Forgiven (Ruined) Read online

  Kellan's hands were in my hair, on my back, under the tank top I wore, fumbling with the zipper of my low riding capris until I showed him I could easily slip them off without bothering to unzip.

  He made a sound as I stepped free of them, and we moved together across the living room, fell onto one of the couches, twisting so he lay against the cushions and I stretched out on top of him. I could feel his heart beating hard. My breathing quickened. All the questions that had been in my head escaped.

  We nipped at each other, kissed hard, licked longingly, teased. Hands and tongues traced down bodies. We got in each other's way, each greedily trying to provide more pleasure to the other, as if it were a contest. He pulled my tank top off, I licked down his chest. He spun me under him onto the couch, I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him closer. He kissed my neck, I bit the edge of his jaw.

  Sand grated between us. Feet slid together. Legs entwined. Afternoon sunlight filled the living room from the southwest windows. Hands, mouths, bodies, pressing together. By the time we got to the shower we were ready to go again, tumbling into Kellan's clean sheeted bed.

  This was the weekend I'd had in mind.

  * * *

  The weekend I didn't have in mind reestablishes itself the minute we get up. I pull on one of Kellan's long t-shirts and back out of the bedroom as he's heading to a second shower. He issues an invitation that's hard to resist, but if I don’t resist it, I might end up biting him for real.

  "Food," I tell him, backing into the hallway. "Sustenance? I'm starving!" My hands on my stomach which refuses to rumble on cue.

  He gives me a look like I'm abandoning him. I don't buy it.

  "Put on some shorts. Come with me."

  "Sand," he said. "In bad places."

  That makes me laugh. "I'll heat up a frozen pizza."

  "Order one. Takes the same time. Tastes better."

  I should probably eat something other than pizza this summer. A salad, maybe. Fruit.

  Kellan. No, no, that's not nourishing. And he's looking at me that way again.

  "I'll be in the kitchen."

  He starts to say something, but his cell rings, and he turns back to it, calling over his shoulder, "I'll be down after showering."

  I almost say something Emmy-like about his choice of words – be down? – but that's the lust talking. And nice to chat with the lust again, too. But instead I let the need for food float me down the stairs.

  Into the kitchen.

  Where the brown paper package is still on the counter.

  I give it a look I might give a spider that's crawled up there. Then I move past it, digging in the fridge with one hand while I scroll through my phone with the other for the closest pizza place. I order a large. Feeling guilty, I order a pineapple and ham. Pineapple is a fruit. That has to be healthy, right?

  The fridge offers up fruit and cheese, beer and soda, wine which is my mother's. There's a good many To Go containers and doggie bags. There are protein bars and protein shakes and some of Carmelita's homemade tortillas and salsa.

  But the pizza is on the way. My appetite is suddenly on hold. I pull out a plum, biting into the crisp skin, feeling juice spread down my chin. I hardly notice.

  I can hear the water running upstairs in Kellan's bathroom.

  The box is on the counter.

  I shouldn't. I should ask him again. But I have asked him, and he's refused to answer me. Despite what we've just done together, I still feel a distance between us. I felt it when we got up. I felt it when he answered his phone despite bantering that I should come back to bed.

  I'll feel it again when he comes downstairs and tells me this box is his. And refuses to tell me anything else.

  I put the plum down on the clean marble counter top and run my hands under water in the sink. The whole time I can't keep my eyes off the package. Probably there's nothing but the box here. It seems unlikely Kellan's left anything but packaging.

  In which case, I tell myself, abruptly drying my hands and reaching for the brown paper package, there's no reason not to look. I can tidy up. If it's an empty package, no harm done.

  Right?

  It's not empty. At first I can't even figure out what I'm looking at. Or rather, who I'm looking at. There's a photo on top, a youngish woman with short cropped red curls and a big grin. She's holding a fishing pole and making a face at the camera, both grinning and obviously being silly, like she's not really comfortable having her picture taken. I have no idea who she is.

  But the next picture down in the box, I start to get a bad feeling. There's two little girls, toddler age, I guess, or maybe a little older? I never had any siblings, and never really got a chance to baby sit. I don't know kids and kid ages.

  But I know David Reynolds. I met him during the forgiveness series. Actually, I met him before I started the series. When everything I was doing was for Kellan.

  This is Aimee Reynolds, I guess, realizing there were no pictures of her in David Reynolds' office and that the only photos he showed me and Emmy were of his new family, the three-month-old son, the new wife he'd met at a Mothers Against Drunk Driving meeting.

  But I don't understand why this is here. David Reynolds had offered to meet one on one with Kellan, but Kellan never took him up on it that I know of. If he did, Reynolds would have had to come to Charleston from Atlanta, because Kellan couldn't go that far without permission from his parole officer and he'd have had to take a cab or something, because he can't drive. No license.

  So maybe they didn't meet in person. Maybe Kellan got in touch and – and what? David Reynolds sent him a big box of photos of the family Kellan killed? Does that even make sense? David Reynolds forgave Kellan. I interviewed him and I believed him. His faith helped him make peace with what had happened, as did his new marriage. There'd be no reason for having sent this. Something about the box bothers me. For all the happy family photos, this feels like darkness.

  I reach in, pull out the next item. No doubt about what bothers me here. On a scrap of paper, the words, "Eye for an eye." And then bible verse, about sacrifice, a page torn from a bible, and more photos, sick things. Photos of cars, nothing more than twisted heaps of metal. At first I think they're photos from Kellan's wreck, but there are too many of them, each showing a different accident at different times of day, some at night. Different highways. Different cars. Different dazed people caught in the horror. There are other photos, too, clippings from newspapers, printed from the internet, showing bike riders crumpled on the asphalt, bikes twisted. Pedestrians under blankets thrown over them to protect people passing by from seeing what lies there.

  This is horrible. It doesn't make any sense. My heart pounds, choking me. I want to shove everything into the garbage, or take it outside and burn it. It feels filthy, here on the clean counter.

  Could it be from Jake or his father? Or even Jake's fiancé? But I was with Kellan when he saw them. I believe what I saw: those people have forgiven him too. Jake's truly happy. Bria never knew Jake before the wheelchair; she has nothing to hold against Kellan. Jake's father Bill was genuinely glad to see Kellan.

  Someone else? Some self-appointed harbinger of justice? Near the bottom I find a single sheet of paper with a huge font spelling out not everyone forgives.

  There wasn't anyone else involved in the accident. Could it be someone random who saw the special?

  Did I do this to Kellan by broadcasting his story?

  I start to shove the box away, then flail, panicking, as Kellan's voice from behind me says, "That's none of your business, Willow."

  I turn around and look at him, trying to stay strong. There's no reason I shouldn't look at something delivered to the house where I live, especially something not labeled.

  "What is this, Kellan?" My voice doesn't shake, but my insides do.

  His face darkens. He looks angry and, for the first time since I've known him, a little scary. "It's mine. Something delivered to me. Haven't I said that enough times?"

/>   A flicker of anger stirs. "Kellan, look, this is – "

  "None of your business," he repeats, and since I don't move, he reaches past me and pulls the box across the counter to him. "Just because we've slept together doesn't mean you can invade my privacy."

  What do I address first? That I was here, alone, when someone threw whatever this is at the door? That I've only ever slept with one other guy, that the high school football team quarterback one night when I was grieving for my father? I hardly make a point of sleeping around. Which means I care about him. Which means –

  "Kellan, let me help." Remembering the morning I woke on Reed's couch after I'd passed out at the bonfire the night before. The way he'd taken care of me, whether I thought I needed it or not. "If someone is trying to hurt you, I can – "

  He holds up a hand. He doesn't shout. Somehow the ice in his voice is worse. "Back off, Willow."

  He takes the package and leaves the kitchen, leaving me standing there. Alone.

  Chapter 9

  Reed shows up before the pizza does. The guy has never heard of texting. Or even calling. He just shows up. Not that it's not nice to see him.

  The doorbell rings and I think it's the food I no longer want. Maybe Kellan will come downstairs and eat with me. Even if we don't talk about whatever's going on, maybe we can make up.

  I open the door without looking out. It's still light out, early evening, and Kellan's upstairs. Even if he's angry, he won't let anyone hurt me.

  "Let me just grab my wallet," I say as I swing the door open.

  "OK, but I only take large bills," Reed says.

  I'm shocked into laughing. "What are you doing here?"

  "Heard someone broke into the communications building last night. And that you were there."

  I open the door wider, not sure if I want to join him on the porch or invite him in. It's really hot outside, so I step back in unspoken invite.

  The pizza guy shows up right behind him. I pay for the pizza, close the door, and fetch Reed from the living room.

  "Come eat with me."

  He glances at the sweeping grand staircase leading up to our rooms. "Is anyone home? Your parents?" Kellan hangs in the air, unsaid.

  "Kellan. My parents are in Atlanta for the weekend."

  "Were you going to share this – " He nods at the pizza and the stairs.

  I consider. What do I say? "If he gets hungry, he can order food."

  * * *

  We sit together at the breakfast bar. I offer Reed a beer, hoping he won't accept. I'd feel the need to explain its absence to Bruce, since I'm not only underage but don't really drink, and since he's trusting Kellan by keeping his own beer in his own home. Reed asks for a soda.

  "If you're no longer operations manager," I start.

  Reed nods. "I'm no longer with the station. But I'm not dead. Zach let me know."

  An irrational little thrill of anger. "Are you keeping tabs on me?"

  Reed doesn't react except to narrow those piercing blue eyes, just a little. "Of course I am. You're new to the station and the job. I spent a lot of time getting that station to where it is. I'm not just going to dump it."

  "You dumped it on me," I flare.

  "Still a spitfire, I see. So when you realized there was someone in the station with you in the middle of the night, did you chase them?" He looks half amused, half worried.

  "No," I snap. Then, "The desk got in my way."

  There's a beat of silence, then we both break out laughing. I choke on the pizza and Reed pats me on the back. When I can breathe again, he says, "Tell me everything."

  "I thought Zack already had."

  "He did. A good reporter gets all the stories. Tell me everything."

  So I do. When I'm done he tells me about other incidents, from broken windows and graffiti, which seem random, to vandalism when someone didn't like a story about racism and another about campus sexual assaults. There have been random break-ins over the years, equipment stolen and once trashed. Though I don't know if it's his point, when he finishes I feel better about everything.

  "Be careful, Willow, OK? If you're going in at night, take someone with you. Emmy wouldn't have minded." He takes another bite of pizza, jolting when I slap his arm.

  "Did you talk to her, too?"

  He looks at me carefully like I'm a wild animal. "No," he says slowly. "You told me Emmy dropped you off there and wasn't comfortable with doing so."

  Oh. Yeah, I did. Oops.

  "OK, OK."

  We end up talking about Boston, and about what he's doing there. He's so happy with the job there's no point worrying about the fact his father set the whole thing up to get him away from the awful Willow Blake and her Terrible History. I tell him about the day to day and the ideas I'm throwing around for the next documentary series. He tells me about Boston culture and nightlife and that he misses everyone from the college, carefully not saying he misses me, but I see his eyes flick upwards, as if judging where Kellan is, and why he hasn't come downstairs.

  He leaves about 90 minutes after he arrived. By then I feel a lot better. If I'd had friends like this in Seattle, recovering would have been much easier.

  At least I have them now.

  * * *

  After Reed leaves I don't call Emmy or my mother or even delve into my past to find someone to talk to there. The therapist I went to in Seattle had said I could call her any time no matter how long I'd been "officially" out of therapy, but I've never been good at taking people up on offers like that.

  I sit and watch the sun set, and after a while Kellan comes downstairs, polite but distant, and goes out for a run. I watch which way he goes, then head along the water in the other direction, trying to clear my head.

  Instead, the same questions keep coming up, over and over. If David Reynolds forgave Kellan for the accident Kellan caused which killed Reynolds' family, then who sent the box full of photos and the "eye for an eye" threat?

  What does the threat even mean? Is someone actually threatening Kellan? Taken literally the threat implies a traffic accident – how would anyone set that up without being directly involved?

  If it isn't Reynolds, who else could it be? The case made the papers, of course, and since Kellan was tried as an adult, his name was released, which was why Bruce moved from Atlanta to Charleston. But why would anyone wait until now to do something? And why include the family photos? Even if the person who sent the box feels that strongly about Kellan having taken the lives of the family, how would they get hold of the photos without –

  Being a family member?

  How am I supposed to find that out?

  I've stopped walking. If I were facing the ocean people might think I'm just standing here contemplating. Since I'm still staring down the beach in the direction I was heading, a few groups of people walk around me, looking at me curiously.

  I hardly notice. I need to find out if someone in David Reynolds' family might not share his sentiments of forgiveness. If it's someone from his family or his late wife Aimee's, then the answer to the why wait until now question becomes self-evident. They waited because Kellan has just gotten out of prison a few weeks ago.

  This is the last thing he needs. I shove my hands in my pockets and continue my walk up the beach, trying to toss my hair out of my face and eyes. Kellan carries around a world of guilt. No matter what he says about making the best of things, living a full life, trying to make up for what happened, trying to be a light in the world to make up for the lights that got snuffed out, I know the pain he deals with. He'll never feel he measures up. He can do everything he can to make up for one instant of youthful stupidity and still go on paying, all his life, heart and soul.

  He feels ruined.

  My next step falters. Is this why he keeps drawing away from me? He's said before that he's ruined and sees no way out of the life that surrounds him. He's said he isn't going to drag me down with him and only by pursuing him did I get him to change his mind. Is he pulling away now be
cause someone is targeting him?

  That isn't fair! Fine, fair isn't what the world is all about and no one promised him a rose garden (or me, either) and the past can't be undone and so on and so forth, but Kellan's done his time. He's served his sentence. He's trying to find work, preferably something that matters. He's trying to make his peace with his father. He's trying to build a life that brings light into the world.

  No one has the right to do this to him.

  So step one: Find out if David or Aimee Reynolds has family that maybe hasn't let go yet.

  And stop them.

  * * *

  The rest of the weekend isn't that great. Emmy's rethinking her major, maybe switching over to journalism, so any communications with her inevitably end up about what she wants to be when she grows up.

  That's OK. I had times before my life changed when I had to rely on friends to talk me down from metaphorical high places. If Emmy wasn't having some kind of super early mid-life crisis, I'd probably be tempted to cry on her shoulder about Kellan.

  It's hard to make up with someone when they're successfully avoiding you. Sunday morning he's out of the house before I wake up. Which is a good trick, because I fell asleep on the couch. I know I was still there when he went out through the living room. I try his phone, texting him, until he finally sends back, Everything's all right. Just need some breathing room.

  As un-comforting as that is, at least he's speaking to me. Kind of.

  With nothing else to do, in Carmelita's spotless kitchen, in an empty house, with no plans and no on-hand friends, I take a very long walk, do some of my own laundry, and finally am reduced to doing my math homework. Hello, C minus. If I'm lucky. Can't figure out what I need math for anyway.

  Oh, I know – to count the complications in my life. After a while Reed shows up, letting me know he's going back to Boston. He gives me a handwritten schedule of suggested station crew meetings and their focus. For a second I consider balling it up and throwing it in his face. If he didn't think I could do the job, why'd he dump it on me?