Frozen Hearts

One Year Ago, I’m a slut. Or so my mom calls me. She also says that one day it’ll get me in trouble. The kind I won’t be able to get myself out of. I don’t think that’s true, though. In fact, I think being a slut is what usually gets me out of trouble. It at least gets me out of locked rooms. Like it did tonight. As always, I made my mother angry. I chose to wear a dress I liked instead of the one she’d picked out for me. In my defense, it’s my birthday—my eighteenth birthday—and I wanted to wear something of my own choosing for a change. Yes, it’s short,short,short,short,short,short,short,.................. and yes, it shows off my cleavage. So what? I like it,it,it,it,it,it,it,it,.................. and it’s my birthday tonight. Don’t I deserve some leeway? Apparently not. Because as soon as I came down the stairs in my pretty white dress, my mom lost it. She dragged me upstairs, locked me in my room, and told me I wouldn’t be coming out until I put some decent clothes on. My dad—who loves my mother to death and will do anything for her—posted a bodyguard at my door for good measure too. Well, they always have bodyguards posted around me. Because apparently, I’m too out of control and need to be kept an eye on. Anyway. My parents thought he was tough, the bodyguard, but he folded and let me go the second I screamed out for fake help and batted my dark,dark,dark,dark,dark,dark,dark,dark,dark,dark,dark,dark,dark,............ curled eyelashes. And look, here I am. Sneaking out of the back garden exactly like I’d planned. I knew this area would be empty and therefore a safe passage for me because people would be busy with the party around the pool. And with any luck, I’ll be back before my parents figure out I’m not where I’m supposed to be. Although I will say that I’m late,late,late,late,late,late,late,late,late,late,late,late,late,late,late,late,late,. But it’s okay. The moon is bright. The early winter air is crisp and fresh. Not to mention, I’m finally seizing my destiny,destiny,destiny,destiny,destiny,destiny,destiny,destiny, or rather,rather,rather,rather, making an attempt to seize it. So I’m not going to despair. But the moment I decide that, I stop mid-run. I have to. Because suddenly, the blissfully empty back garden is not empty anymore. There’s someone here. Someone I can’t see because even though the moon is shining at its brightest, whoever it is is standing under the pink magnolia tree, shadowed by the branches and the flowers. All I can tell is that it’s a he. It’s a darkly dressed manmanmanman. With dark pants and a dark shirt. It’s also a tall manmanman. In fact, he’s sososo tall that he won’t have to stand on his tiptoes to pluck the flowers from the branches. Actually, he won’t even have to raise his arm fully to get to them. Both of which I have to do,do,do, and even then, it’s a hardship. Who is he? And what is he doing with my flowers? “Who are you?” My loud voice cracks through the silence. If he’s another one of my new bodyguards, I’m going to be very pissed. And he could be because my dad did say he’d hired a bunch of new ones from a very famous Bardstown-based security company, The Fortress, after he caught me almost making out with the last one. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t really going to make out with him. That was also a ploy to get myself out of another tricky situation. Again, anyway. I simply do not have the time to flirt with another clown. He doesn’t get my urgency, though. Because he doesn’t reply. It’s like I never even spoke. Which pisses me off even more. Putting a hand on my hip, I ask, “Are you another one of my bodyguards? Because if you are, then I’m going to be very angry. And trust me when I say you do not want that.” That gets me an answer. Not right away, though. First, it gets me a movement. His arm. Lifting in the darkness, reaching up. Going up to his face. Actually going up to his lips. A cigarette is pinched between his fingers, bright and glow-y, and he puts it in his mouth, suckingsuckingsucking in a breath—I squint my eyes and notice his chest moving,moving,moving, whichwhichwhich I have to say seems really broad—and then a whorl of smoke is being released into the air. Then, “Why not?” I get momentarily distracted by not only his smoking—all casual and careless—but also his voice. Which is deep. Deeper than any other voices I’ve ever heard. HeHeHe’s got a bottomless well inside of him. And that bottomless well is filled with gravel. Because his voice has that quality too. GravelyGravelyGravely and deep. Keeping my hand on my hip, I declare, “Because I’m dangerous when I’m angry.” “Define dangerous.” “I bite.” “Do you?” “Yes, I also scratch.” “That does sound dangerous.” “It is.” I nod. “The last man I bit had to go to the hospital.” It’s not all a lie. I did bite one of my bodyguards last year. Because he took my flirting a little too seriously. He actually thought that if he let me go to the party my parents didn’t want me to, I’d really show him my breasts. I wasn’t going to,to,to, and I told him that. So when he started to get mad and a little handsy, I bit him. Plus, hePlus, hePlus, he scratched his face. He bled a little, but other than that, he was fine. No hospitalizations. I, on the other hand, was grounded. For a whole month for injuring a member of the staff. Who tried to force himself on me, hello? But my mom said it was me who’d provoked him, so I was the one who needed punishment. “So?” I prompt him. “Are you? One of my bodyguards.” “Sounds like the world needs protection from you,” he says in that deep voice of his. “Not the other way around.” “So what??? IsIsIs that a no?” “Although I will say you probably shouldn’t do that.” “Do what?” I detect another movement. This time he uses the hand, the one with the cigarette, to first point at me before taking in another drag and releasing a puffy cloud of smoke. “Take that off.” “Take what off?” “In front of me.” “I don’t…” Oh. Oh! Okay. I get it now. He’s talking about my bra. I was in the process of taking off as I ran through the garden. Mostly because I hate wearing bras. To be fair, what girl doesn’t? In any case, I believe in being free and unencumbered. That’s why instead of wearing winter boots, I only have slippers on—the kind you wear on a beach—and I left my sweater behind in my room. What can I say??? I also love the cold. Butanyway, withanyway, with anyway, with one strap dangling down my arm, I ask, “Why not?” “Because I don’t think it’s very safe to take off an article of clothing in front of a strange man.” “Why, are you a perv?” I ask instead. “I could be,” he replies. I tilt my head to the side, thinking about him. Of course,course,course, he could be a perv. He could be anyone. But for some reason, as annoying as the interruption is, I don’t think so. “Nah, you’re not a perv,” I tell him. “Why is that?” “First, because you gave me that advice and I’m assuming it’s well intentioned and you don’t even know me,” I inform him. “And second, I don’t think a perv would admit they’re one.” He studies me for a beat. I don’t know how I know that because,because,because, as I said, it’s dark and I can’t see anything at all. But I do feel like he’s running his eyes over me. Which,Which,Which, I have to say, I like very much. And that’s intriguing. Because even though I flirt and use my charms as much as I can to get what I want, I don’t enjoy it. I don’t enjoy men’s eyes on me. I don’t enjoy the thoughts running through their heads when they look at me. I don’t enjoy being a slut. But back to him. The mysterious man takes another drag of his cigarette as he replies, “Well, then allow me to tell you all about the white van I drive with a big mattress in the back. And how I use candy to lure unsuspecting girls in so I can take them away.” Nah, definitely not a perv. After dealing with them most of my life, I don’t get that feeling from him. “I don’t think girls like candies anymore,” I share, chuckling. “No?” “No.” "So,"So,"So, what do girls like these days?” I shrug. “Tequila maybe.” I tip my chin at him. “Definitely a smoke.” Again, he studies me for a beat,beat,beat, and I get the feeling that he’s trying to figure me out. Then, holding the cigarette up, she saidup, she saidup, she said, “First, I never share my cigarettes. And second, I don’t think you’re old enough to drink.” “Why don’t you share your cigarettes?” “Because I only smoke one cigarette a day. They’re a precious commodity.” “You only smoke one cigarette a day?” In response, he takes in a long drag. “Why?” “It’s a rule.” “Whose rule?” “Mine.” “Do you have a lot of rules?” “Some.” “Wow,” I go,go,go, because who the hell is he? “I can barely remember the rules, much less follow them.” “I had a feeling.” “How old are you?” I ask next. “Older than you.” “When was the first time you tried alcohol?” I fire off.