“Fuck,” he whispered.
We snap out of it. Promise, she’d whispered.
She hadn’t. She picked the wrong guys, avoided her hometown, didn’t open up about it and thus deal with the fact that she’d been molested by a serial killer before he became a serial killer and thought less of her sister who defended rapists.
He forced his body to turn and move to the backdoor. Then he let his dog in. She bounded around him as he moved through the living room.
But he didn’t move to his gym bag. He didn’t go to the gym. He didn’t go to the phone and call Dusty.
Because his ass was plain fucking stupid, he went to those fucking books.
Then he leaned his stupid ass against the back of the couch and cracked one open.
An hour and a half later, he’d long since rounded the couch, sat in it and was bent forward, elbows to his knees, the second book held open between his legs and he’d read them both.
The first was her first. He figured, from where it started, he’d broken up with Debbie and was on his way to college. This meant he was free for her imagination to soar.
And Rhonda was not wrong. She loved him. She was too young to know what to do with that love but she was not too young to know how to express it.
And it was beautiful.
But it wasn’t all about him. He skimmed through the young girl crap, studied the shit she drew so breathtakingly in corners, around words, sometimes taking both pages to draw what popped into her head. All of it, even drawn by a girl of fourteen, was better than most shit he saw on people’s walls.
Then he turned a page in the second diary and that all changed. Gone were the gel pens of many colors she wrote with and the soft multi-colored shades of the pencils she sketched with. Suddenly, all the writing and the sketches were in heavy black. There were no flowers, butterflies or portraits of loved ones. The images were dark. Monstrous. The words were heavy, morose, angry. Her relationship with her sister who consistently confronted her, sometimes cruelly, about her change deteriorated rapidly. She couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of The ‘Burg. She couldn’t wait to be “free”.
And the encounter with Denny was surprisingly detailed.
He’d got her separated from her girl pack with some lame excuse that she dropped something. He’d then engaged her in conversation. And finally, he’d manhandled her until he got her away from the crowd and to the back of the high school. All of this during a football game. She’d kept her peace because he’d threatened her viciously. And he’d got his hand up her shirt, her bra down and his hand between her legs over her jeans. She’d managed to bite him at the same time kicking his shin, got free, ran and succeeded in getting away. At that time, Lowe had to be years older than her seeing as he was older than Mike.
It had to have been terrifying.
Then again, the evidence was in his hands that it clearly was.
The description of the event was all there was. She didn’t write anything else about it. Not her feelings, not if she was coping, not if she told anyone about it. Nothing. Just the event then a lot of angst in black ink.
The last entry of the second book was a bleak, Fuck this shit. Doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Nothing ever will.
Done, Mike closed the book, bowed his head and closed his eyes.
Audrey was broken, he spent fifteen years trying to fix her and failed.
Vi, whose husband had been murdered, was also broken and he volunteered for the job but she picked another man to help her find happiness.
Denny Lowe had got Dusty against the back of high school with his hand between her legs.
His head came up, his eyes opening to stare unseeing at the blank TV.
He was not a moron. He was not a loser. He was not a psycho. He could be a dick but this occasion was rare. And he did not need a woman who was drawn to that finding out he was not that and getting quit of him when she felt the need to find that again so she could live out the bullshit Denny Lowe planted in her head that that was all she was good for.
He wanted his kids happy and well-educated. He wanted a woman in his bed who wanted to be there, who made him want to be there and who, more than occasionally, made him laugh.
He did not want more children.
He did not want to deal with a long distance relationship, missed calls, voicemails, emails and night after night of phone sex that was good but nowhere near as good as the real thing. Lives lived apart and days, weeks, months never really connecting. And at the end of all that shit, decisions could be made where he gave something time that was precious and he eventually ended up alone in his bed.
He did not want to be sitting at a Thanksgiving table next to the woman he was currently fucking and opposite a woman whose virginity he’d taken and deal with the discord that was already creating. He also didn’t want to expose his children to that shit.