Imprint of Mate

Chapter 3

In movies and TV, it's always so easy; they're always so angry. I wish I could be that angry. Instead, I feel claws tearing my own heart apart because no one wants to admit they still love the person who left them battered and bruised. Nobody tells you that anger doesn't come easily, but regret does. Doubt, self-deprecation, and self-immolation make it happen. Nobody tells you what to do with the love you still feel for them.

—Understood—, she responded.

I hated being alone, but at that moment, it was all I wanted. I needed to compose myself. I couldn't suffer a breakdown in a run-down diner in the middle of nowhere in Canada.

When she returned, she placed the coffee in front of me and stood at the table, business cards looking at me from under the occasional smudged top of the plexiglass. That damn phone rang again. It could have been him screaming my name. I struggled to hold back a sob.

It would only be a few more hours, then I could lose him. Nobody wanted to see me like this, a mess of tears and embarrassing excuses, including myself.

—Are you okay?— She slid into the booth across from me.

I couldn't remember the last time someone had asked me that question and really meant it, or expected a different answer than —Fine—. Nobody really wanted to know the true answer anyway, they just wanted to be able to mark the box on their list of —I'm a good person— before heading to Starbucks for something large and unadulterated.

The last time I told someone I wasn't fine, they simply stroked my hand in the women's bathroom of that country club Jhon loved and said: —Keep your spirits up—.

It didn't matter that I had mentioned how Jhon had gotten a little too heated and hit me against the dresser, or that the bruise I showed hidden under my long skirt confirmed my story. It didn't affect her. At that moment, I remember thinking I should have kept quiet, that I would have been better off seeking advice in the —Quotes— section of Pinterest. At least the inspirational source and the frivolous decor would have distracted from the emptiness of the words. At least the quotes wouldn't have gossiped or watched me like a group of vultures waiting to tear fresh meat.

When I looked at Shirley again, I knew I was far from that country club in Malibu, and at that point, what the hell else did I have to lose? I was in the middle of Canada, far from him and far from those people.

—No—, it was much harder to say than I remembered.

She nodded slowly, her own suspicions confirmed. —Do you want to talk about it?—

My head started moving automatically, though inside I was screaming that I did. Why couldn't I just say yes?

—Okay—, she said, as if fearing her response would break even more the already broken dish in front of her. —How long ago did you leave?—

—About a week ago—, I lied. It sounded better than the truth, which was pathetic. A small part of my brain wondered if I would even make it to a full week.

She nodded. —Where is your phone?—

—In the ocean—, I admitted painfully. Although I wasn't going to admit that it didn't matter. I had a temporary phone. Eloise's number was preprogrammed only for emergencies. There was another number I dared not program, though it didn't matter. It was one I dangerously knew by heart.

—Good—. She gave a firm nod. —Leave it there. It belongs there and not in your hand—, she added, although it seemed she was referring to something more than the phone.

She stood up and began drying her hands on her worn blue apron.

—Does it ever get better?—, I asked, surprising myself.

Shirley stopped for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice had regained its softness.

—You get better—.

The cook rang the bell on the counter, calling her away from my table.

My fingers slid through my short hair as the events of the past days danced in my head in a cruel ballet, trapping me. I just wanted to be free. I wanted to feel I could breathe again, but I felt the weight of what I had done was suffocating me.

Shirley returned minutes later and left a hot plate of pancakes, with crisp bacon on the side and scrambled eggs.

—Carbohydrates help, wine helps, burning their photos helps, shooting those photos with a 12-gauge shotgun also helps—. She shrugged, her lips curving into a small smile.

—There's no right way to do this, but you'll figure it out—.

—Thank you—.

—I do what I can—, she said, and I believed her.

I took a bite and a shameful moan escaped me.

The coffee chased the carbohydrates I practically shoved into my mouth, and eventually, Shirley was filling another cup for me and observing the map I took out of my backpack.

—Oh, honey...—

I couldn't find her gaze. —I know, but I don't have a phone and needed a map—.

—Where are you heading?—

—To a cabin, a friend's brother's place—, I responded. —It's peaceful there—.

—We need to get you a better map. Do you have a phone out there?—

I felt caught, but when her eyes met mine, there was no judgment. No disdain. Something more seemed like a fire, a spark, that seemed to move something in me. —I think there's a landline. And no, I don't have one. I bought a temporary one once I crossed the border. Only in case of emergency—.

—I think Carl has a better map you can take—. She nodded towards the cook with military-short gray hair in the back. —Is that okay?— she asked, her chin indicating the stained note with the address.

I peeled off the note and handed it to her. —No, that would be great. Thanks—.

She winked at me with a hopeful smile and returned to the counter. Carl whispered something that made her laugh. It wasn't long before I finished my plate or before she returned to me. We exchanged the plate for a worn map with a coffee stain on the right edge.

I opened it and quickly found the star drawn in an area beside my note. My eyes roamed over the map, dozens of notes had been made on the area. North of the star, highlighters of different colors delineated areas that looked like no man's land.

—That's where you're heading—, Shirley told me, pointing at the star. A pink highlighter had been used to draw a path on the map from the diner to the star, hopefully i***t-proof for me.

A smile pulled at my lips. My fingers passed over the areas delineated north of the star. —What's that?—

—Private property—, she responded just as the main door bells sounded.

Four large men entered, a stiffness in them that made me shift in my seat. It didn't help that Shirley's posture changed as she watched them, her arms crossed and her eyes trying to hide a flash of fear. Their tense steps gave the impression they could explode at any moment.

—I'll get your check—, she said.

It was when she went to get my change that the golden eyes of one of the men caught mine. They were so alive, so bright. Like the sun roaring to life in the valley of death.

There was something more there too, but I was yanked from looking when another's gaze met mine. He looked at me over his shoulder as he tied his oily hair into a ponytail, his lips curling into a smile. The other men around him began to laugh softly.

Every hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Jhon wasn't here to save me.

I hated myself for that thought.

Shirley returned with my change and a takeout bag.

Her eyes diverted towards the table behind me, her lips thinning into a rigid line.

—What's this?— I asked.

—For the road—, she responded, pressing my hands over the bag. Her gaze returned to mine.

—You didn't have to do that—.

—Don't worry about that, now you need to go. I wrote our number here and put it in the bag for you, just in case of an emergency. You need to watch out for damaged roads. It happens this time of year. If you see one, don't go through it, turn around and come back here. We'll handle it—.

I wanted to respond, but I knew if I did, I would start crying. She pressed my hand before I stood up, my instinct urging me to walk faster.

—Hey, sweetie!— a cold voice called as I reached for the door handle.

My body froze in place, my head turning despite my mind screaming to run.

Golden eyes locked onto mine. A dry smile curved on his lips. The man leaned forward, his nostrils flaring, then looked at me again. —Damn, girl, you smell good—.

I yanked open the door and ran towards my car. My fingers trembled as I fumbled with the keys, glancing over my shoulder through the rearview mirror.

The men were still watching me, their eyes fixed on me.

My foot hit the accelerator, throwing gravel behind me. There was something sinister in their eyes, something that bothered me even as I put miles between me and the diner. I half-expected the golden eyes to look at me directly whenever I checked the rear-view mirror, and half-wished to see Jhon's brown eyes smiling at me instead.