?”

  “You had a panic attack,” Finn said simply, as if that explained everything.

  “But…you were on stage?” My voice was unsure, seeking clarification.

  “I saw that asshole gripping your arms and then I saw your face. I had to get him off you.”

  “So you just leapt off the stage mid-song?” I said incredulously, my voice sounding more like my normal self. “Jeeze, do you have a flair for the dramatic or what?”

  “You must be feeling better if you’re back to insulting me already,” Finn said. I could hear the smile in his voice and felt the tension drain from his arms.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, not sure what else to say.

  “Don’t thank me. Believe me, it was a pleasure to hit him. That guy is a total tool.”

  Silence descended once more. I could’ve – should’ve – moved out of his embrace, but I didn’t. I felt safe here, cocooned in this warm pair of arms, somehow far removed from everything that had just happened. It was a good feeling – one I couldn't remember experiencing since I was a little girl.

  I didn’t want to break the silence between us, but I felt I owed him an explanation of sorts. With anyone else, I would have brushed off what had happened, but Finn would see through any lie I spun. I was better off saving my breath and telling him at least a semblance of the truth.

  I forced myself to move out of his embrace and sat on the seat beside him. Making sure no parts of our bodies were touching, I turned to face him. If his eyes had held any pity, I might have simply climbed out of the truck and walked away, but they were carefully guarded against any visible emotions. I took a deep breath and began.

  “I’m sorry if you’re looking for some sort of explanation. I can’t really give one to you.” I swallowed nervously. “He grabbed me too tightly, and sometimes that triggers my panic attacks. I don’t like strangers touching me. I can’t handle being confined in a grip like that. That’s it.” I looked at him, waiting for some kind of reaction. “Thank you for helping me,” I added, almost as an afterthought.

  He was quiet for a long time.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “That’s it?” I asked. “No questions? No demands that I explain?”

  “Brooklyn, you’re not the kind of person who reveals anything she isn’t ready to. So I’ll wait. As long as it takes, I’ll wait. Because when you’re ready, you’ll tell me.” He sounded so confident, as if it were inevitable that I’d one day lay my soul bare to him.

&nbs
p; “You might have to wait a long time,” I said doubtfully. “You might be waiting forever.”

  He shrugged, as if the prospect didn’t bother him. “I’ve already been waiting my whole life.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, my eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  He just smiled a sad sort of smile, ignoring my question as he turned to put the key in the ignition. The engine flared to life and we began rolling out of the parking lot.

  “What about Lexi?”

  “She’s with Ty. Don’t worry.”

  “And your set?”

  “There’ll be other shows,” he shrugged.

  With anyone else I might have demanded to know where we were going, but all my fight was used up. I was exhausted, emotionally drained and ready for this hellish day to finally be over.

  “My mother died fourteen years ago, today.” Was that my voice, saying that? Out loud? To Finn, of all people? I was losing it.

  He looked over at me, surprised. Of course he was. After all, hadn’t I just told him that I didn’t do explanations? That he’d have to wait forever?

  “Death sucks,” he said. “It never really gets easier. People say bullshit clichés like ‘time heals all wounds’ to comfort themselves. But anyone who’s experienced real grief knows that it never goes away – you just get better at lying to yourself, at covering up the signs, at faking normal.”

  He spoke from experience; he’d lost someone too. It was comforting, in a twisted way, to know that there was someone who’d felt the loss I did and was still standing. I wasn’t alone in my ceaseless battle with grief.

  I didn’t say anything else as he drove me home – I don’t think he expected me to. When we pulled up outside my house, I hesitated before reaching for the door handle.

  “Whose truck is this?” I asked, realizing that since we weren’t on his motorcycle, we must be in someone else’s car.

  “It’s mine, actually. I use it when the weather’s bad or when I have to move the band’s gear before gigs.”

  “Oh,” I said, wondering how a college boy could afford not only a motorcycle but a relatively new truck as well. “Well, it’s nice.”

  “Thanks. Hey Brooklyn?”

  “What?”

  “Just for the record, we’re officially friends now. Once you get into a fistfight for someone, there’s no going back.”

  I smiled. “Figures, you’d want something in return. I suppose chivalry really is dead after all,” I said teasingly. “I’ve never had a male friend before.”

  At my words, a strange expression flashed across his face, but it was gone too quickly for me to process. His grin was back, and I almost thought I’d imagined the dark look.

  “Well, I don’t exactly do the female friendship thing myself, so it’ll be new for both of us,” he said.

  I hopped out of the truck and turned around to say goodbye, but Finn was already jumping down from the driver’s seat. Coming around the truck, he grabbed my hand and towed me to the stairs leading up to my apartment.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, rolling my eyes. “You don’t have to walk me to the door.”

  “As your friend, it’s my duty to get you home safely. Its also my duty to point out that you are the most stubborn, pigheaded girl I know.”

  “Thanks, friend.”

  “Anytime.”

  We reached the top of the stairs, and I unlocked the door. Turning to face Finn one last time, I did something that surprised even myself.

  Standing on my tiptoes – a feat, I might add, in stilettos – I twined my arms around his neck and tucked my face into the hollow of his throat. His chin came to rest on the top of my head as his arms wrapped around my waist. Standing this way, we were like two puzzle pieces rejoined. A perfect fit.

  A content sigh slipped from my lips as he held me. Friends hugged, right? This wasn’t crossing any boundaries. This feeling of utter security, of safety, was a perfectly normal reaction to a friend. But, a small voice in the back of my head nagged, even on the rare occasions that Lexi and I had hugged, I’d never felt this way. Crap.

  “Thanks again,” I whispered, slowly lowering my feet and unwinding my arms from his neck. I turned quickly to the door, not wanting to look into his eyes – afraid of what I might see there. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Bee.” I heard him say quietly, as I closed the door between us. I watched him walk down the stairs, climb into his truck and drive away. My legs weakened and I slowly slid down to the floor, bracing my back against the door and curling into a ball. A glance at the illuminated microwave clock informed me that it was 12:03 AM.

  The anniversary was finally over. What a day.

  Chapter Seven

  Bad Jokes

  I pressed my fingertips into the black leather upholstery and tried to ground myself. It was a nice chair, expensive – the kind I imagined might litter the office of a wealthy businessman like my father. It surprised me, this chair.

  Most shrinks I’d visited in the past had offices designed to inspire feelings of comfort and an idyllic home life. They’d been stuffed with bookshelves, packed with knickknacks, and always had a conveniently placed box of tissues within reach. I’m not sure who decided that ‘troubled youths’ like myself would prefer such an environment; if anything, it was a slap in the face, reminding me in no uncertain terms that my father’s modern, uncluttered mansion would never be anything like a home.

  Psychiatrists – at least those I’d had the misfortune of knowing – didn’t typically go for the modern look; it was too clinical, too sterile to foster any false sense of camaraderie. So far, by her furniture selections alone, Dr. Joan Angelini had surpassed my expectations and was flying in the face of convention. Then again, nothing about this situation was conventional, considering she was the first shrink I’d ever sought out voluntarily.

  For the tenth time in as many minutes I fought the urge to bolt for the door, reminding myself this torture was self-inflicted. She wasn’t some state-issued doctor, checking up on me at my father’s or the court’s behest; she was sitting there analyzing me strictly because I’d asked her to. I’d actually handed over several hundred dollars – and a small piece of my soul – and requested this torment.

  And for what? One little panic attack had me running scared.

  “Aren’t you supposed to ask me questions?” I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at the woman in front of me. She was in her late forties and stylishly dressed, her blonde hair coiffed in an elegant chignon and her blouse pressed to perfection.

  “Is there something in particular you want me to ask you?” she replied with practiced indifference, unruffled by my irritable nature.

  “Well, I’m not paying you to stare at me for sixty minutes.”

  “Brooklyn, you sought me out. Why? What made you decide to come here?”

  “I had a panic attack last night.”

  “Okay, that’s nothing to be too concerned about. Nearly everyone experiences a panic attack at one point or another. Was this your first one?”

  “No.” I took a deep breath, and prepared to unload fourteen years worth of pent up dysfunction on this woman. I just hoped she could handle it – it was her job, after all. “I’ve been having them sporadically since I witnessed my mother’s murder at age six. The drug-addict who killed her took her keys and drove off. Apparently he was so high he didn’t realize there was a little kid in the backseat.”

  I watched Dr. Angelini’s eyes widen – not even shrinks could hide every emotion – and the flurry of her pen assured me she was documenting each detail. I kept my voice impassive as I offered her the facts – and nothing more.

  “I hit him in the face and he let go of the wheel. We crashed. He grabbed me and used me as a human shield during a shoot-out with the police, but I don’t remember much of that. I think he held me so tight I passed out. I remember losing a lot of blood and not being able to breathe, though.”

  “What triggered
the panic attack last night?” she asked.

  “Some asshole in a bar grabbed me from behind and lifted me off the ground,” I said, absently rubbing the bruises hidden beneath the sleeves of my jacket. “I couldn't breathe. I heard sirens and his voice in my head.”

  “His?”

  “Ernie Skinner. The guy who killed my mom.”

  “So you’re saying the attack triggered a memory?”

  “I think so,” I shrugged. “I’ve never really tried to remember much about that time in my life. In fact, I’ve done everything in my power to avoid it.”

  “And now?”

  I looked her in the eye. “Now, I think I want to remember.”

  Dr. Angelini smiled for the first time since I’d walked into her office.

  “That’s a start, Brooklyn.”

  ***

  I walked through the door of my apartment and tossed my keys on the kitchen island. My meeting with Dr. Angelini hadn’t been as bad as I’d been expecting – for some reason, I’d opened up to her in ways I hadn’t with any of my other shrinks. Maybe I just hadn’t been ready to talk about it before now.

  Lexi wasn’t home, which didn’t surprise me; she was spending most of her spare time at Tyler’s apartment these days. I didn't mind being alone, though. I’d learned self-sufficiency at age six.

  Walking into my bedroom, I immediately noticed two things: Finn’s unreturned leather jacket still hanging from a hook on my closet door, and a bouquet of flowers lying on my bedside table. They definitely hadn’t been there this morning when I’d left for my appointment with Dr. Angelini and, to my knowledge, Lexi hadn’t been home all day.

  I quickly crossed the room and looked at the flowers. They weren't in a vase and their only adornment was a black satin ribbon, which held bouquet together. The flowers themselves were unusual – a dozen black roses. There was no card with them, nor was there any indication as to how they had arrived in my bedroom. The hairs on my neck instantly stood on end and despite the warmth of the day, goosebumps flourished across my skin.