The Water Trilogy Box Set

Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

KATE

The funny thing about humans—I’ve learned—is that if there’s one thing we excel at, it’s seeking love from those who are least likely, or willing, to give it. So, of course, it only makes perfect sense once I’ve settled back in Austin that I’ve begun my search for a husband on a very popular, well-known dating app. It is all so simple and who knew finding forever could be so easy? This app lets you find and hook up with random people in your vicinity. Just like that, with the swipe of a finger, you can have it all.

Or so I thought. I swipe through profile after profile of boys that claim to be men and the odds aren’t looking good, and still, I decide to go on. I decided to no longer be the kind of girl who waits around, and so I go on these dates anyway. You should know, I’m finished standing on the sidelines—I’m ready to play the game. But it doesn’t take long to realize that games need rules and so does the mate selection process.

It’s not that I’m a stranger to one-night stands—it’s just that most of my lovers end up dead. But even I know that’s no way to land a husband.

It’s just that by the third date in, I hate men—and I hate husband hunting. This sucks—if I can’t even get through a date or two without so much rage, then what are the odds of spending the rest of my life with someone?

I tried to be wrong about the odds of finding and landing Mr. Right. I did. But that was before I slept with my third first date, and definitely before I waited for a week by the phone for a call that never came. Do you know what waiting for the phone to ring will do to a person? It’ll make them want to murder someone—that’s what. For me, that person was him. It doesn’t help matters any that there are a million and one ways to contact a person these days, and he utilized none. For f**k’s sake, all it takes is a swipe of a finger. But then, that’s what got him into this mess. He sideswiped the wrong girl.

It’s too bad really because I sort of liked him. I honestly thought we had potential—but then I thought that about you too. Alas, it appears I was wrong, and well, you should know I’ve never been much good at that.

* * *

They say history repeats itself, and this is why I think it’s important to know the history of things. I’ve been over and over it in my mind—where I’ve gone wrong with these men—and I swear you have to be different. But then, I wonder if I am building you up in my mind—maybe I’m wrong about you. Maybe you will have to die too—although you seem like the kind of person who understands history.

My first date is a shy, wounded man who shows me his scars, both literally and figuratively, and if this isn’t enough, he spends our date talking about his ex incessantly. But it gets worse. I kid you not—he pulls up his shirt right there in that cafe and shows me the scars from his abdominoplasty. It is strange—to say the least. But people never cease to surprise me, and isn’t it a good thing to know you can still be surprised?

I guess you could say I’m coming to the realization that it’s all about silver linings—this new life—this new me. Also, I’m no stranger to plastic surgery. But I never did it for love, not really. I did it because I had to be someone else.

I want to know what he knows of love, this guy, and so I go home with him, the urge to kill bubbling within me like the expensive champagne he ordered. This urge, it spills over, it threatens to pour out of me, and it almost does. But then after drinking the last of his champagne, after listening to his steady stream of bellyaching, I see it, the silver lining.

I realize “cry baby” and I do have at least one thing in common. We both know what it’s like to want to be something different. Something other than what we are. This is how I know I can’t kill him—even though I want to—if for nothing else to soothe my urge, but mostly, for wasting an hour and a half of my life with his whining. Then something weird happens—something weirder than him raising his shirt and showing me his surgery scars in the middle of a restaurant. I feel something I haven’t felt before. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t picture it in my head. I can’t see myself killing him. I can’t imagine how I might do it—and usually, I can see it. Maybe it’s the champagne, maybe it’s this new life, but suddenly, here I am like a man trying in vain to get it up. All I see are his scars, the pain he endured. I consider the price he paid, and I don’t just mean the 20K he spent (yes, he was annoying enough to throw out the number) and I just can’t picture taking all that away. He needs to own it, to own his pain, and I think he is.

This must be why I can’t bring myself to use the roofies or why I can’t pull my knife, even though it’s there taunting me. Instead, all I can think about is how, from here on out, he’ll always be the guy so afraid of his scars that he has to show them off on the first date. As though he is so unworthy of love, he might as well get it out of the way. He tells me it was all worth it, both the money and the pain, in order to be a better version of himself, and there is something about the way he lays it all out there—like a confession on Sunday—that tells me he isn’t the one. Not one worth killing and not one worth a second date. So I give him a pardon. He deserves it because, this guy, he understands transformation. He understands what it takes. And maybe, I’m realizing, I do too.

* * *

Date number two is short and meek and not at all what I was expecting. Not at all like the guy he portrayed in the photo. He’s portly, a good decade older than his profile picture let on, and a recent divorcee who makes it clear by the time our coffees arrive that he wants someone to grow old with. He reeks of romance and good intentions—although he hardly makes eye contact and speaks only of his dog. He is weird and far too easy—not at all my type, and maybe I am very bad at picking dates.

I realize this, and I call it early. I come home and think of you, and I bet you aren’t bad at dating. I bet you’re very good. In fact, you’re probably out with someone right now, and you’re probably not thinking of me at all. The thought of it makes me want to kill someone just for the hell of it. But I’m trying to be a good girl, and so I go to the freezer and dig into a pint of Ben and Jerry’s instead.

* * *

Date number three—now—he is the kind worth killing. This one makes no qualms about the fact that he was only looking for a good time. He confirms the suspicion that I am indeed bad at love. Also, I mess up, and I sleep with him. I mistakenly think s*x will soothe the urge to kill—but in this case, it only makes it worse.

The s*x is good, he had a great ass, and even though afterward, I lie there thinking of you, I figure with an ass like that he can certainly serve as a temporary distraction. I figure he could be my ‘in the meantime.’

Until he doesn’t call. Until he uses me and turns me out like I’m nothing more than a two dollar w***e.

Until it’s time to do something about it, and I have to admit, the plotting—the imagining—it helps.

* * *

I’ve been running for so long now, I’m not sure I know how to stop. The world isn’t safe for a girl like me. That’s what my father always said, and it’s the irony of this I consider as I simultaneously listen to the footsteps behind me as they hit the pavement, and I do my best to study the rhythm of them as one by one they match mine. Judging the weight by the thud with which they hit the ground, I know without a doubt they belong to a man.

Why this man is following me, I’m not quite sure. I think of you for a moment, and I wonder if it could be, but then why would you find me here, and why like this? In any case, why doesn’t exactly matter at 2:38 in the morning when you’re in a dark, dank, empty—aside from the two of you—alley. In this case, why becomes irrelevant, because whatever the reason, you know it certainly can’t be anything good.

This is nice, I think, as I tighten my grip around the base of the knife. I steady my breath, and as I run the coolness of the blade across my fingertip, I audibly exhale. On my next inhale, I mentally prepare myself for what comes next, and then I slow my pace and wait.

I listen as he slows too and switches up his pace. But with each step forward, I sense him there, lurking in the shadows not far behind, just as I was trying to do, and the thought of him watching excites me.

I can feel he’s holding back while I’m ready to get on with it, and so I stop abruptly and turn—only there’s no one there. At least, not that I can see.

But he’s there. I can feel him.

For a second, I’m angry, and I imagine taking my blade and shoving it into his hesitant little neck, twisting slightly on the way in. Because whoever he is—he’s rudely interrupting my plans, and he’s being sloppy about it to boot. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be following me—I’m not here to kill him—this blade has someone else’s name written on it—someone who had already spun himself too far into my web to break loose now. And, in roughly seven minutes and eighteen seconds, that someone is due to come walking down this alley as he does every Thursday in the early hours of the morning. And damn it if this asshole and his ill intent aren’t throwing a wrench in everything and forcing my hand in a way I never wanted it to go.

Taking a step backward, I search the corners where the light from the streetlamp almost touches. Still, I see nothing. But he’s there. I know it.

Carefully, I begin to turn. I figure if he won’t come to me, then I’ll go to him, and this is when I feel him closing in. I firmly adjust the base of the knife in my palm, strengthening my grip, and suddenly, his hands are on me. With one hand clasped against my mouth, the other around my neck, he’s dragging me backward.

This isn’t how this was supposed to go, I think, and I buck against him using my bodyweight before attempting to ram my foot into his shin. Only, he’s quick, and he dodges it, and I’m not making any headway at getting free. Instinctively, I bring my knife around my body where I plan to plunge it into the arm that’s draped around my neck. But then he releases my mouth and deftly takes the knife from my hand as something inaudible escapes my lips. Not quite a scream, not quite a growl, and I can’t lose this fight—I won’t. We are dancing, and he is leading, and I don’t like to be led, and this is how I know it’s time for a change of tune.

I decide then I’ll let him think he’s getting his way. It’ll be his penance as I make him beg for his life while killing him slowly. The thought of redemption is thrilling, so I smile and go limp, and in turn, he proceeds as I had expected when he spins me around and pins me backward against the wall. The cool brick feels nice against my skin. I feel everything, and it warms me from the inside out—from the moonless sky to the absence of breath in the air, I feel it all. I feel the radio silence of this night all the way to my bones. The darkness is chilling, and I feel that too, but I’m not fighting him. Instead, I work within his swift movements, attempting to get a look at his face, but he’s wearing a mask and doesn’t stay still long enough for me to make anything out. So I’ll just have to focus his attention.

“Whatever you want, take it,” I say to him, and I know he has to die.

He hesitates then as though he’s unsure of what should happen next, and in his misstep, I bring my knee up hard into his groin. He takes it surprisingly well, not completely doubling over as they usually do. How unexpected, I think, and this is when I’m interrupted by laughter. Thankfully, not his. I turn my head in the direction of the sound, and if I squint hard enough, I’m certain I can faintly make out the outline of a group of people heading our way.

“Damn it,” I spit and he is on me again. Pinned against the weight of his body, I realize I’m useless until he decides to make another move. Only he doesn’t. Instead, ever so gently—gently enough that it makes it awkward, he takes a strand of my hair between his fingers and threads it through, letting it fall back to my shoulder, watching all the while as it does. Then he leans in close, close enough I can’t see his eyes, even though I try. I’m just about to make my move—but we are having a moment—when he takes my ponytail and grips it hard, twisting it around his fist. In the light that filters through the shadow, I can see he’s shaking his head.

“Not tonight,” he croons, and his voice is low and rough. Sexy.

My eyes burn from trying so hard to focus, and my throat is closed and too dry to speak—when he releases me, and backs away gradually. I’m not ready to give up. I want a fight, I’m prepared for a fight, but instead, he’s telling me to go—or else he’ll kill me. He opens his jacket, and he brandishes a handgun, and there’s a small part of me that believes him, so I turn and run. Not because I’m afraid—but because running is what I know and because I’ve come too far to stop now.

After I’ve rounded the nearest corner, I double over, and after a futile attempt to catch my breath, I turn back and see my attacker is conversing with the men. They’re closer now than before, and although I can’t hear what is being said, I can make out that my target is among the mix.

Waiting for their little powwow to end, I hang around for a second, although I might’ve waited forever, and before I know it, the men continue on in my direction. I want to follow the plan, I want to ask for directions, and then pull a stab and run, but instead, I watch as ‘Mr. Not Tonight’ slips back into the shadows, and I do the same, knowing he’s watching, knowing it’s too risky, and hating that he’s right—that I won’t get my kill tonight.

As I retreat toward the confines of my car, I watch my back, feeling hopeful for more, and as the warm air brushes against the cool sweaty skin I want to crawl out of, I’m annoyed that it’s come to this. The night air shouldn’t feel this temperate because this night is ruined forever. There’s no hope, no getting it back, no making it right, and now that I’ve given in, even the weather seems to be taunting me, teaching me a lesson on perfection, showing me all the ways I’m lacking. I watch as late-night partygoers disperse into the darkness. They’re happier than they have the right to be, and I’m irritated by their indifference. Life isn’t fair, and it isn’t just because I’ve come up empty-handed. More so because I’m afraid it will be a long time before I’ll understand why the stranger in the dark did what he did—and what it was he meant by his words.

But I need to.

I have to.

The good news is—it isn’t over.

I know because he could’ve killed me if he’d wanted to.

And here I am. Still alive.

Dying to tell you.

* * *