Chapter 9

I've had a few moments to breathe over the weekend, so I decided to work on revisions and edits for the necromancer book again. And there's a secret, secret project I'm working on, too. But that can't be seen by the public's eye for a long time. Currently it's for Mara and Emily (the fangirls) only.

I only have Monday set up for subbing, so I might be getting a lot more of this done this week. I'd rather be working, though. I tend to get a little crazy when I'm left at home all day. I start thinking about how my life isn't the way I want it, and how crappy things have been, and how I wish I had a real, fulltime job, and how much I want to eat cake for breakfast. Come on, teachers, get sick, go out of town, take a personal day. I want to keep busy! I have a hard time relaxing.

Like today I got to sit down before 7pm. I'm the queen of leisure. And then I stay up late reading and writing. At least I have caffeinated beverages to ease the pain. In my dream world, I would stay up until 2 am, writing like J.K. Rowling. I'd hire someone to wake up early with my kids, make them breakfast, and take them to school. I would sleep until 10, go for a run, take a shower, and then write, write, write until time to pick them up from school. But this is the real world where horrible things like bills and bedtime exist.

But in the mean time, here's this thrown together chapter for you. If you haven't noticed, Cass is me. She's dealing with a crappy situation, a life she doesn't want, and is trying to be brave and make the best out of it. But mostly she complains and eats cake and wishes she was someone else. If only my life could be a little more life hers. I'd take the dead if I could have a hot Reaper and a hot mortal in my life to keep things interesting. But this is why I write, so I can have fun and do thing I would normally never do. My protagonists are always mostly me. It's how I'd react in the same situation. And they usually have forty boys in love with them, because let's face it, I would love that, too.

Chapter 9

          I stare at the brass lion knocker on Gran’s door for so long that I start to go cross-eyed. I don’t really know how I got here. I had planned on driving through Dunkin Donuts and eating away my sorrows with a dozen Boston Creams, but I bypassed the restaurant and the 5,000 unneeded calories and found myself her at Gran’s. We share property with my grandparents, but I avoid coming here like I avoid salad.  

Most grandmothers let you eat cookies for breakfast and allow you to stay up way past your bedtime. Edith Anderson is like a pretty, petite drill sergeant. I can’t face her yet. I lose my nerve after a few moments, and sit on the brick stairs and lean against a white marble lion.

            I don’t want to see my grandmother, but I know she will be able to answer a lot of questions Mom never could. Gran knows more than the rest of us because she has in her possession the last century of our family’s Grimoires of the Dead. Maybe she’ll know something about the apocalypse, too, and why the Reaper is stalking me. I have to suck up my pride and get all this information from Gran because I don’t Mom to know about my hunch that my powers extend past necromancy. Nor do I want her to know about the visions and how much I’m seeing the Reaper. Mom freaks out, always jumping to the worse possible conclusion. Like if I won the lottery, Mom would automatically assume I would be arrested for tax fraud or something. So it’s best to keep her in the dark until the last possible moment.

            But I can’t face the world’s meanest grandmother after the day I’ve had. I gaze out at Gran’s perfect yard. She has won Garden of the Year for the last three decades. I think the garden club women and weeds fear her, and I don’t blame them. She does have a team of yard men who keep the azalea and hydrangea bushes in line. She even has a tree doctor in charge of maintaining her fifty foot high live oaks.

I try to remember some good memory of my summers here that involve my grandmother. But all I can think of is Granddaddy, who would let me sneak into his bedroom and watch his tiny black and white TV and eat peanut brittle until my stomach hurt.

“Are you coming in, Cass?” It’s Mary their maid, sticking her head out the front door. “Your grandmother is in the parlor waiting for you.”

I stand and do my best to straighten out my clothes and hair, trying to look presentable, even though I know by now my hair is in unruly curls and my face is shinny with sweat. Just like my mother, Gran hates that I don’t wear makeup and frilly dresses. She thinks woman should never wear pants, but she doesn’t have to chase ghosts. Well, I guess she did once upon a time, but she’s retired now.

Gran is waiting for me in the formal living room, on a down feather filled chaise that was around when Henry the 8^th ruled England. The whole place is filled with china and antiques, making it more like a museum, a place where you’re scared to death to touch anything. I give a tentative smile to Gran as I perch myself on her soda.

Gran is dressed in a navy skirt, matching pink twin sweat set, high heels, and pearls. Her dyed brown football helmet of a hairdo is teased a little higher today, but she looks just the same as she did last summer, like a housewife from the 1950s.

“You’ve been here over a week, and failed to visit your only living grandparents, Cassandra Maria Charon,” Gran says. I cringe the sound of my full name.

“Sorry,” I say, not meaning it. I have been to the house. I came over last week to visit Granddaddy when I knew Gran had her standing appointment at the beauty parlor to set her hair. I even sneaked in candy for Granddaddy.

“Your sister has come by three times.”

“Well, she’s the saint and I’m the sinner. I also don’t attend church, whereas the perfect Jenny is a Sunday School Teacher as well as a member of the choir.”

“You, of all people, should see the importance of religion. You deal with death and evil every day. Wouldn’t you want the protection of our Lord and Savior to protect you from the things you fight against?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, I’ve got my ghost beads and bayberry tea. You see, these things are real,” I say, holding up my ghost beads and snapping the bracelet against my wrist. “Tangible. I can see and feel them. God is theatrical, and he doesn’t exist. Because if he did, I wouldn’t be stuck with this stupid life full of death. He’d keep all his dead with him, where they belong.”

“You’re missing the point of religion, Cass. You have to have faith to see it.”

“Whatever,” I say. I know my attitude doesn’t help our rocky relationship, but I can’t help it. I don’t know why, but there is something about Gran that makes me challenge and defy.  

She glares at me, and asks, “Why are you here?”

I’m done with the snarky small talk so I just remove my watch and hold up my wrist. “I met the Reaper last night.”

“Baby Girl!” Granddaddy calls from the hall.

He has on his cotton polo, dress slacks and a tattered old robe over the ensemble. I jump up, kiss him on the cheek, and slip a candy bar into his robe pocket. Behind his thick glasses, he winks at me. His hair has gotten thinner and his eyes a little more sunken in, making him look much older than the last time I saw him, but he’s still my sweet granddaddy who sat up with me when I couldn’t sleep through the night my first summer here.  

“Happy Birthday!” he says. “Did you get my birthday card?”

            “Yes, Granddaddy. Thank you for the money.” In the card, Granddaddy wrote a page of reasons why he loved me, but Gran couldn’t even bother to sign her name at the bottom. Granddaddy forged it.

“Now, I don’t want you to put that money away in the bank. You use it to buy whatever you want, something frivolous.”

            “Use is to buy a dress,” Gran says, chiming in. “Something ladylike.”

“Maybe I’ll buy some jeans and boots,” I reply, smiling at her. Last Christmas when we came to visit, she continually commented on my “manly” torn up jeans and scuffed boots. She made me so mad that I ended up wearing the same outfit the entire time I stayed with her, even though I brought a duffle bagful of clothes.

Granddaddy ignores Gran’s snide remark, and hugs me again, and says, “You’re pretty in anything you wear because of your smile.” I grin was so wide that my cheeks hurt. Granddaddy is the only person in the world who never has any criticism on the way I look. He glances at Gran. “I should get down to my office and check on my stocks. Don’t be a stranger, Baby Girl.”

The moment Granddaddy is gone, Gran yanks my arm toward her. “How is this possible?”

“What? Am I not good enough to be the Marked?” I ask, suddenly defensive of something I don’t even want.

            “I didn’t say that,” she replies. Then she sighs and rubs her thumb over the Mark, like she’s trying to wipe it away, just like I did last night. I want to pull away from her, but her touch is tender for once. “It’s going to be difficult, and you might not survive it.”

            “Sucks to be me, then,” I say.

            Her face purses up and she takes her hand from my wrist. “Don’t say sucks. It’s improper.” She stands up from the chaise and disappears down the hallway that leads to her bedroom. After a few minutes, she returns with a well-worn book in her hands. She opens it and places it I my lap.

            On the page is a sketch of a tall, thinned face man. No, a boy. A boy I recognize.

            “How do you know Reiner?”

            “How do you know his name?”

“He told me.”

“You talked to him?” she asks.

“Yeah. He keeps popping up.”

“Anyone who has ever seen him has died. I don’t understand why you’re still alive.”

“You’ve seen him, and you’re still kicking.”

“I’ve only seen him in dreams.” She tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “And I’ve seen you, too, though I didn’t realize it was you at the time.”

            “You have visions?”

            “I used to. It’s been a long time,” she replies. She looks out the large bay window that faces the creek. She doesn’t speak for so long that I think she might have forgotten I was there. “Twenty years ago, I saw a little boy who had been abducted on his way home from school.”

            “Did you save him?”

            Her face sours more than usual. “No. He died, and everyone in town blamed me, even though I told them where to find him. If they were have listened, he would be getting married and having children now, instead of rotting in a grave. Whatever you do, don’t go to the police. They’ll only find a way to turn everything against you. You won’t be able to save anyone.”

            “I’ve been having visions, too. I’ve been seeing a missing girl from school.”

            “Ignore whatever you see. Nothing you can do will save her. She’s already dead.”

            I don’t tell her I already went to the police, nor do I tell her I probably blew up some lights, but at least it made him listen to me. I stand up to go, wanting to escape. The witch questions can wait. I don’t really want to know the answers anyway. Then I remember what she said about her visions. She’d seen Reiner. And me. That I do have time to find out about.

            “In your visions, what did you see me doing?”

            “You should never know you’re future,” she replies. “It’s dangerous.”

            “Just tell me. I think I’ve already seen it anyway. I end up with the Reaper in the end, don’t I?”

            “Yes and no, but I’ve never seen clearly which side you end up on.”

            “What do you mean?” I ask. “What side would I end up on? The bad side?”

            She shrugs her bony shoulder. “I told you that I don’t know.”

            “Another part of the prophecy appeared in my Grimoire yesterday.” I quote it for her, “With the Reaper’s Mark, she will gather the dead. For in Purgatory the army will be bred. The Reaper she will love. The Reaper she will hate. The world’s balance hangs on love’s fate.”

            Her face is more sad than irritated this time. “You will help gather the dead.”

“I’ve been collecting spirits my entire life, and sending them back to the Afterworld. So that makes sense. And the army in Purgatory has to be the undead that will rise, so I suppose I put a lot of them there.”

“But do you understands what the rest means?” she asks.

            I look out the window in front of me, and for a brief moment, Reiner appears, standing in the middle of Gran’s award winning flower bed. He raises his blond eyebrows at me, like he somehow knows that we’re talking about him. Then he gives me a little wave, and disappears again. I stare at the spot he vacated, and finally understand the prophecy.

            “If I love the Reaper, the world will end. We will lose the war because of me,” I say. This revelation doesn’t surprise me. I suck at doing the right thing, and I’ve always believed being Marked would be in itself a death sentence. That must be why the Reaper is constantly at my side. He said himself that I would die soon. Death has always surrounded me. Death is my life. It would make sense that I die before I’m ready.

            “Perhaps,” Gran says. “Perhaps you will be the reason we win.”

            I laugh, thinking she’s joking, but she gives me a sobering looking, forcing the mirth right out of me. “I just have to make sure I don’t fall in love with him,” I say, but it’s more to myself than to her. I hate admitting it, even to myself, but I am drawn to him when I should hate him. The dream about us in Purgatory was so real, everything I’d ever wanted. Love, home, a purpose.

            Too bad I’d have to betray the living to get it. Too bad I’ll have to be dead.

            “Not falling in love with a Reaper shouldn’t be hard,” she says.

            She has never met him in person. She has no idea how hard it will be. “Yeah,” I say. I point down at her sketch of him. “Look at him. He’s hideous.” I shut the book and place it on the coffee table, face down, like that’ll stop me from remembering how creepy and yet attractive he is. “What else have you seen about the Reaper?”

            “He’s the Reaper of the Apocalypse, the one who releases the dead into this earth, the reason all life will be in peril.”

            “I’ll kill him,” I say. “Before he has the chance let out the dead.” I have always been a stab-the-ghost-first kind of girl, so doing away with him should be easy for me. I’ve just got to forget what I saw and felt when I was in Purgatory with him in my vision. I’ve just got to find a way to stop wanting to have him pop up out of nowhere.

            “You can’t kill a Reaper,” Gran says, frowning

“If you can’t kill a Reaper, then how am I supposed to kill Abaddon? Isn’t that the point of me being Marked?” I ask.

“There is a way to kill Abaddon, but we don’t know what it is yet. We’ve been trying to figure it out for centuries.”

“I’ll figure it out. I’ll find a way to kill him.” I’m full of fake confidence, like I’m full of denial.

Gran smiles sadly and leans over to cup my face. “Oh, Baby Girl, I’m so sorry it has to be you.” She kisses my forehead, and with tears in her eyes, she gets up and leaves the room. Stunned that she’s being so nice, I sit where I am on her antique sofa. I’m not sure how long I stay there, staring out the window, thinking of love and the Reaper and the Apocalypse. It takes Mary the Maid coming in with the vacuum to wake me from my daydreams. She offers me some sweet tea, but instead of answering, I leave without saying a word.            

After I leave Gran’s, I walk over to where I found Brittany’s purse. Maybe I can discover something there to direct me to Brittany. I know she is in the woods near the water, but the creek runs through Ravines and two other towns. So much of the area is unpopulated. Then something clicks. Blake said almost the same thing to me. The creek is no indication of where she is. 

When I reach the drainage ditch, I bend down to get a better view of the ground, running my fingers over the leaves, hoping to force a helpful visions of Brittany.

Yes, I feel her pain and fear when I see her, but nothing that would help me find her. I can’t even see the guy’s face. He could be anyone, but most likely it’s Blake. I agree with the police, he’s the most likely suspect for a reason. He had the means, the opportunity, and the motive.

From behind, I feel someone approaching. My first though is of defending myself. I reach for my iron knife. I spin around, ready to attack.

“Hey, Cass,” Blake says in his sweetest Southern accent. Then he looks down and sees the knife in my hand. He starts to back away. “Whoa. I come in peace.”
            I put the knife back into its sheath. “I thought you were a ghost,” I say. But what he is could be a whole lot worse than being a dead thing. He was the last person to see Brittany and they were fighting. Brittany knows her assailant and had an intimate relationship with him. It has to be Blake. It’s the only logical explanation.

Blake notices me studying him, and gives me a cocky smile, probably assuming I’m admiring his good looks. He moves his hand under the hem of my shirt, letting his fingers brush up my spine, it takes everything in me not to slap him. “I like that you carry a knife,” he says. “It’s kind of sexy.”

Like most men, he doesn’t take a girl seriously, but even though he outweighs me, I could take him down with little effort. “I’m not sexy. I’m dangerous.” I’m so irritated with him that he frightened me, and that he thinks he can put his hands up my shirt anytime he pleases, and that he may be Brittany’s kidnapper that I twist away from him that I pull my knife back out and position it underneath his chin, right against his windpipe.

I think you’re both,” he replies. “Being hot doesn’t discredit your strength.”

Most girls would take offense at what he said when I take it as a complement. I hide my smile, not wanting to let him distract me from what I want to know. “Did you take Brittany?” I ask, pressing the knife against his throat. He swallows, causing the blade to nick his Adam’s apple. His aqua blue eyes start to water at the pain I cause him. Realizing that he’s frightened of me, I release him. He stumbles away, rubbing his neck where I nicked him with the knife.

“You think I had something to do with this?” he asks.

Looking at Blake, most people see a handsome charmer, but I know that looks are always deceiving and you see what you want to see. I know him. I’ve known him my whole life, and while I was always a little in love with him, I knew not everything about him was as wonderful as it appeared. “You’re a liar and a cheater. Why not a kidnapper, too?”

“What are you talking about?” he demands. “I’ve never lied or cheated.”

            “You lie every day, Blake. It’s called flirting. And you cheated when you kissed me last summer when you had a girlfriend.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets, and looks down to his feet, causing his dark wavy hair to fall into his repentant eyes. “I’ve always wanted you, Cass. Brittany wasn’t and isn’t my girlfriend.”

“Just someone you slept with?” I ask.

“No. It wasn’t like that.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“Well, until you do, I’ll just assume it’s you in my visions.”

“What visions? What have you being seeing, Cass? I thought you only saw ghosts.”

“There’s more to my abilities. Brittany is close to death, so I’ve been dreaming about

her. All I know is that Brittany is dating whoever took her. I can never see his face, though.”

            “All those summers we spent together and you just assume it’s me?”

            “Yes,” I say. What can I say? I have trust issues, and it doesn’t help that Blake lied to me about him and Brittany.

“Then you don’t know me at all.”

“I guess I don’t.”

            The moment I say it, I know I’m wrong about him. He smells different than the man who has Brittany, sounds different, too. It’s not him in the visions, but someone else, someone older and scary. Blake may be a liar and a serial flirt, and he may have hurt me, but that doesn’t make him the kidnapper.

As I watch him stomp into the woods, disappearing from my sight, my heart sinks down to me knees. This isn’t how I wanted things to go at all. I should apologize, but I don’t say anything. I stare at the drainage ditch, hoping to at least see something that would help me find Brittany, or hoping that the Reaper might show up and give me some clues, but nothing happens.         I could have had a chance with Blake. He liked me. I don’t have to be a soothsayer to see that, and I ruined everything. He’ll move on to one of my dozens of other girls in Ravines who want to date him. It was too good to be true anyway. Girls like me don’t get guys like Blake. A necromancer is too busy dealing with the dead to have a real life.

Remember That Time I Wrote a Book?

Remember when I ran three miles a day and dried my hair and wore eyeliner? Remember that other time I was an author? (Yes, I'm still doing that. It's in the works, man.) And remember that other, other time when I was posting chapters of the book I was working on. Remember when I worked for no one but Maragreg and Cousin Emily? I still work super, super part time for them, writing their favorite necromancer and reaper love story. This is for them because they are my fandom, and I must take care of my fangirls. If not, they will turn on me.

And I've been having so much fun at SJCDS. I've been with the Pre-Ks for almost two weeks. They are adorable, but exhausting, much like my own Ben. I also spent last night at the Spartan's football game. I'm loving coaching cheerleading and being involved with the school. Spartans for life!

This is horrible and full of plot holes and typos, but here you go. Sorry it took me so long.

Chapter 8

 

            “I didn’t do that. I swear,” I say, holding my hands up like I’m surrendering to Sheriff Michaels. The plastic orange chairs are all knocked to their side, and glass is littered across the floor, making it look like a disco ball exploded. “Lights break on their own all the time.”  I back away from all of them, wanting run. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m scared I broke the light or if I’m scared that I didn’t. What other explanation for it could there be?

But I’m not a witch. I have no powers besides raising the dead, Right? Right?  

            With his eyebrows drawn together, the sheriff studies me for a moment. “We’ll call you if we need any other help.”

“You believe me?” I ask, because no one ever does, and here I’ve got to adults who are listening to what I have to say.

“You should go home, Cass,” Sheriff Michaels says, not answering my question. “We need to clean this up.”

            As I walk away, I hear the receptionist chime in and ask them, “You believe her?”

            Instead of exiting the police station, I head down the hall that must lead to the holding cells that are located at the back of the building. The receptionist, Mr. Moore, and Sheriff Michaels are too busy to pay any attention to me. I stop just out of their sight, hide behind a fake plastic plant, and listen to what they have to say about me.

“Yes,” Mr. Moore replies. “Remember when my wife went missing.” There’s stretch of silence, and then he adds, “My first wife, Brittany’s mother. She disappeared right after Brittany was born. Everyone just thought she went crazy and left me, but I knew it wasn’t true. No one would believe me, though. At least until Judy Charon came to see me. She is the one who spoke to her ghost and found the body. Cass has the same abilities. If Cass is seeing Brittany, it can’t be a good sign. My daughter will be dead soon if we don’t do something.”

“Blake Harrington was the last person to see her, right?” Sheriff Michaels asks.

“Yes. He came over, but she didn’t invite him in. They stayed on the porch. I could hear them arguing from inside. He raised his voice to my baby girl, so I went out there and told him to leave her alone. He left, but as he got into his car, he yelled, ‘This isn’t over, Brittany!’. Then he sped off in his BMW. I’ve never liked the kid. So smug and self-righteous.”

I wanted to leave my hiding place and high-five Mr. Moore because he was possibly the only person in Ravines that felt the same way I did about Blake.

“Get him down here for questioning right away,” Sheriff Michaels says to the receptionist. “And Call Kyle Travis over in the Jacksonville FBI unit. He is already in town for another investigation. Tell him to get over here right away. If Brittany didn’t run away, we need to find her.”

             Mr. Moore leaves and they call in a maintenance man to clean up the mess I made. I don’t want to think about the lights that I may or may not have made explode and the fact that last night, I made out with the guy who is lead suspect in a girl’s disappearance, so I duck into the ladies’ room.

I splash water on my face, and as I straighten up, Reiner appears behind me. “Damn it!” I yell, flinching at the sight of him, not only because he startles me, but because his appearance truly is unnerving.

The florescent lights wash out his complexion even more than it usually is, making his veins appear black against the alabaster of his skin. His scars are more prominent, the arch across his throat red, like its fresh. I half-expect to see blood gush from the wound at any second.

            “It’s impolite to sneak up on people,” I say. “It’s also rude to show up in the girls’ restroom when you’re so obviously a male.” I glance down to his biceps, which are encased in his tight military sweater. I look away, hoping he doesn’t notice. Oh, but he does.

            “Is that a compliment?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at me.

            “Shut up,” I mutter.

            He smirks in return. I roll my eyes and look back at myself in the mirror. “Do I look any different to you?” I ask him. It’s a dumb question since we just met. How would he know if I’d changed? I fishing to see if I suddenly look like a witch.

            “You look the same as you have in my dreams,” he replies. “The wild blond hair, green eyes who has seen more death than life, and a mouth that doesn’t smile as often as it should.”

            I roll my eyes at him. “Stop trying to flirt with me,” I say. “You don’t dream about me.”

He shrugs. “You have dreamed of me, have you not? Why cannot I see our future together also?”

“It’s not our future. It’s just dreams, nothing more.” Curious, I want to ask him what he’s seen about me.

“Do you know what your name means?” he asks.

“I was named after my mother’s high school best friend.”

He shakes his head. “Cassandra literally means prophet. You are a soothsayer.”

I laugh out loud, and it lasts so long that I sound as crazy as everyone in town thinks I am. I clear my throat, and look back to Reiner. He isn’t smiling. Instead his eyes are narrowed, like he doesn’t understand laughter.

“Reiner, if I’m such a prophetess, I’d have much better grades in Algebra. And I never would have come into this bathroom because I would have known I’d see you here, when all I want to do is avoid you.”

One corner of his pale lips turn up. 

But what if he’s right? I did see myself with him in the Afterworld, and I can still remember what his hand felt like in mine, the warmth of Purgatory’s fires, and the happiness that bloomed within me. What if these visions are the start of some unknown part of my power? Maybe I’m seeing Brittany’s future as well as my own.

“I can’t foresee the anything,” I say, not wanting to believe any of it.

“Have you seen how you will die?” he asks.

He starts toward me, but I rush out of the bathroom. All the Reaper has to do it touch me and I’m dead. Once I’m in the hall, I look back, expecting him to be right behind me, but I’m alone. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m dealing with enough. I’ve got to look up a spell to banish the Reaper from my life.

            I stop walking when I realize what I just said. A spell. What if I am what I’ve always denied? A witch. I stumble down the hall, like a drunk woman trying to find her way home. I’m not a witch. I’m not one if I say I’m not. I’m not.

            I go back out to the lobby. The glass has been cleaned up and the chairs put back where they belong. All proof of what happened is gone. See? I’m not a witch.

I’m about to leave the police station, but duck back behind the fake plant again when the

doors to the police station swing open and Blake strolls in. Despite myself and everything I’ve learned about him, my stomach still does a little flip flop when I spot him.

“I’m here to see Sheriff Michaels,” Blake says, giving the sixty year old receptionist his best smile. Her wrinkled skin turns pink at the cheeks. Then she spills her coffee when he leans unto her desk.

See. I’m not the only one who turns into an idiot when Blake is around. As he helps her clean up the mess, I duck back behind the plant, making sure he can’t see me when he straightens up.

If Blake and I make eye contact, I’m afraid I might punch him in one of his sultry green eyes. I don’t think assaulting someone while in a police station would be a good idea.

Before Blake can sit in the waiting area, a plain-clothes detective leads comes out to greet him.

“I’m Special Agent Travis,” he says, holding out his hand for Blake to shake. Dressed in a cheap navy suit, the FBI agent’s young age is apparent. He’s maybe ten years older than me, much too young to be taking on a case like this.

Travis shows Blake into the room, so I emerge from my hiding place behind the tree. Since the receptionist is reading a bodice-ripping romance novel and paying no attention to me, I step up to the interrogation room, and lean against the door, hold my breath, and since the city of Ravines didn’t swing for a sound proof interrogation room, I can hear everything.

            “When was the last time you saw Brittany?” asks Agent Travis.

            “Last Sunday. She came over to my house. We . . .” Blake’s voice trails off.

            “We know about the fight, Blake.”

            Blake sighs. “We broke up.”

            “I bet you were angry.”

            “No. I felt relieved. I didn’t want to be with her any more, hadn’t for a long time.  We weren’t that serious to begin with. We went out when we weren’t seeing anyone else. Brittany knew how to have a good time.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

            “I bet she did,” I say out loud. I still clamp my hand over my mouth as I glance at the receptionist, certain she had to have heard me, but she’s still busy reading about bulging biceps and heaving bosoms.

            “You and Brittany were together for almost a year. Sounds pretty serious to me,” Travis says. “Were you sleeping with her?”

            I perk up at this because I want know, too.

            “I don’t think that has anything to do with her disappearance,” Blake responds.

“Just answer the question.”

“Like I said, we were causal,” he says, keeping his answer vague. “It’s not like we were in love. Our parents were friends, and we just . . . it was complicated. Besides, I’m underage. You shouldn’t be asking me these questions about my sex life without a parent or an attorney present.”

“Do you need an attorney?” Travis asks.

“No. But it’s illegal for you to question me about anything while I’m underage and under duress.”

            “Oh, Mr. Harrington, we’re not forcing you to be here.”

“Then let me go,” Blake replies.

“We’ll release you. . .” Travis says, ending on a dramatic pause. “For now. But answer one last question. Where were you last Sunday night after you left Brittany?”

            “With my mom.”

            “A good looking, single guy like you was home on a summer night with his mother?”

            “Yes. What are you so worried about? Brittany does crap like this all the time to get attention. She always comes back.”

“We have reason to believe Brittany is being held against her will.”

“What?” Blake’s voice cracks a little.

“Brittany is missing, and you’re the last person to see her.”

“How do you know she’s missing?” Blake asks.

After a moment of silence, someone I didn’t even know was in the room speaks. “Cass Charon was in here this afternoon,” Sheriff Michaels says. “She’s been having dreams.”

“Cass sees dead people,” Blake says. “Not girls who have gone missing.”

“Maybe Brittany is already dead. Maybe you killed her,” Sheriff Michaels replies.

“Wait,” Agent Travis says. “You called me down here because of what some charlatan said? That’s all the evidence you have?”

“The Charons have helped me before on cases,” Sheriff Michaels says. “I trust them.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Agent Travis says. “Mr. Harrington, you’re free to go. And I must apologize for the unprofessional behavior of the Ravines’ police department.”

A moment later, the door to the interrogation room opens, and I almost fall over myself making sure I can’t be seen. I don’t even chance watching Blake leave, but I hear the door to the police precinct slam. I remain where I am for a minute, listening the Sheriff Michaels and Agent Travis argue over the sheriff’s ineptitude and me being a crazy witch.

            After looking through the front window, making sure Blake’s navy BMW isn’t in the lot anymore, I exit the station, and head out to my car. I crank the key, but the ignition doesn’t start. I slam my hand into the steering wheel, causing it to vibrate and making my hand sting.

I swear a lot and eventually get the car started. As I wait at the stoplight, I close my eyes, suddenly so tired I want to sleep right there in the intersection. The light is red so I have thirty seconds or so to myself. I try to think about butterflies and birthday cake, but all I can see is a dirty cabin where Brittany is being held.

I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to force of vision, so I can see anything helpful. Nothing comes. Then I think about Blake. Could the police be right? Could he be a viable suspect? He had opportunity, motive, and the means. Brittany certainly had a romantic relationship with her kidnapper. I close my eyes and try to remember the guy’s voice. It didn’t sound exactly like Blake’s, but maybe Blake has some unknown talent at disguising his voice. I think I remember something about him being in a play once.

But could Blake really kidnap and torture someone? Even if he didn’t get along with Brittany, I don’t see him doing something so awful. Blake is all charm and smiles, but then again, he kissed me last summer while he was still technically with Brittany.

I don’t know what’s worse, suspecting him of kidnapping or cheating. He’s handsome and kind, but how well do I really know him? How well can you really know anyone?

Happy (Non) Wedding Anniversary?

I was busy writing all my cheerleading practices and football games on the calendar when I realized something. Saturday would be my 11th wedding anniversary. What am I supposed to do with that? Laugh? Cry? Eat an entire Publix birthday cake by myself? I'll probably do all three. I will laugh because I'm happier than I've been in years.I don't want to cry because it's over, I just want to cry for the wasted years and the pain and the sorrow. I have my boys and that is worth everything. I'll eat cake because that's how I deal with every emotion.

With my non-wedding anniversary looming on the horizon, I've been thinking about love a lot. The love I got, the love I wanted, the love I gave too freely. Maybe I'm a fool, but when I love you, I love you. I love you when you're happy or sad, fat or skinny, loud or quiet, funny or serious. I go all in. Not in a crazy stalker way, but I'm all about unconditional love. Love should never have stipulations attached to it. I used to joke with my ex, who LOVED returning things to the store, that at least he never returned me. Well, he kind of did. My love comes with no strings. I don't expect you to bend over backwards for me or buy me jewelry. Just love and support me. That's all I want.

But if you betray me, my love is gone, replaced by distain.

I'm a passionate person. I either love you completely, or I ignore your existence. I don't really hate, for hating is not an emotion within my heart. I have never understood hatred. I never will. This is one of the gifts the Lord bestowed upon me. For love is stronger than magic or heartache or pain. J.K. Rowlings taught me that. Love can overcome evil. Love is all you need. The Beatles taught me that.

I was never loved like I deserved, and I accepted that love because I thought that was all I could get, but I hold out hope for a grand love. A love someone will write poetry about. That person will probably be me. But can that epic love existed here in the real world? I don't know. But I do know that no one is ever going to love me like Peeta loved Katniss, Logan loved Veronica, or Cassel loved Lila, or Perry loved Aria, or Eric loved Sookie, or Damon loved Elena. (I read a lot.) I'll be loved differently that that's okay. I just want someone to love me for who I am--for my strengths and my weaknesses--and not want to change me in anyway. I want to be enough, just how I am.

I have the love of my little boys and they think I'm pretty great. In fact, I know exactly how I'm going to celebrate my non-wedding anniversary. I'm taking them out on a date to a restaurant I was never allowed to go to. I'm taking them to the SJCDS football game because my ex-husband hated sports. We're going to eat dessert for breakfast and have a grand old time.

A bicycle, a man, and a fish: I've Made a Terrible Mistake.

 

There is something you must understand about me. I am a feminist. This does not mean I have hairy armpits or hate men. Oh, contraire, mon frère. My armpits are smooth and I like men. I love them. Their biceps and brawn and brains. Yes, please! Feminism is simply the belief that I can do anything a man can do (maybe even better). I can run a household. I can work. I can change a tire. I can rule the world. Feminism is simply the idea that women deserve equal rights. Nothing more. That's it. Do you have a mother, a sister, an aunt, a granny, a cousin? Do you think they deserve the same inalienable rights as every other human being on the planet? You're a feminist, too.

I talk about feminism because I don't believe I need a man. Sure, a bike would be great. It could be fun. But I can swim just fine without one. There's this quote I keep seeing around Pinterest. "One day, someone will hold you tight enough to put all your broken pieces back into place." This sounds lovely, doesn't it? Some day, he will come along on his white steed and rescue me from myself. Nope. I saved myself, thank you very much.

The guys online seem so phony. All I get is stuff like, 'Hey, beautiful. Great picks.' This is a line. This doesn't mean anything to me. Don't you sweet talk me because the devil can talk pretty, too. If you want me to talk back, say something intelligent. Try. As you know, I have very specific tastes, so I did a search on my online dating site and one guy showed up in the entire Jacksonville area. One guy! You might think I'm closing myself off by being picky, but I know what I want. I know what I like. I know who I am. Opinions and sarcasm scare most guys. I need a man who finds self-confidence and passion and strength attractive. It's okay for women to be strong, because they already are. In today's world, I don't think he exists. This is why I wrote him into a book. (Read all about Abram once my book is finished and published.)

So I'm shutting it down. I deactivated my account. I can't do it. I don't need a man to make me feel pretty, or worthy, or loved. I have the power to give myself all those things. I decide how I feel about myself. I am a friggin' catch, and I don't need a man to tell me that.

I would like a guy friend, but I don't know how to go about it. Is there an opposite-sex-friendship website out there? So many of the people I went to high school and college with are married now, so they're out, and I do have single friends, but what do I say? "Hey, I'm in the market for a platonic friendship. Do you want to hang out sometime? No pressure. I promise I don't want to date you." Then I feel like I'll offend them when I tell them I don't want to date them. It's such a fine line with male and female friendship. I would never close off the possibility of something more, but I don't want the guy to think I want to marry him and make him my boys' daddy. I just want to swear in a normal conversation and not worry about offending anyone. I want to get dirty and sweaty while hiking in the woods. I want to talk about comic lore. I want a boy friend.

But don't you dare forget that I don't need one. I'm the best friend a girl could have.

Super Superficial: A Tale of Online Dating

I joined an online dating site. I'm not so sure about it. The real problem is that there are -7 single Mormon men in my area. There are other LDS guys in the state of Florida, but nobody is floating my boat.

I'm going to come out and say it. I'm superficial. At least at first. I have a very specific type. I like dark blond hair, blue eyes, and a little height. I like big biceps and abs and rounded butts. (Tina knows what I'm talking about.) I also like boys who venture out in the woods or take a swim at the beach in the middle of a storm. Who can fix things and look good while mowing the lawn. I need someone who would go ghost hunting and fishing with me. Someone who can swing an ax or command a surfboard or wield a hammer. I need someone who won't lie or cheat. I need someone who has a good work ethic, but not a workaholic. I need a man who will accept me the way I am, and someone who will love my boys. I like things besides biceps. I find brains and bravery very sexy. And if you've read poetry or fallen in love with a book in the last few years. Have mercy.

But all I find on the LDS dating sites are guys like these. And weirdos.

 

I feel bad when I click No, No, No, on my daily matches. I'm not perfect and I don't want people judging me by only by looks because I'm no super model. But this time I have to be attracted to my mate. Last time, the attraction was pretty forced. I need someone I can't keep my hands off of. I need a lot of things, and I'm scared I won't get them. It all makes me want to retreat into my yoga pants and date Netflix for life. I don't even know why I'm trying online dating. I'm not into chasing guys, and I don't talk back to anyone who contacts me. Maybe I'm just a big scaredy cat.


Do any men read this blog? Do I stand a chance in today's dating market? Would you want to date me? Do guys really pick a girl based on her personality? I don't have blond hair and stick-thin, spider-like legs. I was blessed with boobs, and muscles, and curves. I also have wrinkles on my forehead and dark under eye circles that make me look a little bit like I was punched. (I wear makeup to cover this up) I have a lot of opinions. I have a sugar addiction. I hate working out, but think it's important for everyone to do. I have sass and a sense of humor. But is that enough? Do guys have these types of insecurities? Am I alone in my neurotic self-assessment?


So now I've signed up for the free 7 day trial on another, non-Mormon dating site, and let me tell you, all the hot guys are over there. And they are talking to me and I'm scared of them. I think everyone is a Catfish and probably going to dismember me if I meet them for dinner. I just don't like the whole getting-to-know-you-over-the-internet thing. I need references and background checks and a guarantee that you won't murder in the bathroom of the local Chili's.

I used to be really good with guys. I had a giant map on my bedroom wall at college. I used it to mark the state's where the boys I kissed were from. I aimed to get all fifty states. I got most of the states (Alaska I was the most proud of), but I had a lot of fun. Like this one time I met a guy who I swear to you could have been a model. I told him I thought he was cute, and that was that. I got another pin in my map. I used to know how to flirt, but now I mainly know how to stutter and spill my drink.

Maybe it's time I turn to my internet to find a date. Does this make me desperate? I don't know, and I'm done caring. I am a badass single mother, a teacher, a tutor, a cheerleading coach, and an author. I don't have time to find guys on my own. I can't hang out at coffee shops or go to the bar or dance at a club. I need help. I'm not saying I want to get married again. I just want to go on a date, hold someone's hand, and get a good night kiss. I'm so out of practice. Does anyone know a hot, single, nonmurderer guy out there that they think I'd hit it off with? Am I sounding desperate again? Whatever. If I never put myself out there again, I'll never make out again. And I really, really miss making out. Really. 

 

 

 



Panic! In The Cat Food Aisle

A few years ago, whenever I heard stories about abuse, I'd think, 'Why is the woman staying? Why is she putting up with it. I wouldn't stand for it. I would be strong enough to leave.' The thing is, you think you'll never be that girl, but then you wake up one morning, terrified to make too much noise or in a panic because you think you might have left your towel on the bathroom floor. You are that girl. You're living a life of madness without even knowing it. Sometimes you can't see the mistreatment until you're out of it.

And I'm out of it. I moved myself, my boys, and our little trailer of stuff across the country. I found a job. I found an apartment. I found freedom from the constraints of control. But other weights are still there. Weights that took years to place on my shoulders, ounce by ounce, pound by pound, so slow that I couldn't feel it until it immobilized me.

 

Control works its way into your soul. It eats away until you don't remember who you once were. You question your every move because you're still waiting for someone to come tell you that you're doing everything wrong. I find myself still doing things "the way I'm supposed to", and suddenly I realize I can wash the dishes however the F I want. In fact, I don't have to wash them at all. They can sit in the sink for a week and no one can tell me any different. Like today, I had the sudden epiphany that I can take off the stupid seat covers in my car that I hate. I never wanted them to begin with, and now they are in the dumpster behind our apartment. I might have even ripped them to shreds.

As you all know, I'm in the process of rebuilding. During the time the boys were away from me, I had a lot of time to myself. I sat by the pool. I read. I exercised. I ate lunch alone. I painted my nails. I walked on the beach. I actually got to write like a writer. I know who I am, and I love myself, but then those weights start stacking up again. Self-doubt will always be louder than confidence. Just when I start to feel good about myself, I'm reminded that I'm a bumbling idiot.

Like the other day, I was at a store and thought I saw a cute guy I went to high school with (it wasn't him). I nearly had a panic attack. Seriously, I almost died in the cat food aisle. And why? I was worried that I would stutter or the guy wouldn't remember me or he would remember and wonder why the heck I thought I was cool enough to talk to him. This is what happens when, for the last several years, you are told you aren't good enough. Eventually you believe it. You keep quiet. You keep the peace because living in the delusion is easier than dealing with reality.

Rome wasn't built in a day. Neither was Lauren. The problem is that I'm kind of obsessed with personal perfection, though I know I'll never get there. Perfection is what I think I need for people to like me, but Maragreg Moore reminds me that the boy who gave me heart palpitations farts and picks his nose. I also need to remember that perfection is unattainable, and I am enough, even in this broken state. I'm no hero. I put my bra on one boob at a time, just like any other woman.

I have flaws and that's why you like me. It's why I like myself. I do. I promise. I've just been repressed for far too long. This will be The Year of Lauren. I will be awesome. I will get my book published. I will make others nervous to talk to me because I will have a radiant confidence that will be envied by Kanye West. But I won't be a jerk. I will be kind of others. I will love myself. I will be okay.