Leo's Chance

  "Take off your shirt, Jake," she says, expressionless. For a minute I just look at her, not comprehending. What does my shirt have to do with this?

  "What? Baby, I don't understand."

  "Let me see your back, Jake," she says, gazing into my eyes now, fear, stark and vivid washing over her expression.

  I gaze at her for long moments, understanding slipping down my spine, panic gripping me. Someone has told her about my tattoo. Who? What else have they told her? I need to be the one to explain this. I need to be the one to make her understand. This is not how I wanted to start. I close my eyes, willing time to stop. When I open my eyes, I gaze into hers, full of pain and confusion. The look on her face guts me. "Evie, who did you talk to? Baby, let me explain first."

  "No!" she screams, voice shaking. "Show me your back, Jake!"

  Please don’t let this be happening. I close my eyes again, resigned now, and drop my head and then lift it to look her in her eyes. It doesn’t matter who told her. I wanted to do it gently but fate has stepped in and this is the way it’s going to happen now. I reach down and lift the hem of my shirt, raising it over my head. I stand in front of her, bare chested, as I’ve been many times before. I stare into her eyes again, imploring her to understand. Her large, panicked eyes stare back at me, waiting for me to explain in some way.

  Slowly, I turn around and give her my full, naked back. I hang my head as her stare burns into me from behind. Blood pumps through my brain, the sound of my own heartbeat echoing loudly in my head.

  I hear her gasp but I don’t move. Several long seconds stretch out, and I still don’t move when I hear a strangled cry and her feet stumbling backwards.

  My mind blanks and suddenly I’m back in San Diego, months before Evie’s eighteenth birthday. That date had beckoned painfully to me on the calendar, the thought of the date alone causing a heartache like I’d never known before, even that first week when I knew that what happened with Lauren meant that she was lost to me forever. I felt like I had already died inside, like I was a shell of a person walking around, empty, gutted. I didn’t admit it to myself at the time, but looking back, I know that, more than ever, I needed the pain to end. I was done. It was excruciating. I couldn’t hang on. Life felt like a burning building and the only thing I could think to do was jump. I was suffocating from where I was, the flames licking at me from every side. Death felt like it would provide the sweet, clean air that I couldn’t access from the hell of the inferno in which I was trapped. It didn’t feel like an option – it felt like survival.

  I wanted to die, but I wanted her to be with me when I went. I needed to hold on to her, to take a part of her with me. Something inside of me longed to tell my own story, the story of us, the story of how I destroyed everything beautiful that I ever had, and then destroyed myself.

  And so I sought out a tattoo artist. He helped me design the artwork I described to him, remaining silent as he sketched out the first basic concept, looking at me finally when it was all done and saying quietly, "This your story, man?"

  I had studied it for long minutes, finally looking up at him and replying simply, "Yes."

  Willow was there, walking a tightrope, the likelihood of falling always present – no safety net beneath her, just the ever-present harshness of the empty ground below. It was Willow, but she represented so many. Always living with fear and loneliness, nowhere soft to land.

  And then the clowns. All of those heartless people who were supposed to protect us, to make us laugh – to be an escape from the harshness of life. But instead had turned out to be anything but, the worst of the worst, cruel jokes in and of themselves.

  And myself, half lion, half boy, just like Evie had believed me to be. And I thought she was probably right, because half the time I felt rageful, wild, untamed, and the other half I felt overly soft, too sensitive for this fucked up world. I didn’t know how to merge the two into one capable person – I didn’t know how to be both and not one or the other.

  She had tried to show me, my Evie, my lion tamer, but I wasn’t enough. Even for her, the person I loved most in this world, I wasn’t enough. I’d never be enough.

  In the background, the master of ceremonies. Overseeing it all, orchestrating the show. He had put the clowns in the act, so many of them. He had put Willow on a tightrope with no net beneath her. He had made me half damaged and half wild. But… but, he had given me a beautiful lion tamer with eyes as deep as forever, and Willow friends who wanted to catch her if she fell, and he had made me brave enough to love them both once upon a time. How did I make sense of that? How could I understand him when I couldn’t understand any of the show he had cast me in? Was he kind or was he cruel? I didn’t know. It seemed an impossible question to answer.

  I paid the tattoo artist extra to do my tattoo all in one day, and when he said it would hurt too much to do a piece of art that large all in one sitting, I told him I didn't care. And as the needle plunged in and out of my skin, I relished the pain. I deserved the pain. The physical pain made the emotional agony take a backseat, and I finally felt a peace that day that I hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Later that night, alone and drinking myself into a stupor, I stared at the picture of that artwork on the piece of paper that had been used as a template for the story now etched into my skin. I had stared into the depiction of Evie’s eyes, and even the copy of a copy of the large, dark windows to her soul, I had felt my heart flutter back to life and start beating in my chest. Staring into her beautiful face, something in me decided it wanted to live. I didn’t know what it was, but something whispered in my ear to hold on. And so I had. For a little while.

  I come back to myself when Evie lets out a quiet, strangled cry, and I jolt at the sound, but otherwise, remain still.

  She walks around to my front now and takes my chin in her shaking hand, lifting my face so that I’m forced to look into her pain-filled eyes.

  "Why are you looking at me?" she asks, void of any expression in her voice, but her eyes wild with panic.

  My eyes search hers for long seconds, looking for anything resembling love or understanding, but finding none.

  I know what she wants from me though and so I give it to her. "Because I like your face."

  She stumbles backwards, letting out a strangled cry as understanding fills her eyes. Then, just as I knew she would, she turns and she runs.

  I think I’m frozen, but without even thinking about it, I follow her, choking out her name as she stumbles onto the elevator, and the door closes between us.

  And just like I knew she would be if she knew the truth, she’s gone. And I do the only thing I can do – I drop down to my knees in front of the closed elevator doors, my head in my hands, my heart shattered.

  CHAPTER 27

  I don’t know how long I stay in that position until I find the strength to stand up and go back inside. I’m utterly numb now. I pull my shirt back on over my head and stand at the windows overlooking the city, and I face the truth of what I’ve done. I think about how she must be feeling right now. Is she crying? Hurting? Does she hate me? Yes, probably. The look on her face as the elevators closed between us told me she does. I betrayed her trust, again. I abandoned her and then I deceived her. She hates me. But not as much as I hate myself.

  Where is she? Is she alone in her apartment? Being comforted by the friends we were supposed to be having dinner with tonight? I want so badly to be the one comforting her. But she doesn’t want me. I did this.

  What if she’s hurt? She took off running and I don’t even know where she ran. I need to know that she’s alright. I pick up my phone and text her, asking her to please let me know she’s okay. New panic grips me as I consider the state she was in when she ran out on me, and the number of sketchy areas she could have ended up in if she ran in the wrong direction.

  I can’t sit still, and so I grab my keys and I leave my condo. I drive around for a while, dialing her number a couple more times, trying to pretend I don’t have a
destination. But eventually, I wind up where I knew I would wind up all along. I park in front of her building and text her again, and then call her number. Still no answer. I get out of my car and ring her apartment. No answer. She could be in there, ignoring the buzzer. I just want to know she’s safe.

  I get back in my car and drive around a little more, calling her a few more times, sending a couple more texts. Finally, I leave her a voicemail. "Evie, God, I… please call me. I'm going crazy here. You ran and I don't even know if you're okay. Baby, please just let me know you're okay. At least that. Even if you don't want to talk to me… or, even if you don't want anything to do with me, please just let me know you're safe. I went by your apartment and you weren't there and it's late and I… please be okay."

  I take a shaky breath and disconnect the phone. She’s probably okay – either in her apartment not answering or with her friends. She has to be okay. I drive around a little bit more, the sky dark now, once again, no particular destination in mind. I’m almost shocked when I find myself driving down the block where I grew up, pulling up in front of the house where I spent the first eleven years of my life. Why did I unconsciously come here of all places? What lead me to the place I never wanted to see again?

  As I park, it occurs to me that this place is only a few short miles from Evie’s apartment. Our foster homes were only a mile or so from here too. So close in physical proximity, and yet she’s come a million miles. We both have in some ways, I suppose, but she did it all on her own.

  I sit there staring at my childhood house in the light of the streetlamp, sick memories flashing through my mind. I put my head in my hands, and I let the onslaught of visions do their worst – a lot of bad things happened under that roof, a lot of things had fucked me up forever between those very walls. But somehow, sitting here, the bad memories don’t seem to have the power I expected them to have. Instead, the strongest memory that comes to me is sitting in the tiny bathroom on the second floor with Seth. For some reason he seemed to like that small space, and I would take him there when I got home from school, sometimes for hours, and I’d do my homework on the floor and try to teach him the things that I’d done in school that day. Mostly, it didn’t seem to penetrate, but every once in a while, and only ever there, his eyes seemed to clear, and for a minute or two he would be present. It was the most breathtaking thing.

  The sound of a door slamming jolts me out of the past, and I look up and an older black man steps out onto the porch and lights up a cigarette.

  I knew they didn’t live here anymore. I have no idea where they live, or even if they’re still alive. I have no desire to know. But seeing someone else come out the door still shocks me a little. I start up my car and drive away.

  I would have thought that today of all days, seeing that house would have done me in. But for some reason, it doesn’t. In fact, on the contrary, I feel better for having gone to see it. Stronger. Like maybe, it doesn’t hold the power over me I still imagined that it did. I’m not sure what to make of this, but I’m grateful.

  I find myself pulling up in front of the foster home where Evie lived when I said goodbye to her. It looks abandoned, the lawn overgrown with weeds, the structure dilapidated. I park on the side street and gaze up at the roof where I climbed to meet her so many times. The place where we fell in love… showed each other our hearts, dreamed so many dreams together. A lump forms in my throat. Please don't let it be too late.

  After a few minutes, I pull away and drive to the cemetery where Seth is buried. This time, I walk straight to his grave, where the headstone that I ordered for him is now standing. I sit down on the damp grass, but I don’t say anything. I just need to be with my brother. After a little while, my phone dings and I pull it out of my pocket. It’s Evie with a two word text message. I'm safe.

  I exhale and sit there for a while longer. Fight. My head pops up. I don’t know if that single word was my own thought or something imagined, but suddenly, it is the only thing repeating through my head, filling my brain, giving me strength. Fight. After a little bit, I stand up and walk back to my car, and drive home.

  **********

  I wake up early. I slept like shit, but I feel a renewed energy. I’m going to fight for her. I fucked up. Badly. I was selfish and deceptive, and I owe her so much, an apology, an explanation. I’ll grovel for the rest of my life if that’s what she wants from me. I’ll do anything to make her understand. And then if she can find it in her heart to forgive me, I will spend the rest of my life proving to her that she didn’t make a mistake.

  I shower and pull on clothes, and drive to her apartment. I know I look like hell but I guess I don’t much care. I ring her bell and as I’m standing there, Maurice comes out of his apartment and through the front doors. "Saw her go out almost an hour ago." Then he brushes past me and is gone. Again, a man of few words.

  I lean against the outside of her building, and decide to wait for a little while, hoping she’s coming right back. A few minutes later, I see her turn the corner onto her street, a cup of coffee in one hand and a small brown paper bag in the other.

  I see her spy my car and start walking slowly. I walk to meet her, hands stuffed in my pockets, and when she sees me, she stops.

  A myriad of emotions fly across her face, lightening speed, surprise, hurt, love. I see it and it gives me hope. She settles on a frown, her eyes still slightly panicked as we stare at each other on the street. And then she tries to run around me, dodging me as I turn. But I’m faster and I reach her easily, scooping her up from behind. She doesn’t have to forgive me, but she’s going to listen to me. This moment has been eight years overdue, through no one’s fault but mine, but it can’t go on one minute longer. She struggles against me weakly, but I hold on to her more tightly, and when we get to the door of her building, I growl in her ear, "Give me your key, Evie." She hands them over, glaring at me. That’s okay too. But she’s going to listen.

  I open her apartment door and carry her inside although she’s not resisting me anymore. I set her down and close the door behind us. We stare at each other, my eyes narrowed and hers glaring for a good, long minute. I look away first, breaking eye contact and running my hand through my hair. "Evie, we need to talk and we need to talk now."

  "Why do you get to decide when we need to talk? Isn't it my call, Jake? Or should I call you Leo? Do you go by both? Please, clue me in here."

  I close my eyes, gathering patience. I get her anger, but she’s gotta know that we need to talk. She can hate me afterwards. God, I hope she doesn’t hate me afterwards. "Evie. Please. Can we talk? Will you listen to me? This has been hell on me. Please. I just want you to tell me you'll listen to me – really listen to me."

  "Hell on you? Oh, please, Jake. I don't want to make things harder on you. Please, sit down. Can I get you a beverage? A foot rub?" She glares at me some more.

  I sigh. "Sit down, Evie. Now."

  She stares at me for a few beats longer before she sinks down on the couch, looking resigned while I stand above her.

  I sit down on the couch too but make sure to give her plenty of room. We’re practically on opposite ends.

  "If you need something, go get it now. We're going to talk and this could take a while. Get what you need to make yourself comfortable, and then plant yourself on the couch."

  Her brows snap together but she finally exhales saying, "I'm fine, Jake… Leo. Please, let's get this over with." She pinches the bridge of her nose as if she feels a headache coming on.

  I hesitate for a second. I know we need to talk, that I have to tell her why, but my heart is beating loudly in my ears at the thought of what comes next.

  I move closer to her, and for just a few brief seconds she stares ahead stoically before her expression crumples and she brings her hands to her face and starts sobbing. Oh, fuck, Evie, baby. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I gather her in my arms and cradle her to me as she cries. I can’t make this better. I did this. I bury my head in her hair and try
to will all her grief into my own heart. I would gladly take it if I could. Only it doesn’t work that way. I knew it eight years ago and I know it now.

  Her hands come away from her face and she chokes out, "I waited for you! I waited and waited and you just disappeared. I didn't know if you were dead or alive. I didn't know if you had just decided to start a new life and written me off or what! And still I waited. And truthfully, even though I didn't even admit it to myself, I was still waiting until the day you walked back into my life, calling yourself by another name! I never stopped waiting for a boy who threw me away like I was nothing!"

  Her sobs pick up in intensity, gutting me completely. I pull her tight against me and rock her and although I expect her to push me away, she clings to me, letting me comfort her.

  Her sobs subside after a little while, and she tilts her head and looks up at me, so incredibly beautiful even in her sadness. She studies me for a couple minutes, and then she takes her thumb and runs them over my cheeks, spreading wetness. Was I crying, too? I hadn’t realized.

  Her hands still, but her eyes continue running over my face, taking in every part. Then she uses her hands to explore every feature, sweeping her fingers over my brow and my cheekbones, my nose and my jaw. Her eyes follow the movement of her own hands. I don’t say anything. I just wonder what she’s thinking, wonder if she’s seeing me as the boy she once knew. Her eyes meet mine and that live current rushes between us. I’m not sure what to do. I'm not sure what she needs right now. And so I remain still.

  But when her eyes settle on my mouth and she moves her face toward mine, I meet her halfway. She seems wild, needy, and in minutes we’re both moaning into each other’s mouths. When I drag her sweater over her head and pull her bra down so that I can lick and suck her nipples, she gasps out, "Leo!" and I can’t help the satisfied growl that rises, unbidden from my diaphragm. No one has called me Leo in eight years and something about it fuels my lust for her. Something about it feels like starting over, like I can finally be myself, but unhampered by the emotional baggage that I collected in San Diego. With that one word, the unsure boy has taken a backseat. I’m all beast and it feels fucking great.