The Undoer (9 page)

Heidi

It feels like the sun has finally come out. Not only have I finally, unofficially, been accepted into the Cazadors, but I have a place to pitch my tent also. Bret’s proposal takes me by surprise, but it settles well in my stomach… after the shock dissipates. I don’t get the feeling he is trying to put the moves on me—which, truth be told, stings my pride—but it also means that I won’t feel like I have to sleep with one eye open.

I want to tell him my story… a story I haven’t told a single other person… not even my aunt. I don’t confide in just anyone, and it amazes me that I’m about to do it with someone who is pretty much a complete stranger. But there is something about Bret that screams
trust me!

And I do.

I’m not sure what to think of that. I don’t trust easily, but he fascinates me. I can’t explain what draws me to him, but something does. Taking a deep breath, I begin. “You’re going to think my family is nuts.”

He watches me, his eyes open and receptive. “All families are nuts.”

With a snort of agreement and a roll of my eyes, I stifle a chuckle and start my tale of woe. “I’m not sure of all the details exactly. But it started before the Rift. My brother was in the hospital. He’d almost drowned, and we were all worried he’d have brain damage. It didn’t look like he’d ever come out of his coma.” Even still, the ache of those days in the hospital twists my heart. I fight to keep the emotion out of my voice and the tears out of my eyes. I can
not
cry right now. Not with him watching.

“One day, I walk into my brother’s hospital room and… and he is on the floor. My dad is on top of him, holding a knife to his throat.” I can still see it so clearly. Brecken’s hospital gown up around his hips, his white legs, and the fact that they looked so thin. It’s weird what details go through your mind when your brain refuses to grasp the truth. Brecken’s expression had been twisted in agony and he’d looked pathetically weak, trying to hold back my father’s knife.

I glance at Bret to get a read on his thoughts, but the only thing I see is his reaction of dismay, his mouth slightly open, his eyes looking more like a child’s, begging me to stop talking.

“Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you all that. My dad didn’t kill my brother that day, right in front of me. He waited until later.”

Bret continues his horrified stare, and I plead with him in my mind to take all I’ve said with a grain of salt, like it’s just a bad movie rather than the stock I came from. Surely, he wonders if this kind of craziness runs in the family. Will he rescind his invitation for me to live here? I fiddle with a scrap of paper I found on the floor, folding and unfolding it until it’s more like soft cotton than paper.

“Oh, Heidi… it sounds like a terrible… maybe… maybe he didn’t kill him. Maybe…” He reaches out and draws me in, petting my head as if I’m a golden retriever, and yet, I don’t pull away. I press closer to him, squeezing my eyes shut to keep the moisture back that threatens to fall. It feels so good to be held, to be comforted. I haven’t felt that in such a long time, if ever. Not when Brecken died, not after we moved to my aunt’s house, not from any friends at Brecken’s funeral, and not after our dad left us.

Then I let it happen… for the first time in over five years. I let the tears of regret and ache fall. I let the abandonment I feel from Brecken, from my father, and even my mother, explode out of me in the form of wracking sobs that I can’t hold back or control. The cathartic moment lasts forever, and Bret’s strong arms hold me while I cry, my tears wetting his shoulder and arm. When I realize I need to blow my nose, I pull away, keeping my head turned. I dash to the bathroom and shut the door behind me.

Staring into the mirror, I gaze at the girl with swollen, red eyes, and then straighten my shoulders. I’m not a child anymore. I can’t be trapped by the past any longer. Crying on Bret’s shoulder has made that abundantly clear. I’m ready—and possibly able—to let go of the hurt and anger, the rejection and loneliness. I’m ready to let go of Brecken and my dad. I’m ready to move forward, to be a Cazador.

***

The store delivers our furniture in an old pickup truck. Two burly guys help us carry our new crap up four flights of stairs. I set up my room with a scarf over the lamp, and it all feels very Bohemian to me.

I haven’t said a word about what happened yesterday, and neither has he. I’m determined to let it go and bask in the amazingness of my new life. I lie on my bed, cozy as a kitten, reading a book I found at the used bookstore around the corner, realizing I haven’t felt this happy or at peace in years.

Bret stands over in the kitchen area, frying eggs, surprisingly domestic. We didn’t demon hunt last night, but took the time to catch up on sleep instead, which we both desperately needed.

I watch him from the corner of my eye—the practiced way he flips the eggs—and the twist of his wrist. Maybe he was going to be a chef in his last life—before the Rift. He wears a contented smile that says he feels as “at home” as I do. It brings a rush of warmth to my heart.

While the eggs fry, he goes to work slicing an avocado. I drop my book and sit up straight, staring as he slices off the top of the avocado, cuts it in half, and makes slices down the meat. He then smacks the blade against the seed, twisting it—just so—to pull it out. He has no idea I’m staring. No idea that my heart is flipping over in summersaults or that I’ve stopped breathing.

I haven’t had avocado with eggs in a long time. Not since I made them with my brother, Brecken, years ago. I don’t know anyone else who even eats them this way… eggs, sunny-side up, with sliced avocado on the side. People eat avocados in an omelet, yeah, but messy? With the yolk smearing the green flesh? It’s a
thing
in my family. To think there is someone else in the world who likes it the same way. How crazy cool.

“Breakfast is served!” he says with a flourish, setting our plates on the counter. We don’t have a table with chairs, but I don’t mind. I like it this way, the two of us sitting on our stools at the island counter.

I poke my eggs with a fork. There’s nothing better than yolk-covered green goodness sliding over my tongue. I can’t believe he made it for me.

“I hope you like this.” He speaks with his mouth full, casual, not caring what I think about his bad manners. “I’ve been craving eggs. I used to eat them like this all the time, but I haven’t had them in years.”

He hasn’t had eggs or avocados in years? He digs in like a starving waif, and all I can think of to say is, “Why?”

“Oh.” He laughs and waves my comment away. “I don’t know.” He holds up a glass of orange juice. “To our new crib!”

I tip my glass to his, the clink ringing through the room, the commencement of a new chapter in both our lives. I don’t know what today will bring, let alone the future, but for the first time in ages, it looks bright.

Bret and I set up the workout equipment in the wide-open space where a living room set should go. It’s used and worn, but we don’t care. My part of the machine—the bench and leg lifts—comes together slowly, but perfectly. When Bret is done with the arm and shoulder press, he has three screws left over. The whole dang thing is going to come crashing down while we are working out.

By the time we finish, there has been plenty of bickering back and forth. He doesn’t read directions, acting as if the information has been downloaded automatically into his brain. I follow the directions meticulously.

Bret stands next to our finished project, all smiles. He places one hand on a steel bar and pats it like a beloved pet. “So, what do you think?”

“It looks ridden hard and put up wet.” It’s something my aunt used to say, and I like it. It fits.

Bret laughs and eyes the equipment like it’s the best thing since peanut butter.

“I think this must be your first apartment.”

His eyes flick to mine and then back to his new baby. “It is, actually… my first place.”

“Did you just graduate then?” He looks about my age, but he seems older. Feels older. I can’t believe he asked me to stay here with him. It should feel illicit and dangerous, but it doesn’t, and I like that. The thing that worries me is that I’m perfectly aware of my faults and weaknesses, and on more than one occasion, my family has accused me of being high maintenance. I hope he doesn’t regret his offer.

“From high school?” He coughs so I smack him squarely on the back.

“Unless you want to claim you already have your PhD, yeah. From high school.”

“Well, actually, I didn’t graduate. I… uh… got sick and had to quit.”

“Meh. Graduating is highly overrated anyway.” I file that piece of information away to ask about at another time. If he’s insecure about it, I’ll have to make sure he knows I couldn’t care less. “So, about your family? I already told you about mine.”

He looks up so slowly I actually stop what I’m doing—which isn’t much—and give him my full attention. As he gazes into my eyes, I swear he’s about to divulge some terrible secret, but then he walks over to his bed and flops down, crossing his ankles. He still has his shoes on. Shaking his head, he says, “Don’t have one. Not anymore.”

That’s it? No other information? Why so secretive? Another thing to ask about at a later date, when we’re better friends.

So many people have lost their families. I’m not surprised he’s alone, and I count myself lucky to still have mine, disconnected as it is. I have an aunt, a sister, and a boatload of cousins. I don’t count my dad. I hate him and will never forgive him for what he did to Brecken.

“Tell me about your aunt. How is she doing?” he asks as though he just read my mind.

Weird, because I can’t remember even mentioning her to Bret, but maybe I did. With everything that’s happened in the last few days, and with how tired I am at the moment, everything is blurring together. “She’s fine, but I don’t live with her anymore. She’s too strict, and I have more important things to worry about.”

“Like what?”

“Like training to be a Cazador.” I punch him in the arm, but not too softly. Don’t want to seem like a wimp. Hopefully, he’ll take the hint and change the subject. I love my family and miss them terribly, but I can’t think about them without heartache ensuing. That would make me a useless Cazador.

“And your dad? Because of what happened, you don’t see him at all?”

Okay, now he’s digging. It’s not like I’m too dense to notice. In this world, the thing that keeps people alive is privacy. People don’t share personal information, and nobody asks. That’s how I like it. “What’s up with all the questions?” I walk over to my side of the apartment and fall down on my bed, hoping to send the signal that I’m done playing get-to-know-you.

He releases a breath and nods. “I get it. I didn’t get along with my dad either, so I was just curious about yours.”

“It’s not about getting along. It’s about him murdering my brother.” The heat of tears presses against the back of my eyes. That’s the whole reason I don’t want to discuss it. I will
not
cry.

Bret lies there, staring, his jaw slack, and then a terrible look of aching fills his eyes. There are no words he can say that will make it better though. I’ve already cried a thousand tears over this. I’ve already replayed it in my mind, over and over. I wish I could put my dad out of his misery, like he did to Brecken.

He convinced the police that Brecken had died of complications from leaving the hospital early, but I know the truth—that he waited until they were alone so he could do the deed without prying eyes. My dad left the next day and never came back. Not even to check on us.

I hate him.

All I want now is a place to call my own, with friends who love and accept me as I am. I never dreamed it was possible until I met Bret. He makes me feel like there’s no secret I can’t tell him, no flaw he won’t accept. He seems like the perfect guy, and for a moment, I actually entertain the thought that maybe he could be.

I shake my head, pushing that train of thought away. “Well, I’m going to read for a bit.”

Grabbing the folding divider that leans against the wall, I open it up to give myself some privacy. Once I’m back on my bed, tears spring to my eyes and I bury my face in my pillow. I don’t make a sound. I can’t show Bret how horribly it hurts to think about my dad. I’ve built a wall where he is concerned, and I’m not about to let it come crashing down now.

As hard as I try, I can’t control the hiccupped sobs that escape. A few moments later, the mattress dips and a heavy weight presses against my side. He places a hand on my back, but I don’t roll over. Crying in front of him—again—feels too raw and exposing. I can’t let him see into my heart this soon into our relationship. Especially after last night. Surely, he already regrets his offer to let me live here.

“Shhh,” he whispers kindly. “It’ll be all right.”

The warmth in his voice turns me against my will. There are tears in his eyes also, and my heart catches. I reach out and wipe the tears from his cheeks, wanting to comfort him even though I tried to deny him the same thing. In the next moment, I’m in his arms, and mine are wrapped tightly around him.

The moment of catharsis has no frame of time. It just is. We exist inside our own bubble of time, our hearts aching for all we’ve lost and all we’ve endured. I hold onto him as though he is the only thing keeping me from falling over the precipice of insanity, and truth be told, maybe he is. I’ve had no one for so long, no one who really loves me, that I’ve forgotten what it’s like when someone does.