Tom_Sawyer108 is now online.
wolfgirl23: hey
Tom_Sawyer108: hey is for horses, girly. How are u?
wolfgirl23: I'm great, you?
Tom_Sawyer108: bought that shoe brand you recommended. Now my heels feel fantastic when I chase after criminals (I think my partner has plans to steal them right off my feet)
wolfgirl23: YAY! I'm glad I gave good advice for once :)
Tom_Sawyer108: U still having trouble with that one girl?
wolfgirl23: Yeah, but I have a parent teacher conference with her father next week. That should be fun.
Tom_Sawyer108: I'll be rooting for you
My most recent letter from home sits open on the kitchen counter. In the photo they included, my father, sisters, and brother smile at me from the front of our Kentucky home. My eyes reluctantly travel to my mother, and I instantly regret it. Everything back home seems to have remained the same, which only serves to highlight how much my move halfway across the country has changed me.
I stare at the picture of my family and drum my fingers against the kitchen counter, thinking up the words I want to ask. I type my question into the IM box on my laptop but quickly erase it.
Tom_Sawyer108: U still there kiddo?
wolfgirl23: Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you hadn't made one specific life decision?
Tom_Sawyer108: I try not to dwell on the past. Whatever happened, happened. Nothing you can do to change that. You're not homesick again, are u?
wolfgirl23: a little
Tom_Sawyer108: not thinking bad thoughts?
wolfgirl23: no no I'm fine, just homesick
Tom_Sawyer108: sure?
wolfgirl23: promise
Tom_Sawyer108: whatever happened to that teacher friend of yours? You haven't mentioned him in a while
wolfgirl23: my neighbor?
Tom_Sawyer108: sweater vest guy
I laugh into the open air, piercing the silence and waking Brandon. He pads over to my chair and plops down at my feet.
wolfgirl23: You know those old dogs who just lie there and let obnoxious newborn puppies jump all over them and chew up their stuff because they're so old they honestly don't care anymore? Pretty sure my neighbor is that dog.
Tom_Sawyer108: he told you you're obnoxious?!
wolfgirl23: no
Tom_Sawyer108: usually if someone finds another person obnoxious, they avoid them at all costs, not constantly invite them on dinner dates
wolfgirl23: we're not dating
Tom_Sawyer108: I think you might want to tell him that
I lean back in my seat, face warming. Are Ben and I dating? I don't even know at this point. It's been almost seven months since I first moved in next door and met the Linus's. We eat dinner every night together, but I think that's just because he has a problem saying no.
If I were talking to anybody else, I wouldn't have the guts to admit it, but for as many years as Tom_Sawyer108 and I have been chatting online, I still don't even know his actual name. I may feel close to him, but in the end all he amounts to is a guy who claims to be a cop somewhere in California. My secret is safe with him.
wolfgirl23: I really like him. I don't know what to do. Advice?
Tom_Sawyer108: have you told him?
wolfgirl23: I don't know how. We work at the same school, and I live right next door! What if he's just hanging out with me because he feels bad for me? I don't think I'd be able to bounce back from humiliation like that.
Tom_Sawyer108: Don't discredit yourself. Remember what we talked about.
wolfgirl23: do you think I should tell him?
Tom_Sawyer108: Your call. How about this: If you can think of 10 things you like about him, tell him.
wolfgirl23: 10 things?
Tom_Sawyer108: its not really all that many
wolfgirl23: Okay. He's really polite and funny and kind and he likes my dog
Tom_Sawyer108: you're counting that?
wolfgirl23: hell yeah! my dog is crazy
Tom_Sawyer108: fair enough
wolfgirl23: He's smart, thoughtful, he can cook, he has nice eyes, idk. Now I can't think.
Tom_Sawyer108: you can't think of 2 more?
wolfgirl23: He makes me feel calm. Does that even make sense? He has a really smooth voice. Like I can actually feel my anxiety lessen when we're around each other, and he makes me happy. Also, I think I secretly like sweater vests.
Tom_Sawyer108: tell him
Nervous anticipation pools in my gut as I type "I don't know if this goes against your code of conduct, but I could never express in words what your friendship means to me. I owe you my life. Now that I'm in California, do you want to meet in person?" into the message box without pressing send. It's a question I've wanted to ask him since we first met in a suicide prevention chatroom a week after my thirteenth birthday. He talked me out of some really stupid ideas, claiming to be an off-duty cop assigned to helping teens choose life over death, and we've kept in touch ever since. I don't know if Tom_Sawyer108 is actually a cop, but whoever has been typing to me these past seven years has helped me cope with what happened to my mother, and I want to meet them to thank them in person. Taking a deep, deep breath, I gather my courage and push send.
I flinch in my seat as Brandon lets out a sharp bark of warning and bolts towards a mouse scurrying across the kitchen floor. "No, Brandon!" I yell. "Leave it alone!" I chase after the two of them. Brandon corners the panting fluff ball in the corner of the bathroom. Scooping up the frightened mouse in a cup, I make my way back to the kitchen in search of a container to keep him in until I can figure out where to drop him off. I don't have the heart to kill him, but I don't want him getting back into my kitchen, either.
My doorbell rings, and Brandon loses his mind again.
Ben smiles when I open the door. "You've made a new friend."
"What?" I look down at the cup. "Oh! Yeah, poor little guy. Brandon chased him all over the house."
"I thought I'd bring this over." Ben hands me the arm-length Christmas tree I purchased yesterday on a whim. "You better take it before my father grows anymore attached and I'm forced to buy one of our own."
I laugh at the truth behind his words. I have absolutely no doubt Mr. Linus has pestered Ben to buy a tree, even though they have no practical use for one. "Come in." I wave a hand towards the kitchen area where we always conduct business. "I'll just put this in my room and we can get started on Principal Reynolds stupid survey project."
The tree fits perfectly on the little table seated under my bedroom window. I bought it while carpooling to the store with Ben yesterday, and I accidently forgot it in his trunk. It was an overpriced rip-off, but I'm glad I bought it. I won't be able to visit my family this year for Christmas, and I needed some kind of pick-me-up this holiday season.
Ben and his father have invited me to spend Christmas with them, and I've already wrapped both of their gifts. After a particularly lengthy chat with Tom_Sawyer108, I settled on the perfect homemade presents for the both of them.
I suck in a mortified breath as I remember the subject of my recent chat with Tom_Sawyer108. Ben is in the kitchen. My laptop is in the kitchen.
I never closed my laptop.
The Island, Present Day
I gently stroke her clammy forehead with the back of my fingers, but whatever nightmare she's having is too powerful for my comfort to have any effect. Her eyes shift rapidly under her closed eyelids. Her temple pulses. Every once in a while she violently flops her head to one side, wincing.
"Is she gonna be okay?"
I know she means well, but its still an aggravating question—one I don't know the answer to. "That's a little too broad of a question, Jane."
Jane leans in closer, shifts her legs, and blinks groggily.
"You should sleep," I suggest.
Her eyes immediately dart to Jack standing near the campfire. "I can't sleep with that thing watching me. You sleep. You're the one who has to help carry her."
"Jane's right," Jack interjects over the crackling of the flames. "You should get some sleep, Ben. We've got a long journey ahead of us tomorrow."
"No," Cora mumbles miserably, shivering despite the heat. I pull her further into my lap, but she still does not wake up.
I run a hand up and down her arms, trying anything and everything to break her out of this coma. "What did you inject her with?" I ask Jack.
"Caffeine." He looks up and smiles. "Don't worry about her. It's not a lethal dose."
Jane sits up and snorts with contempt. "If you gave her caffeine, why is she asleep?"
"You don't know much about your mother, do you, Jane?" Jack lets out an amused hum and nods towards where Richard sits secluded from the rest of us. "You should ask your father."
"Don't talk to me about my family," Jane sneers. "Don't you ever talk to me about my family, you son of a bitch."
"If you're not going to sleep," Jack continues, "you might as well learn about your heritage. Your mother lived a very eventful life. Isn't that right, Richard?"
I stare Richard down, willing him to look at me, as if his eyes alone will explain why the hell my best friend and trusted advisor had a child with my wife. But Richard is lost in his own little world, worrying his hair with shaking hands and mumbling Spanish to himself.
Jane takes notice of her father's state and scoots over to him.
I continue to run my hands up and down Cora's arms in a desperate attempt to soothe her dreams, and that's when I notice them peeking out from under the long sleeves of her tunic—raised pink scars, too many to count, snaking all the way up both her arms.
Jack tosses another log onto the fire. "Do you want to know how she got those scars?"
I know what happened to her arms. They were scared like this when I was a child. She went crazy. She hurt people. Hurt herself.
"Those aren't self inflicted," Jack explains.
I look up sharply. "Excuse me?"
Jack sidesteps Sayid and takes a seat beside me in the dirt. I clutch Cora tighter. "You're right about aspects of her life. She was crazy, for a time. She killed a lot of people. But those wounds were not a product of her insanity. Rather," he pauses, "her insanity was a product of those scars."
I don't want to listen to anything this imposter has to say, but on the other hand, Richard doesn't seem willing to offer up much of an explanation anytime soon, and like he said, Jane doesn't know anything about her mother.
Jack takes my silence as an invitation to continue. "Tell me, Ben. How much do you actually know about the Dharma Initiative?"
Oh, God. Oh, no, no, no, no!
I scramble out of my bedroom, back to the kitchen. Ben has seated himself at the kitchen counter, dangerously close to my open laptop. For a brief moment, I surge with an overwhelming hopefulness that his respect for privacy outweighed his curiosity.
I flush with pure horror when he looks up and announces, "You have a new message."
Without even checking to see what Tom_Sawyer108 has posted, I slam the laptop closed and stare intently at the company logo etched on the front. Blood rushes to my face with a searing shame and all-encompassing mortification. If the world decided to open up wide and swallow me whole, I would gladly oblige.
"Aren't you going to check the message?" he questions. "I can wait."
I don't trust myself to speak.
Brandon notices my distress and hurries over to lick my hand. His comforting gesture helps break me out of my stupor, and I take a reluctant seat next to Ben.
Ben sits silently for a long while before finally clearing his throat and shifting ever so slightly to face me. "At the risk of sounding inappropriately invasive, may I offer some friendly advice?"
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I nod instead.
"I don't think . . ." Ben trails off before grasping onto words. "How well do you know the person on that chat message?"
I've found my voice at last. "Huh?"
"It's just . . . I don't think it's wise to meet people in person that you chat with online."
I blink at him. This is so far from where I thought the conversation would go that I don't know how to formulate a response.
"That's how young women go missing all the time," Ben continues. "I heard about it on the news."
A nervous chuckle escapes me. "Oh, well, I mean, we've been chatting online for . . . seven years? And he's never so much as asked my real name. Swears he's a cop and not a child molester." I roll my eyes and laugh nervously again. "I'm not holding my breath."
Ben frowns. "And you plan on meeting this person?"
Now I'm embarrassed for a completely different reason. I feel like I'm being scolded. "Well . . . yeah."
"How did you two meet?"
I look away, heart racing at the flood of memories leading up to that fateful day. "I don't want to talk about it."
Ben leans his face against his propped up hand. "That's not very reassuring."
"This is none of your business," I snap defensively. Then I notice the family photo and letter from home laid out in front of him on the counter, and I snatch them both up, hastily shoving them back into the envelope.
I've startled him. "Cora—"
"If you're so worried, maybe you should come with me," I say sarcastically.
"Maybe I should."
"I was joking, Ben."
"I wasn't," he says sternly, without so much as a hint of humor. "If you're honestly set on meeting this person, whoever they are, I would feel much better about the situation if you would allow me to come with you. We could pretend not to know each other. I could sit nearby until we know for sure this person isn't an immediate threat."
This whole situation is making me uncomfortable, but I don't know how to reject his offer. Ben looks so dead-set on making sure I don't go alone that I'm a little afraid of not taking him with me. "Okay," I agree, drawing out the word.
Relaxing, Ben sighs. "I'm sorry, Cora. That was rude of me. I don't mean to pry into your life." He reaches up and takes one of my hands in his own. "I just don't want anything bad to happen to you. Especially something I could have helped prevent. I wouldn't be able to handle that."
I look down at our clasped hands and my conversation with Tom_Sawyer108 echoes through my thoughts: tell him.
The Island, Present Day
"Shh, Jane, I think she's waking up."
A man's face hovers over me in the crisp morning sun. I twitch awake, my nightmares resurfacing, and I push out of the man's embrace. "Get away!" I scream, but my scream of fear quickly turns into a scream of pain. "My ankle," I shriek, "what the hell did you do to my ankle?!"
"Good morning, Cora." A tilting Jack walks sideways into view with arms overflowing with papayas. "I was hoping you'd be up by this hour. Hungry?"
Inflammation has made it near impossible for me to move my ankle at all, not that I want to. Red, purple, and black mix together in a dark rainbow of bruises and swelling.
I feel dizzy and sick. I don't know where I am. I don't know what is happening. I don't know why my head is caving in on itself, ears ringing with a deafening shrill. I don't know who this is, or why I'm here, or if I'm in danger, although a voice in the back of my mind tells me I am. So many voices. So many different voices all fighting to be heard.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
"Cora?"
Familiar. The voice is familiar, although it has been such a long time since I've heard it that I can't be completely certain it is real. I risk opening my eyes to check, and they focus on the smiling figure kneeling next to me. I blurt out, "Who the hell are you?"
Ben's smile falters. "What?"
"What's going on?" I look around the camp for some shred of sanity to settle my mind. Despite being guarded by a small group of about armed six men, the only one I recognize is Sayid. "Where am I?"
"Here," Jack offers me a water bottle. "You'll want to hydrate your system. It will help settle your confusion."
The man they claim is Ben reaches out to touch my face, and I growl at him, kicking wildly with my one good leg and snapping my teeth in warning.
"I wouldn't touch her just yet, Benjamin," Jack warns. "The effects of the caffeine are still flowing through her veins."
Benjamin? No. That doesn't make any sense. I'm in 1975. Benjamin is 12. None of this makes any sense. My head is pounding, pounding, pounding . . .
"That's what Richard is for," Jack explains. "Time to make yourself useful, Ricardo."
A bird shrills a song on a tree branch above me, and my blood runs cold. I cannot understand what it is saying. It continues to sing, and I concentrate on trying to decipher the different pitches in the chirps. Nothing.
My hands find my hair, pulling, raking through my—hair? I scrunch my nose in confusion at the lack of hair sifting through my fingers. Probing fingers grab aimlessly at the shortened strands, each no longer than the length of my hand. My hair is gone.
"Richard?" I ask him when Jack forces him to sit beside me. "I don't understand what's happening."
"You haven't figured it out?" Richard's wide, red-rimed eyes focus on me. Seeing me has awoken a spark, shattered a layer of apathy inside him, and he reaches out, grabbing me roughly by the shoulders. "Cora, don't you see?" he pants desperately. "We're all in Hell."
"I'll have the egg salad sandwich on wheat, please."
"Sure thing, hun." The waitress scribbles down my order on a small yellow pad. "Anything to drink?"
"Coffee, please."
She nods. "Coming right up."
I rub my sweaty palms on my pant legs and try not to stare sidelong at the booth Cora designated as her meeting spot. I took a seat at the other side of the diner on one of the many unoccupied bar stools facing the open kitchen. Each time the door to the diner opens, my head shoots up, alert, as I scrutinize the visitor.
A small, selfish part of me hopes this strange person doesn't show up at all, and I feel horrible for it. For whatever reason, Cora has her heart set on meeting them, whoever they are. She would be shattered if after all this time, the stranger stood her up.
The waitress returns with my coffee, and I've just barely taken a sip before a man saunters in who instantly sets himself apart from the crowd. He's not an elderly gentleman here out of habit, or a family man treating his kids to an afterschool meal. He's a young man, maybe early thirties, blonde, handsome. There's a cocky, self-assured gait to his step as he saunters in through the door, and my heart slowly sinks in my chest when he begins to look around.
Cora quickly slides out of the booth when she sees him, and the two exchange their first words. Words that I, unfortunately, am too far away to hear. I watch as the man holds out a hand in offering, but Cora rejects it, opting instead to embrace him tightly around the middle.
"Hey, buddy. Is there a problem?"
I blink and turn to the man seated at the stool beside me. I hadn't even noticed his arrival. "What?"
"You've been glaring at my partner over there since he got here. Something wrong?"
"You know that man?" I wag a thumb at the cop seated across from Cora.
"He's my boss."
"Is he a police officer?"
"We both are." He holds out a hand to shake. "Officer Straume."
"If you don't mind, may I see your badge, Officer?"
"Call me Miles. I'm off duty."
"Alright, Miles, may I see your badge?"
Miles rips open a pink packet of sweetener and taps it into his coffee. "You have a problem with cops?"
"That young woman over there?" I gesture again to the booth. "I'm here to make sure the man she met online isn't a mass murderer or a rapist here to drug her drink."
Miles sits up straighter, interested. "You her father?"
"Father?" I exclaim in surprise. "No, I'm . . . I'm her neighbor."
Miles takes a sip of coffee while he studies me. After placing his cup back down, completely missing the coaster, he wags a finger. "Oh, shit!" Miles laughs. "You're sweater vest guy?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Ah, sorry," he stutters, returning to his coffee. "Never mind. Here's my badge. See? Not a rapist. Well," he pauses, "actually this badge doesn't prove that, but believe me when I say I am not a rapist. Funny story, actually. Officer Ford asked me to come along with him for the same reasons. I think he was mostly afraid of being catfished by a really old chick posing as a troubled teen, you know?"
Troubled teen? Cora mentioned they met about seven years ago, but she didn't mention specifics. "You know their story?" I inquire. "Where exactly did they meet?"
"Sorry, sweater vest—I mean . . . wait, what's your actual name?"
I'm not sure how insulted I'm supposed to be that a complete stranger keeps addressing me by a clothing item. "Benjamin," I say slowly, suspicious.
"Well, Ben, I'm not at liberty to disclose that information. That'd be breaking all sorts of confidentiality laws." Miles takes another sip of coffee and starts trying to stack all of the individual servings of jelly and butter from the baskets that hold the menus. "If you want to know, you'll have to ask her yourself."
Cora didn't seem too interested in sharing her story the last time I tried to ask, which makes me worried for two reasons. How horrible must the site have been for her not to want to share, and if she doesn't feel comfortable sharing that information with me, what does that say about the nature of our relationship?
Officer Ford throws his head back with a laugh and smiles at Cora with such warmth it makes my stomach sick.
How in the world am I supposed to compete with that?
Hydration has worked miracles. My ears have stopped ringing, my migraine has significantly lessoned, and I can remember basic facts, like how I lost my hair, or that Jack—or, rather, this thing masquerading as him, since Ben recently explained to me that the actual Jack was killed back on the mainland—is not to be trusted.
The downside is, I remember more than I would like to.
Seeing Benjamin has unearthed too much. I can't look him in the eye, despite his persistence to engage me in conversation. My responses are limited to one or two words each, and to my everlasting shame, I mostly feign confusion so I won't have to confront him.
"Where are you taking us?" Jane asks.
"On a little detour," Jack answers. "Won't take long. There's someone I need to have a talk with."
I hobble along as best I can with Ben's help. I sling an arm over his shoulder and use his body as a crutch to keep from putting too much pressure on my shattered ankle. By midday, I'm worried that I know where we're going. I wait until Jack calls for our group to make camp before consulting Ben. "I think he's taking us to the Barracks," I whisper.
"Why?"
"I don't know why, but I used to take this path all the time when I traveled back and forth between camps, before—" I flinch at the sharp cry of something unidentifiable off in the distance. Every muscle in my body tightens, straining acutely in an effort to comprehend what is being said. I hear the noise again, but it is meaningless to me now. Is this what it's been like for everyone else? Hearing strange noises and never being able to discern what is innocent chatter and what posses a genuine threat? I'm no longer tired, and my wide eyes scan the trees in the hopes that even though I cannot understand what is being said, maybe I can see what exactly is shouting.
"What is it?" Ben asks.
I don't see anything. "I don't know."
"What do they want?"
I shake my head. "I don't know."
"Please tell me what's going on," Ben pleads, his voice low. "I don't understand what's going on."
"You're asking the wrong person. My memory isn't a very reliable source. I'm not even positive I remember exactly who you are," I admit miserably. "But I'll try my best. What do you want to know?"
Ben's lips quickly part, but he changes his mind before he asks anything. Instead, they press together tightly as he stews over what question to ask first. I watch as a man with a rife strapped across his back throws a bundle of kindling on the pit he's designated as the campfire.
"Ben," I whisper urgently, ashamed that I've only just thought of it. "Where is David?"
"Jack let him leave."
"What?"
"Back at the Temple," he says, "he cut him loose and let him leave."
"I want you and Jane and Richard to run for the beach. I think I can take this guy out. Should be enough of a distraction for—"
"We can't leave," he replies.
"Please don't start that I can't leave you behind shit. Jack needs me alive. He doesn't need any of you three alive, so I want you to—"
"Cora," Ben interrupts. "He made it very clear that if any of us were to escape, he would find us, bring one of us before you, and end our life to keep you in line."
In the days following my release from the Hydra Station laboratories, my arms would sting with an intense itch that could never be scratched. That itch has returned for the first time in almost a year. I seek to silence the screaming by raking my dirty fingernails up and down the insides of my arms. You don't have a name. You are 33. Talk to the fox. Oh, we're sorry. We killed the fox. Look what you've done. Just look at the mess you've made.
"Shhh, it's okay. You're alright." I've somehow ended up wrapped in an embrace, and the only thing keeping me from breaking bones to free myself is the scent of the person holding me.
I'm at the Temple. Christmas carols waft in from the courtyard. I remember saying, "In a completely non-creepy sense, Ben . . . you smell really good."
He turned and smiled at me. "You once told me I smell like an advertisement for masculinity."
I inhale sharply.
"What is it?"
The memories start coming faster—a nursery rhyme joke, a quiet picnic on a field of grass, a fight that ending in his fractured arm. One after another they pile high until my brain pulsates and expands and the pressure is going to kill me.
"You're crying," Ben states with worry. "Is it your ankle?"
"No." I shift myself, pulling away only far enough so I can see his ocean eyes. More tears trail down my face, but I counter them with a smile and reach out to touch his cheek, fingers brushing against rough stubble. "I remember you."
"Who spit in your bean curd?" my father jabs.
I place the stack of expensive porcelain plates I'd purchased for this very occasion down with a little too much force, and my father winces.
"Really, Ben," he continues. "What's wrong? I've never seen you like this."
"Nothings wrong."
"Oh, God," he moans. "Did you and Cora have a fight?"
I retreat to the kitchen for silverware, but my father wheels himself in right behind me. "No, we didn't have a fight."
"It was that man," he muses. "Wasn't it? She went to meet this guy, and they hit it off, right? I'm right, aren't I?"
I sift through the kitchen drawers in search of the special occasion silverware. "It was only a matter of time before something like this happened," I mumble.
"Don't tell me you're giving up."
I slam the drawer closed and round on him. "Yes, I'm giving up, and I'd really appreciate if you'd stay out of my business for once. I happen to be filled with nothing but unadulterated elation that she's found herself someone younger and more important than me!" I lower my voice, struggling to keep my composure. "I have never asked you for anything, but I am asking you here and now . . . do not speak to her unless it is about the food or her hair or some trivial holiday matter. Can you, just for once, do this for me?"
I expect my father to react with disdain or confusion. I don't expect him to look genuinely saddened at my childish outburst. "You love her."
I don't answer, but I don't need to. Cora's knock saves me from explanation. "Please, dad," I beg on my way out of the kitchen. "Just drop it."
I open the door and am promptly assaulted by a handful of confetti and a loud party whistle. "Happy birthday!" Cora exclaims with a one-armed hug.
I fake a smile at the dish balanced in her free hand. "I said I would cook this time."
"I know," she says sheepishly, "but I couldn't resist. I made a cake."
"What kind?" my father questions, thankfully accepting my request involving inquiries.
"Fruit cake," she replies slyly. "And I made sure to include extra prunes just for you."
"You better be lying."
"Of course I'm lying!" Laughing, Cora pulls off the lid and uncovers an iced chocolate cake. "I remembered how much you hate icing, so I made sure not to ice half of it, just for you, Mr. Linus."
"You're too good to me, sweetheart." My father pats her hand, smiling. "Ben, you haven't wished her a happy birthday yet."
"Haven't I?" I pull out a seat for her to sit down. "I'm sorry. Happy birthday."
I watch as Cora's excited smile slowly deflates. "Is something wrong? You seem sad."
"Tired," I answer. "I'm sorry if I seem like a downer."
"Well," she announces with a bright smile, "you won't be glum when I tell you what I'm getting you for your birthday."
My face scrunches in confusion. "You've already given me my gift. It's under the picture of a Christmas tree I taped to the wall in the living room."
Cora laughs. "No, that's your Christmas present. I don't adhere to the abominable tradition of only gifting people with December birthdays one gift. I had a lot of cheesy relatives that pulled that crap on me as a child, and it drove me nuts. My brother and sister's have spring birthdays, and they all got separate birthday and Christmas presents. It's a total scam," she huffs.
"Well, good," I say. "Because I also got you separate gifts."
"Let's eat first," Roger begs. "I'm starving."
I try to keep a cheery nature for Cora's sake. Not that she's ever been gloomy before, but tonight she is particularly animated and bright. The knowledge that I'm not the reason she's so cheerful surprisingly stings harder than I'd ever admit aloud.
"You sure are cheerful," my father observes between bites of mashed potatoes. "Something you'd like to share?"
Dammit, old man.
Cora chews a bite of casserole and clasps her hands. "Okay, so there's this guy I've been talking with online for about seven years, and we just met last week for the first time face-to-face. It turns out he's exactly who he said he was. How often does that happen? I must be the luckiest girl in the history of the internet!"
I lock eyes with my father just as he says, "Well, how about that."
"Speaking of James," Cora continues.
"James?" I spit out, dropping my fork.
"Officer Ford," says Cora.
"Right."
I wait for her to continue, but when I look up, she seems upset. "I, um . . . he invited me to this big fancy Christmas party. It's being hosted by the Widmore company. You know, the one that manufactures—well, nevermind. It's going to be this grand party, and the band Driveshaft will be there, and there's supposed to be forty world-renowned chefs cooking six course meals."
I smile kindly. "It sounds like you two will have fun."
Cora fidgets nervously. "Oh, well, I'm going to ask if he can get another ticket for you. Wouldn't that be fun? It will give you a reason to wear that tuxedo you said has been gathering dust in your closet."
The last thing on earth I want to do is spend hours stuck at a dinner party where I'll be forced to watch Cora make googly eyes at Officer Ford, so my manners and etiquette take a shameful backseat to this new jealous monster building up inside me. I glance up from my food, look her right in the eyes, and say, "No, thank you."
My stomach hits the floor and I pale with embarrassment. I don't know what I've done wrong.
"Oh, would you look at the time," Roger announces uncomfortably. "I have to . . . go take my medicine. That's in my bedroom. On the other side of the house."
Ben doesn't even watch him wheel out of the dining room and down the hallway. Our eyes are locked on each other, and no matter how much I'd like to look away, I cannot.
"Have I done something wrong?" I whisper.
Ben's expression softens, and he sighs. "Cora, I'm sorry. If you want to go to this party, I would be happy to accompany you."
"No you wouldn't," I whimper.
Do not cry. Are you serious? Get ahold of yourself. Just pick up your stuff and leave. You've obviously worn out your welcome and were too preoccupied with your stupid crush to notice just how annoyed with you he's become. Officer Ford was wrong. Ben has allowed this friendship to continue for as long as it has because he's polite, but everyone has their breaking point. Leave now, before you cry. You can cry when you get home.
"I should leave," I say and reach for my purse.
What am I doing? I have been, for lack of a better word, a complete asshole to her since she arrived. It doesn't matter how jealous I am, Cora doesn't deserve this! Oh, God, I've made her tear up. What is wrong with me? "Please," I beg, shooting up from my seat. "Please, wait. Cora, I never meant to insult you, I just didn't want to ruin your date."
Her head shoots up at this. "Date?"
"I wouldn't want to be a third wheel."
"Third wheel?" Something dawns on her, and her expression lightens into a small smile. She coughs a brief laugh. "Is that what this is? Do you think I'm dating Officer Ford?"
Well, I did. Now I don't know what I think.
"Ben, I don't . . . Ben, my relationship with James is . . . complicated. But believe me when I say it is anything but romantic."
I watch several emotions wash over his unguarded face. "But, I thought—"
I shake my head. "I see him more as an older brother, if anything. Completely platonic."
"Oh." Ben's cheeks pinken before he reaches up and rubs his eyes. "I'm afraid I've made a fool of myself, haven't I?"
Is that what all this is about? Has he been jealous of James? And if he is jealous, does that mean he's interested in me the same way I'm interested in him? Officer Ford suggested I tell him how I feel, but I can't do that. I can't do that until he knows the real me. "Ben, if I tell you something . . . will you promise not to think less of me?"
Ben looks up from his hands. "Of course not."
As so I tell him everything. I tell him all about how ungrateful I was as a child. How angry I was at my mother for not being able to take me to a middle school science club meeting. I yelled at her in the car, blamed her for spending so much time and money on my brother and sister's hobbies and never paying me any attention. I yelled at her so loudly and spitefully that she turned in her seat to try and console me. It was my fault we hit an oncoming car. It's my fault my mother was paralyzed from the waist down.
"She never hurt a fly in her life, and I was the one who walked away without a scratch." I fill my lungs with a deep breath to steady my nerves. "There was no room in myself for anything but guilt. I stopped caring about school. Stopped caring about friendships. I disgusted myself."
I can't read what Ben thinks. He silently waits for me to continue.
"That's when I—" I pause again. "I, um, I started to have suicidal thoughts, and it scared me, so I went online to one of those cheesy websites they tell you about in school, and there was this chatroom for at-risk teens. The first person to talk to me was Officer Ford."
"I see," Ben answers softly. "And you're . . . you're not—" Ben flounders for the word.
"No, Ben," I admit happily. "I am definitely not suicidal anymore. I have a lot to live for."
His whole body relaxes.
"Ben?" I ask nervously. "You've been acting kind of angry about Officer Ford."
He shakes his head. "I know. I apologize for my complete lack of propriety."
"What I mean to ask is—" Even as the words leave my mouth, already too late to take back, my palms begin to sweat. "—are you jealous of him?"
It's so rare that I stun him speechless that I never know what to do in the instance that I manage it. "I admit that I was a little defensive," he says. "I felt like he was swooping down out of nowhere and taking you away."
Unfortunately, I begin to babble at the speed of light to defend myself and fill the awkward silence. "I've never been the cause of jealousy before. It's very flattering." Ben looks towards the hallway, and I laugh. "Do you think your father's coming back?"
"I doubt it."
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, and then I have an idea. "Would you like to dance with me?"
Ben walks over to a small stereo on a table in the corner of the room and tunes it into the local Christmas station. With one hand resting on my hip and another laced through my fingers, we begin dancing to "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree".
Each song makes my heart beat faster. We're so close to one another, it's like a dream. The song switches to "Silent Night" and our steps slow to a lazy sway. I cannot look away from his eyes. "Ben, I need to tell you something before I chicken out again."
He stares down at me, all smiles. "Yes?"
"I really like you," I blurt out. "I've liked you for a long time, and I was wondering if you would go to the Christmas party as my date."
That's two times in one night I've rendered him speechless.
I look away. "I knew I shouldn't have said anything."
"I would be honored to."
"You would?" I question with surprise.
"I'd be a fool not to," he says. "You're a very desirable young woman." While I try not to slam into him from a sudden decline in motor skills, Ben asks, "Did you ever mention me to Officer Ford?"
I will my face to stop burning. "I might have."
"You didn't happen to refer to me as sweater vest guy, did you?"
"You read my IM messages?"
Ben laughs and leads us both around the living room. "No, of course not. I ran into Officer Ford's partner, Miles, when we were at the diner. He kept calling me sweater vest guy. I assumed it was due to your correspondence with his boss."
"Yeah, the program is really big about names and confidentiality. It was the only thing I could think of in a pinch."
Ben smirks. "I'm glad to know I wasn't associated with any of my more negative qualities. You have a whole array of interesting ways you could have described me, like beak nose or bug eyes or Harry Potter, as one student so lovingly called me the other day."
I laugh so hard I inadvertently rest my face against his chest and lean into him. "James is really big about promoting a healthy self image. That was one of the major exercises he'd have me do when we chatted. I had to think of ten things I liked about myself and change them every time we chatted."
Ben's eyebrows shoot up. "Only ten?"
"We started with one. We've only recently made it to ten." I shake my head, embarrassed. "I have a hard time coming up with positive descriptions of myself."
"Well," Ben says slowly, "Let's see. You're kind and considerate, gentle, patient." Ben takes a step forward, dancing us both to the back of the living room, and I'm cocooned in a soft cloud of his cologne. "Thoughtful, intelligent, ambitious," he continues, leaning in closer with each spoken word, "charitable, compassionate, courageous, creative, trustworthy, eloquent, friendly, funny." We've stopped dancing. A hand reaches up, and his fingers brush lightly against my cheek before falling back to his side. "Beautiful beyond comprehension, you always smell of flowers—"
"That's more than ten," I whisper.
I think I may have finally lost my mind, which is saying a lot. I've spent the past twenty years of my life pining after a principal position that was unjustly given to the highest bidder instead of the person who cares the most about the students. I've gone through life a complacent little cog in the giant school system machine, and somewhere along the way, I started to believe that I was as insignificant as the mouth-breathers I'm tasked with babysitting in detention. That is what I've become—a loser, a nobody, and certainly not delusional enough to believe I might actually stand a chance with someone like Cora when the world is full of men like Officer Ford.
But she just openly admitted that she has feelings for me. I don't know why, and I don't doubt she'll change her mind once she realizes her mistake, but for now I'm content with accepting this odd streak of good luck.
Nothing has ever looked as beautiful as she does in the soft glow of the Christmas lights my father insisted I hang. Each crystalline bulb shines a glimmering star in her eyes, and it takes all my willpower not to cup her face with my hands.
"I could keep going if you'd like," I offer. And I could. On and on like a babbling idiot, but something above the doorway has caught her eye.
I follow her line of sight to discover the small branch of mistletoe I tacked to the arched overhang that separates the kitchen from the living room. It was a holiday habit birthed in the years after I was hired at the high school, back when I was still relatively hopeful I'd find a mate. Never in a million years did I suspect I'd find myself in a position to actually use it, and now we're standing right under it.
"That's a joke," I explain in a rush. "I put it up every year to—well, I mean, it was . . . it was a—" You're ruining it. You're ruining everything. "What I mean is, we don't have to—"
Cora silences me with her lips, and I have never been so happy to be interrupted.
