Greta Stone, author

Let's Not Call It Quitting...

2010-07-31T20:04:00.002-04:00

I’ve decided to convert my fiction blog series into a novel. The idea of a series where the reader is involved in the story line is a great one, however, I have discovered that it requires much better planning than I was prepared for.

I planned in a way similar to how I planned my novel. I knew where I wanted it to go and was prepared to take on the slight differences in plot that would come with voters’ decisions. But one of the most difficult things with this project was ending with a cliff hanger and a decision. And Publishing ‘live’ didn’t allow me the freedom of changing some major issues that I only discovered in hind sight.

So when I try it again (cause I probably will someday), I’ll plan the exact details of each series as well as each decision and how I’ll work it out either way it goes. For now, Going South will be written as a novel.

Thanks to those who have supported me in this project.

Going South: Staying the Night (episode 20)

2010-07-27T09:00:00.010-04:00

I give in to Chris and lay back, beginning to plan my escape. As soon as Chris and Ashley are asleep, I'll sneak out. No problem. Chris pulls a thin sheet over me, sits on the edge of the sofa and strokes my face, first with his hand, then the cold cloth. My stomach churns. Does he know anything about my past or am I overreacting? Has he figured out I'm not Mollie, I'm Ana? Will he tell John? Will I lose my job? I force myself to breathe deep, to calm down, but I feel like the moment I close my eyes, Bosley and Damian will come swooping in to capture me.

Impossible, I try to convince myself.

“Are you comfortable?” Chris says.

I nod. As comfortable as I can be under the circumstances.

“I can carry you into the spare room if you think it would be better.”

“No.” God, please, no more carrying.

Chris stops fiddling with the cloth and leans forward on his knees. I'm especially aware of his warm hip against mine. He looks towards the kitchen where Ashley is cleaning up. Then he looks back at me, a thousand questions written on his face. I pray silently he doesn't ask them.

I feel like a child, tucked in, trapped, wanting to play outside when my parents are convinced I'm ill. When did I allow them to have so much power over me? Why can't I just stand up and leave? ...because my head weighs eight tons. Right.

All I can do is lay and wait.

“Do you need help, hun?” Chris asks Ashley without moving.

“Nope. All set.” The water runs for a moment. Shortly after, the light in the kitchen goes out, leaving us in near darkness. “I'm going to bed,” she says, passing by, casting a glance in our direction that piques my nerves. She disappears into the bedroom.

Chris turns towards me. My heart pounds in my chest. He slides his fingers between us, under the sheet and retrieves my hand, hot and shaky in his. He draws it towards his mouth while looking into my eyes. My focus shifts towards the bedroom then back to his lips on my fingers. I resist slightly but he has a good grip.

“I'm sorry I asked about your husband,” he says, his breath hot on my hand.

I feel the sudden urge to vomit.

“Whatever happened must have been big,” he continues.

I look away and try to free my hand. “I don't want to talk about it.” My body is cold now, my face hot.

He uses his free hand to turn lift my chin. I want to shove him off the edge of the sofa yet I feel ...cared for, so I don't. His hand warms one side of my face. I avert my eyes. My heart still pounds against my ribs.

“Sleep well,” he says, then leans over me and plants his lips on mine, soft, slow, desirous.

My eyes well up. As soon as he stands up, I turn on my side, facing into the back of the sofa to hide my face and streaming tears. The room goes black then the door closes to the bedroom. I lay sobbing into the pillow for a while, trying hard to disappear into the sofa, to bury myself forever. The hair stands on my arms. What does he expect of me? I’m sure I probably don't want to give it. How could he kiss me in his own house? With his wife in the next room? What does he do with other girls? Just kiss them? Or does he actually have sex with them? What have I gotten myself into?

Consciousness returns to me slowly, my eyes taking in foreign surroundings, trying to figure out if I'm dreaming or awake. Within moments I remember I'm at Chris' house on the sofa ...and I have to use the bathroom bad. I swing my legs off the sofa and sit up. Besides being tired, everything seems stable.

I stand up and shift quietly through the room towards the bathroom, slip in and close the door behind me. When I flip on the light, the ventilation fan comes whirring on and I quickly flip it off again. I'll find my way in the dark.

Looking towards the window, it appears to be near morning, still dark but signs of light in the distant sky. I cringe at the sound of the flushing toilet, hoping I haven't woken them up. Now is my time to get out of here.

I pull the bathroom door open and see, through the dark, Ashley, standing against the opposite wall, arms crossed over her chest, chin lowered, eyes boring into me.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper. “Did I wake you up?”

“No,” she says shortly. “I think you should leave.”

What? I avert my eyes for a moment to collect my thoughts. “I was planning to actually. I'm sorry if --”

“Just leave.”

I freeze, staring at her, trying to understand. “Okay.” What's the use in arguing? I was planning to leave at this very moment. Still I feel the need to defend myself. But against what? Kissing Chris? Staying the night? What is she upset about?

Seeing that she's not budging and isn't moving out of my way, I force myself by her and head towards the door. Her feet pad along the hardwood and carpet behind me. She really wants me out.

I open the front door, step out and turn to apologize once more but end up facing a closed door. Damn! What's that all about? I can't understand it. Last night she was so nurturing and helpful. What changed?

I descend the steps down to the ground, thankful to discover my bike is still here. The ride home is tiring in the middle of the night. As soon as I reach the motel, I drop fully clothed into bed and fall asleep instantly.

The sun wakes me up, streaming into the room and across my pillow. I squint into it, push my hair back and search for the clock. 9:12 Crud! I was supposed to meet Wesley at 9:00.

I drop my head back down onto the pillow. What was I thinking, planning a date with Wesley? I don’t need to complicate things. When I made the plans, I was so taken by Wesley. But at the moment, spending the morning by the water – alone – sounds much better. And after last night with Chris, I’m not sure I can handle any more romance …or whatever that was.

I get out of bed and catch myself in the mirror – pale, dark circles under my eyes and unshowered. Beautiful. I’m about to call Wesley to cancel but my heart starts beating wildly. I need friends. Not friends like Chris and Ashley. Good friends. Maybe I should give Wesley a chance.

~~ Should Ana/Mollie call to cancel or call to tell him she’s running late? ~~

<a href="http://www.buzzdash.com/polls/what-should-anamollie-do-204646/">What should Ana/Mollie do?</a> | <a href="http://www.buzzdash.com">BuzzDash polls</a>

The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday your local time. NOTE: We're back to the old poll again. If you have issues with it, say so along with your vote in a comment.

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Going South: Panic (episode 19)

2010-07-20T09:00:00.001-04:00

The music is playing, the sun has gone down and I am standing at the rail of Chris' second-floor deck, hoping to keep out of the center of activity. Having kept this spot for over an hour, sipping my drink, I feel certain I can manage to stay here for the remainder of the night.

Their open flirtation, hip gyrating and spit swapping is enough to drive me crazy. I've never been with people like this, people so... Hollywood cliché. I feel like I'm in a nighttime soap opera, the OC or some other ridiculous series.

Chris sidles up next to Ashley, drapes his arm across her shoulders and swallows her whole. Jeez. Get a room. He releases her and wraps his arms around one of the single girls, nuzzling into her neck. My eyes go straight to Ashley, and I'm surprised to discover she has moved on too. Then again... no, I'm not surprised. It's just what I expected. It's exactly what I was worried about, coming here.

Having my theory confirmed, I look around for some distraction, something that will help me escape when 'my turn' comes around, since I know I can't really keep out of it all night. I spot a pitcher of water sitting on the table across the deck. Every time the group shifts towards me, I contemplate making a move - away. What am I doing here?

Chris loosens his grip on the girl, and a sick feeling comes over me. I can feel it. I'm next. It occurs to me that he's been waiting all night – weeks maybe – to make his move. I head straight for the water, turning my back to the group to hide my apprehension, my breath hitched in my throat.

Chris' body presses into my back and, instantly, his warm, wet mouth is gently sucking my neck, just below my ear. The cup slips from my hand, clinking as it crashes to the table and spills.

“Oh my god, I'm sorry!” I say, flustered, not sure why I'm apologizing. I twist around, push him away and head for the door to get a towel ...to escape.

“It's okay. It's just water,” Chris says, stopping me with his hand on my upper arm.

I turn around to meet his smiling face, drink in one hand, me in the other.

“Relax,” he says, pulling me closer.

I free myself, glance at the others over his shoulder then back at him. “I should go.”

“Don't be stupid. It's still early.” He steps towards me again, reaching for my waist.

I side-step him and back into the table. He grabs my forearm and tugs me forcefully towards him, a bit of irritation showing on his face. The feel of his hand around my arm, the force of his pull, sends me back to my living room, Bosley's hand on my arm, a gun in my face. My heart pounds furiously as fear surges through me. I shove Chris hard. He fumbles backwards into his friends and I make a run for the stairs, heading down to the sand. I keep running a few hundred yards towards the water, sobbing, afraid and embarrassed.

I drop down at the edge of the dry sand and bury my face in my hands, still crying. The last few days I spent at home with Bosley come whirling through my mind like a tornado. For the first time since it happened, I am gripped with fear, shaking internally. The gun in my face, Bosley's forcefulness, imprisoned in my own house, followed to Wethersfield... Denial has vanished. Reality is set in. I am on the run for my life.

“Hey,” Chris says, walking up next to where I sit. I hadn't heard him approach over the sound of the waves, and, being on edge, I'm startled to my feet.

Backing away, I wipe the tears from my face. I wish he would just leave me alone.

“Relax,” he says, holding up his hands. “I won't touch you.”

This is awful. I don't want him to see me like this. I don't want him to know me like this. I turn away and cry silently while trying to regain my composure.

“I didn't know,” Chris said from very close behind me.

I stiffen up, then turn to face him. “You didn't know what?”

“I didn't know you'd react like that. I was just ...kissing you.”

I scowl in confusion, Bosley still on my mind. Then I realize he knows nothing about Bosley. He's here about the kiss.

“Everyone here is like this,” he explains.

“Cheaters?” I say.

“It was just a kiss.”

“You're married.”

“So?” He turns toward the water and sits down, propping his beer up in the sand next to him.

I remain standing, looking down at him, brows still deep in a scowl.

“Look, Mollie, -” He looks up at me and sighs. “Will you sit down for a minute?”

I do, facing him to keep a distance between us and to keep my eye on him.

“Ashley and I are confident in our marriage. We just like to have a little fun.”

I sit quietly though my heart is still pounding. I don't have time for this. I have a new life to figure out. And, thinking back to Damian and Myra, I know for sure I never would have ...traded. I loved Bosley too much to risk it, even if I was confident he felt the same about me.

A breeze picks up, forming goose bumps on my arms. I dare not rub them or Chris might get closer.

“Haven't you ever kissed anyone besides your husband?” he says, looking sideways at me.

“No.” Not of my own will anyway.

“Are you serious?”

I stare at him. Is he serious?

He stares back for a moment, his brain working on ...something. “Where is your husband anyway?” he says.

What? My pulse explodes once again. Rising tension threatens to blow me to bits. My body stands up of its own accord. I hear myself speak but don't know where it's coming from. “I need to go. It's late.”

The sand seems to fall away from my feet, making it impossible to walk away. I can't get away fast enough. I feel like he knows, like he's aware of my past, knows my real name, knows my husband is after me. My chest tightens, my face tingles and I begin to sink, gasping for air. I'm aware of Chris' hands on me, holding me up at first, then fully supporting me, carrying me in fact. All I can do is hang on.

Beyond the blur, when the world stops spinning, I see Ashley going in and out of silhouette, the kitchen light bright behind her. My face is wet and she's shifting a cloth over my forehead. I feel heavy.

“Are you okay?” she says, squatting down next to me.

I realize I'm on the living room sofa.

“Chris?” Ashley yells towards the hallway. Chris enters a moment later.

“Feeling better?” he says, standing over me. “I've never seen anyone go so pail before.”

“What happened?” I manage to say, realizing my throat is extremely dry.

“I was going to ask you that,” Chris says. “You scared the crap out of me.”

I've never experienced anything like it. I swing my legs to one side and attempt to sit up. My head feels like there's an elephant sitting on it. It wobbles on my neck until I slouch back, falling to one side.

“Whoa,” Ashley says, grabbing my shoulders to steady me.

“Just lay down,” Chris says, placing my feet back up on the sofa. “Ashley, get her a pillow from the spare room and a blanket.” He looks back at me, one hand on my thigh. “You're not going anywhere.”

What? No. I can't stay here. I can't. Adrenaline kicks in and I'm upright again in an instant.

“I need to go,” I say, though I'm certain I can't ride my bike like this.

“No, you need to lay down,” Chris says, pressing my shoulders to keep me from standing up.

“No, really, Chris. I need to go.” My pulse is racing again, face tingling like it did before. My eyes can't seem to focus on anything. I'm so weak but I must get out! I feel trapped.

“Mollie, relax. You're not going anywhere.”

~~ Should Ana/Mollie stay the night or press him to bring her home? ~~

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The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday your local time. NOTE: We're back to the old poll again. If you have issues with it, say so along with your vote in a comment.

If you like this story, please share it with your friends.

At 50 readers, I'll give away a free copy of Livid.

Going South: Party Time (episode 18)

2010-07-13T09:00:00.000-04:00

Wesley and I agree on a restaurant. As soon as the plans are made, I already feel guilty. He knows I’m married… I think.

The next day, I search the internet on the age-old dial-up connection in the motel lobby for a bicycle. It’s the next best thing to a car. The nearest one I can find is a vintage banana seat bicycle, pink with a white seat, decorated with retro daisies. I hate pink. The woman asks $100 for it. I offer $75 and we have a deal. I ride my new bike back to the motel, surprised at how smooth the ride is and how comfortable the banana seat is.

Saturday night, I ride my bike to Chris’s house, a tiny home on stilts at the water’s edge. I prop my make-shift vehicle against the garage door which is under the house, straighten my yellow shirt and khaki capri’s and head towards the stairs. I have to walk through the eerie, dark stilts to reach the them. I’m not pleased. I wonder how the house stays up, and I can easily imagine it being knocked over with the force of one wave.

Standing at the front door, I see a distant glow inside and hear the chatter of a small group of people in the distance. Four cars are parked in the driveway so I estimate about eight people. The door bell echoes through the house and sifts out the open windows. Ashley answers the door, looking appropriate for the season in a short cotton summer dress.

“Hi Mollie! Come on in.” She makes room for me to pass her. “Everyone’s out back on the deck. Go ahead out. I’ve just got to get a few more drinks.”

I feel like a fool walking into this crowd even before I’m halfway there. We pass through the small living room towards the kitchen at the back. “Let me help you with the drinks,” I practically beg.

“Oh, sure,” she says with a bright smile. “I need three beers from the fridge, and I’ll grab this pitcher.” With the pitcher in one hand and a stack of fancy plastic cups in the other, she pushes the back door open and lets me pass.

“Hey, you made it,” Chris says, standing up to empty my hands of the three beers then distribute them to the guys.

I stand next to the glass table while Chris introduces me – two couples, a single guy and two single girls. No way I’ll remember their names.

“Do you like pina colada?” Ashley asks me, pouring some of the white fluid from the pitcher into a cup.

“Sure,” I say, looking for a seat without appearing to look for a seat. There aren’t any except for the cooler behind me against the outside wall of the house. I take the drink from Ashley and make a swift move back to sit down.

“Oh, Chris, go get Mollie a chair. I thought I had enough,” Ashley says.

“My fault,” one of the girls says, shrugging. “I crashed. Sorry, Mollie. I took your seat.”

“It’s okay,” Chris says, grinning. “She can sit right here.” He patted his thigh and the guys bellowed with laughter.

“I’m fine here,” I say, tipping the cup up to hide behind its brim.

“Come on, Chris. Go get a chair,” Ashley says, stretching over the gap between them to swat his arm.

“Fine,” he says, getting up. Then points a finger at me and says, “But you owe me,” and laughs.

Ugh. I hate every minute of this. It’s not funny. I don’t like him. I don’t want to drink. I don’t want to be social. I want to go home and slip into Bosley’s arms and –

Crud. I have to stop doing that.

Chris returns with a flimsy chair, opens it roughly and plops it down next to himself at the table.

“Thanks,” I say and transfer seats.

An hour later, after the best grilled brats and sauerkraut I’ve ever eaten, the girls stand together at the far rail of the deck, bobbing slightly to the music playing in the open window. The guys chill out at the table, lighting cigs and tipping back beers. I wonder if it’s safe to leave yet. Have I put in enough time here? If I stay good and long, will it make it okay to decline next time? I don’t exactly fit in with the girls but the guys… ugh. I slip into the house, using the bathroom as an excuse to escape.

Taking my time, I make note of their décor, pics, furniture. Passing through the micro kitchen and towards the hall, I stop to check out the living room. An open frame sofa with cream cushions and light wood sits against the left wall. A flat panel TV hangs on the opposite wall, sleek and almost unnoticeable. The coffee table is expertly decorated with a stack of three books lying on their side, each getting smaller as they go up. An electronics cabinet is tucked into the corner by the sofa and is loaded with equipment. I notice at least five machines. What could they all be for? Here and there on small tables and window sills are average beach decorations; shells, fish, etc. The hardwood floor is mostly covered by a white shag throw rug.

As I head down the short hallway, I peak into each door I pass. A bedroom. Looks like a spare. Light décor just like the living room. Across is … the basement. Yuck. Dark and musty. And the bathroom. I step ahead to peak into the last room, which I assume is their bedroom. I’ve never been more driven to snoop in anyone else’s house. Before I get a peak, I hear the back door creak open, and I scoot quickly into the bathroom.

After leaving what I think is plenty of time to rid the house of its recent guest, I head out towards the back again, but I’m surprised to find Chris waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in the dim light, arms crossed over his chest.

“Hi,” I say with a fake smile, heading for the door.

He meets me midway, throwing his arm around my neck and tugging me into his chest. “How’s it going?” he says. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah,” I say, wondering why he always has to touch me and when he’s going to let go. My gaze shoots toward the back deck to check Ashley’s location.

“Good. I knew you would.”

He keeps me in a headlock hug, holding my gaze. It’s definitely awkward. I’m not sure what he wants. A kiss? Please don’t kiss me, I think.

With his arm still around me, he walks me outside where the guys are now sitting on the railing by the girls, whooping and yelling, laughing and playing. One of them is now in the middle of the girls, shaking his money maker.

“Alright,” Chris says, getting everyone’s attention, and I blush. “Let’s show Mollie how to party.”

Party? What does he mean? I thought we were partying.

He finally releases me, smacking my ass as he whoops and hip butts one of the girls. In shock, I stand still for a moment, trying to determine what will happen next. Is it just a bit of wild dancing? Or is it more?

~~ Should Ana/Mollie try to leave or stick it out? ~~

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Going South: Lonely (episode 17)

2010-07-06T09:00:00.001-04:00

Chris and Ashley – I finally discovered his wife's name – drove away with a wave, leaving me standing in front of my shabby motel room door, feeling rather stupid, like High School all over again. Why am I trying so hard to fit in? I don't. And when did I start caring? Myra used to try to make me fit in with her make-up and style lessons, but I never let her get to me. Why am I letting Chris get to me now?

Because I'm lonely.

It takes several hours the next night, working with Chris, to put the beach party out of my mind and act normal. Every time I turn towards the kitchen to call in an order, I'm reminded of it. But Chris acts like it was nothing. So I act that way too. Nothing could ever happen between us whether I wanted it to or not ...which I'm still not sure exactly what I want. It's just simpler if I avoid him.

A few nights later, he invites me to his house for a barbeque, and I decline. The following weekend he invites me out on a friend's boat for the evening, and I decline. The very next day, he corners me in the freezer.

“Hey,” he says casually, pretending to retrieve beef patties. “When do you want to go see that place where the Dave Matthews Band started?”

“Oh,” I say, stretching out my task so as to avoid him. “I don't really like Dave Matthews, but thanks.” There. I said it. I expect him to tackle me to the ground for such heresy.

He stops fiddling with the beef patties and turns to face me head on, blocking the exit even more. “You said you liked them when I -”

“No I didn't.”

I close the box I've just retrieved two ketchup bottles from and walk towards him, head lowered, hoping he'll move out of my way without a fuss.

He doesn't. “What's your problem?” he says.

My heart pounds. Why am I so nervous? I've stood up to worse before.

I stop in front of him, unable to move on until he does. “What do you mean?”

“Did I do something to offend you? Why are you such a bitch lately?”

Ouch. I look him in the eye, a bit shocked. I have been a bitch. “I'm sorry,” I say, letting out a breath. “I'm just... trying to find my place here.”

“Well that's not the way to do it,” he says.

We stand facing each other without a word for a moment. I could almost crawl into his arms. I feel stupid. I need reassurance.

“If you don't like Dave Matthews, you can come to my house instead.”

His house? Hm. “Why are you being so nice to me? You never ask the other girls.”

“They're kids. You're not.”

Oh. I take a deep breath, still trying to define our relationship. I tell myself he just wants to be my friend but my instinct is telling me it's more. “Will you let me out? I'm freezing.”

“Will you come over my house Saturday night?”

“Yes,” I say just to get out.

He shifts slightly, and I slip past him.

“Where were you?” Liz asks when I return to the front. “We had like twenty people come in at once.”

“Sorry. I was getting supplies.” I whisk past her towards the booth to replace the empty ketchup bottles with the full ones. Through the open screen windows, laughter and chatter pour in from the group outside that Liz just mentioned.

The group stays the remaining hour until closing, finally breaking up and hugging their goodbyes under the lone spotlight from the gable. While Liz and the others clean up inside, I head out, stack trays and collect trash. A few of the party still remain.

I use a dry rag to brush crumbs and food off the picnic tables, forcing the morning birds to eat their breakfast off the ground. The last three guests apologize for getting in my way and keeping us open late.

As I give their table a brush down, I say, “Don't worry about it. Enjoy.” Then look up into familiar eyes. My face burns with embarrassment, my pulse racing. Damn, he looks good.

“Hey,” Wesley says. “You're not going to cry, are you?” His face lights up with a grin while I stand, staring at him, unsure what to say.

“No.”

His two friends say goodbye and head off into the gravel parking lot. He comes around the table to my side. God, he smells good too. Fresh, like soap and shaving cream. I busy myself brushing off the rest of the table.

“Relax,” he says, pauses, then continues. “You look … better.”

I let out a huff, stand up straight and face him. “Yes. I'm sure I look just great.” I smooth my sweaty hair back off my face.

“Actually, you do.”

His compliment surprises me. I hadn't had my guard up, wasn't protecting myself from emotional invasion. My pulse explodes and I feel uglier than before.

He removes his hands from deep in the pockets of his blue and white plaid shorts and flips his key around one finger. I wring my hands a bit. The only thing on my mind now is what it would be like to have his arms around me - What's wrong with me? - and... does he really think I look nice? Impossible. But for some reason, just hearing him say it makes me feel like a touch prettier.

His gaze drops to my hands as he opens his mouth to speak, then hesitates, and I realize he just spotted my ring. I drop my hands to my sides and shift my weight to one foot.

“So -” I begin to say.

“Do you want to go out to breakfast with me sometime?” he says, cutting me off.

“Breakfast?” I say without thinking. Is he asking me out?

“Yeah. Breakfast.”

A moth dives into my forehead, and I swat it away. The silence makes it seem like someone turned up the crickets.

“No pressure. Just a meal.”

Breakfast sounds less formal than dinner. Not like a real date. And there wouldn't be the same expectation for after dinner. It's probably safe. I hesitate to say, “Sure.”

“Great,” he says before it's barely out of my mouth. “Sunday?”

“Okay.”

“I'll pick you up,” he says.

“Great cause I don’t have a car yet.” Did I really just say that?

“Where should I pick you up?”

Ugh. Not the motel issue again. I gotta get out of there. “Uh... I live in kind of a strange place. I -”

“So do I.” He drops his head and laughs.

Uh oh. What does that mean? If he doesn't ask me about mine, I can't ask him about his.

“We can meet at a restaurant if you want. …Or I could make you breakfast at my place.”

~~ Which should Ana/Mollie choose, the restaurant or his place? ~~

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Going South: The Line-Up (episode 16)

2010-06-29T09:00:00.003-04:00

The walk home in the middle of the night seems daunting. Still I hesitate to accept Chris's invitation.

“Come on,” he says, throwing his arm around my neck playfully.

He leads me back towards the blanket where his wife lay gazing at the night sky.

I stop at the edge of the blanket, his arm still around me. “I'm not quite ready to sleep yet though.”

“Whenever you're ready, darling,” he says, smiling. His arm slides off my shoulders and down my back before he hops onto the blanket and cuddles up to his wife.

This is too weird. I need to walk it off.

I head back down to the water, taking note of how empty the beach is. Only a few people remain, cuddled on blankets like Chris and his girl. I wonder how long they've been married, what kind of marriage they have and if they're happy. Bosley and I were happy ...I think. When I stop to reflect, I miss him. So we must have been happy.

My hand goes to my chest where I feel a physical pain from the memory of him. The uncertainty of our situation is wearing. The scene around me, the distance I've traveled, the home and husband I left all seem so surreal. Will I ever see Bosley again? My right thumb and forefinger twist the wedding ring around my finger as I walk. I stop and sit on the hard, dry sand that separates the beach from the lapping waves.

I have to find a way to let go of my past life. I can't get it back. Even if I could, it wouldn't be the same. Bosley put my life in danger. He was violent with me. I must move on.

I slide the ring off my finger, inspect it in the dark, holding it up to catch the orange lights from the boardwalk far behind me. At the thought of getting rid of it, my stomach knots up and my chest tightens. I can't let go of him. I love him.

I slide the ring back onto my left hand.

Brushing the sand off my shorts, I walk back to the blanket where Chris and … whatever-her-name-is are fast asleep in each others' arms. I sit on the edge and stretch out beside them, wide awake, heart pounding, stuck in limbo ...still.

A bright light wakes me, and I peer into white oblivion against a black sky. Trying to sit up, my body is heavier than usual. I'm completely lost. The warmth of a body along my back and legs registers with my brain, sending my pulse reeling. It's the girl, I think I'm relieved to discover, although both her and his arms are draped over my stomach.

“Let's go,” the man behind the white light says. “Get up.”

I can't see a thing. Chris and his wife stir. I remove their arms from me and attempt to stand up, the soft sand making the task more difficult.

A hand grips my upper arm as I stumble to my feet, heavy with deep sleep. How long was I here? What time is it? What's going on?

The light leaves me for a moment and moves to Chris and the girl. I finally am able to see that it's an officer who has me by the arm and is shoving me around.

“Stand up,” another officer growls at Chris. “In a line. Come on.” He shoves Chris towards me and the girl.

The three of us stand in a row. A gentle kick to the inside of my right leg forces me to spread my feet. Two hands land on my shoulders, pat and frisk every inch of me down to my feet.

I am wide awake.

What are they looking for? What have we done? Are they going to arrest us? I can't do this now. My identity could be blown. They could send me home if there's a search out for me. Then I wonder... is there a search out for me? If Bosley's mixed up in the wrong crowd, he wouldn't be attracting police attention. So... no. There's not a search out for me.

“Have you had any alcohol tonight?” one officer asks Chris.

“Yes,” he answers.

“Drugs?”

Oh god. I pray Chris is clean.

“No.”

“What are you doing here then?”

Chris looks at his wife. Please don't get sarcastic. Please.

“Sleeping,” he says to the officer. “Would you rather we drive drunk?”

The officer, who surely would have grabbed him by his shirt if he were wearing one, pokes his finger into Chris's chest.

“Don't be a smart ass. The beaches are closed between 3 and 5.”

“Sorry,” Chris says, not sounding very sorry at all. “We didn't know.”

“Don't give me that bullshit,” the officer says, getting close to Chris. “There's signs every ten feet up there.” His arm points abruptly behind him towards the road.

Chris is quiet. His silence makes me more nervous.

The officer holds his gaze for another minute then shoos us away. “Get out of here!”

Chris's wife gathers the blanket into a ball and ushers him forward with a nudge of his arm. I follow silently.

At the Jeep, I fold myself into the back seat and hug my arms to warm them. As soon as we're on the road, the girl turns around to face me.

“Sorry about that. We usually don't sleep that long.”

“It's okay,” I say, even though it isn't.

“Where do you live?” Chris asks, looking at me in the rear view mirror.

Oh crud. Not only do I not trust him to know, I'm embarrassed that I live in a motel.

~~ Should Ana give him her real address or a fake one? ~~

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Going South: Beach Party

2010-06-22T09:00:00.006-04:00

The walk home from the store takes me almost an hour. I am sure, as I sniff the open milk carton, that I've lost half my food to the heat. The sniff proves scentless so I shrug and put the milk in the mini fridge. It's just big enough to hold the milk, yogurt, cold cuts, berries and a couple bottles of water. The rest of the food goes on the counter.

An hour later when I'm finished with my shower and standing before the mirror, I see that the sun has created unsightly tan – or should I say burn - lines across my upper arm and mid thigh. Next time I make a trip to the store, I'll have to remember the sun block.

Grabbing my shorts, I regret to think of the party tonight. If I decide to go, how would I work the outfit issue? I refuse to arrive at my first event wearing my DuneBurger shirt. But where would I change? I could change in the bathrooms at work but then I'd have to bring a bag with me and keep track of it all night. I don't have a swimsuit so at least there's no issue there. I simply won't swim tonight.

A fitted camisole catches my eye – the best solution under the circumstances. I pull it on then cover it with my red DuneBurger tee. I fold a few dollars into my pocket and head out.

Taking orders and reporting them to the kitchen makes it difficult to avoid making eye contact with Chris. Why is it so hard for me to look at him? Is it because he made my heart skip a beat and now I feel guilty? Or maybe that I have him all wrong and that's just embarrassing... Either way, I won't lead him on. I won't even think about him again.

Liz works the register. Clare and Laura, both whom I guess are in their early twenties, bring orders to patrons outside and clear dirty tables when they've gone. The girls don't say much to me but then I don't say much to them either.

“You ready?” Chris says as I return the mop to its place in the back room some time after eleven.

“Yeah.” It's a given that I'm going even though I debated all night up to this moment.

I follow him past the kitchen and around the front counter, ignoring the look I catch Clare and Laura exchanging. I don't care what they're thinking. I don't want to know. I don't even know what to make of it myself, never mind being concerned with them.

Beyond moth territory near the outdoor light and into the dark gravel parking lot, I jump into the wrangler for the second time today. Chris pulls his shirt off and tosses it into the back seat before getting in, leaving him bare-chested in cargo shorts. My pulse explodes and I fret about taking mine off now too or waiting until later when he's not looking. If I wait, it could draw more attention to it. Sitting in the front seat, I lean forward and pull it over my head, casting a glance in his direction when the deed has been accomplished. He watches me, smiles and starts the Jeep, Dave Matthews Band breaking the silence.

My heart races so fast, I feel faint. My hand grips the t-shirt, resting on the seat next to my thigh. I have to remind myself that I do have a camisole on under the t-shirt. I am not sitting bare-chested as he is.

He turns the music down as we approach a stop light.

“They got their start here. Did you know that?” he says, gesturing towards the dashboard.

I assume he's referring to Dave Matthews. “Really? No, I didn't.” I don't really care either. I'm not a fan.

“Yeah, they used to play in a joint down the strip. I'll take you there sometime if you want to see it.”

“Oh, thanks. You don't have to do that.” I move my hands to my lap, taking the shirt with them.

“I wouldn't mind. I go there often.”

He goes there? Not 'we' as in him and his wife? I let it drop without responding.

“You look like you got some sun,” he says, looking at me then back at the road. “Was that from your walk home today?”

I nod. How embarrassing. Yes, I'm a fair-skinned loser without a car. God, help me. I look away from him. If he can see my sunburn, he can probably see me blushing.

“If you need a car, I might be able to help you out.”

“Oh... well eventually. But I don't have the money right now. Thanks anyway.” Why is he being so helpful?

“Alright. Well let me know.”

He turns off the road and pulls up to a wood guardrail along the beach. The glow of bonfires and twinkle of cigarettes butts sets my body on fire. Here goes nothing...

I hadn't thought about my shoes when I got ready earlier. Now I regret it as sand slips into my sneakers. As soon as I'm comfortable here, I'll take them off.

“Hey! Chris!” a girl yells, waving her arm. Three other girls beside her light up with smiles. He advances ahead of me to distribute hugs.

“This is Mollie,” he says, then lists off their names, none of which I will remember. They greet me with a friendly wave of the hand then offer us beer. I decline then regret it. I don't want them to think I'm a priss but I want to keep my senses too. I decide to accept the next offer.

An hour later, I'm sitting on a piece of drift wood by the fire alone. Chris has his arm draped around the shoulder of one of the girls. The others have scattered and two new ones have appeared. I scan the beach. There must be over twenty bonfires on this strip of beach. Several different stereos can he heard, all melding together into some sort of beat and noise. The sweet smell of pot fills the air. I glance at the black ocean and remember my night alone with it longingly.

“Hey, I didn't know you were coming,” I hear from behind me.

I peer up over my shoulder at John. He steps over the driftwood and sits next to me.

“I didn't know you were coming either,” I say. How lame.

“Who'd you come with?” he says, tossing back the remains of his beer.

I hesitate about telling him. Is there something going on that I don't know about? I feel out of place and out of the loop. Is this an invitation-only party and that's why the girls at the shack exchanged the look? Or is Chris a player and I'm falling into his trap?

“Chris,” I finally say, looking across the fire at him. “He just gave me a ride,” I say, sounding quite guilty.

John grins and gives me the honor of looking away.

“His wife is pretty.” Maybe if I show him I'm not jealous, he'll know I'm not into him. Am I into him? I wonder...

John lets out a laugh which causes Chris and the girls to look up. When they've gone back to their chatting, John leans closer.

“That's not his wife. His wife is over there.” He points to a woman sitting on a blanket with a guy and a girl. I'm so confused.

“Oh,” is all I say.

“Let me get you a beer,” John says and stands up. I don't object. I don't even react. I feel as small as the grains of sand beneath my feet – my bare feet now.

He returns a moment later with an open beer, hands it to me as he stands beside where I sit and says, “Enjoy,” before walking away.

I take the beer with me and walk down to the water. The closer I get to the rushing crash of waves, the more the world around me disappears. I chug the bitter beer, happy for the buzz, and walk through the shallow water towards the pier a few hundred feet away. It's dark and eery under it's stalky legs. For some reason, its danger draws me closer and I wonder why I can face this threat but not the threat of a mass of people I don't know just behind me spread across the sand.

The pier stands at least a full story over my head and reaches a few hundred feet out into the ocean. I stand beneath it, watching the water find its way in a rush around the posts and towards me. Hidden in the darkness, I turn to face the beach, scan it slower, watch the people and analyze them. I see Chris on the blanket, making out with his wife now. Interesting. I can't seem to locate John. But it's dark. Faces are hard to make out.

As I watch people stumble around from blanket to driftwood to bonfire to bare sand, I figure each of them is either drunk or high. I am not. I just want to go home.

I have no idea how far I even am from my motel. Thinking back, I estimate it took us about ten or fifteen minutes to get here from the shack. That's maybe six or seven miles – another hour walk at... who knows what time it is? I'll definitely need a ride. But Chris has had too much to drink. I know. I watched him down one after another when I was sitting by the fire. Besides, I'm not much into interrupting a make-out session to ask for a ride home.

By the time I walk back up the beach, Chris's wife is laying alongside him with her head on his chest. I pass the blanket on my way to my shoes.

“Hey. Mollie,” Chris says, sitting up. “Have you met my wife, Alana, yet?”

She props herself up onto her elbows.

“No,” I say, reluctant to stop walking. “Nice to meet you,” I say pleasantly and move on.

“Hey, wait!” Chris yells, catching up with me. “Where you going?” he says, walking next to me.

“Just getting my shoes. I should be heading back now.”

“Oh.” He stops walking. “How are you getting home?”

I stand and look at him. I don't have an answer.

He seems to be as confused as I am. “We can give you a ride but I'm kinda buzzin. We usually sleep it off a bit first.”

Sleep it off? Like sleep... on the beach?

“We've got a big blanket. You can join us if you want.”

“I was going to see if I could find John actually.”

“I think he already left... a while ago.”

I look past Chris to where his wife lies on the blanket, glance back at Chris then up towards the road where I consider the long walk home in the middle of the night. I don't know the area well enough to be sure of my safety and I dread an hour walk.

~~ Should Ana sleep on the beach or walk home? ~~

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Going South: New In Town

2010-06-15T09:00:00.011-04:00

I follow Chris to his Wrangler, a step behind and a bit apprehensive. Why couldn't one of the girls be going out to pick up supplies? As I climb into the red Jeep, I'm embarrassed by my own insecurities. Just last night I felt I could conquer the world. Just because I haven't made any new male friends since I met Bosley, doesn't mean I can't now.

The wind whips my hair furiously as we drive along the main strip. I wrap it into a twist and hold it with my hand, watching gas stations and stores pass by.

“So where you from?” Chris says, shifting his weight, switching which hand is on the wheel.

“Up North.” I look out the side of the vehicle, hoping it'll keep him from asking more. At the sound of his voice, I feel an attraction to him but shake it off. I'm married. ...sort of.

“What brings you down here?”

I look at the road ahead now while I think of how to answer. “I just needed a change.” ...not a very social way to start our relationship. After a silence, I turn to him and smile. Trying to guess his age, I put him around 30. “Have you lived here long?”

Sunlight glints off his wedding band. I'm not sure if I'm disappointed or relieved.

“Yeah, most of my life,” he says, pulling into the middle lane and flicking on his blinker. “I love it here. Have you had a chance to look around yet?”

“No. I just got here yesterday and I -”

“Yesterday? Serious?” He looks at me wide-eyed – I assume - behind his sunglasses.

“Yeah.” I drop my gaze to my lap as traffic holds us there on the highway, waiting to turn.

“You didn't waste any time getting a job, did you?” he says and laughs.

“No.”

“Where you staying?” He watches the traffic for a break.

“In a motel for now,” I say, hoping he notice my vagueness.

An opening in the traffic comes and he takes it, shifting me against the door as he speeds into the parking lot.

“Sorry,” he says. “I hate Croaton. It's a mess this time of day.”

“No problem. Thanks again for the ride.” I'm ready to jump ship before he even comes to a stop.

“Hey,” he says when I'm half out the door. “There's a party on the beach tonight at Kill Devil Hills near the pier. You want to go?”

A party? I haven't been to a party since I was eighteen. “John's got me on 'til closing. Thanks anyway though.” Thank God I have an excuse. What would I do at a party? I can't even make conversation with one person.

“Me too. It doesn't get going until eleven anyway. I'll be going after closing.”

Crud. I stand looking at him with my hand on the door.

“You can ride with me from work if you want,” he says when I don't respond.

“Maybe.” I feel like I should be more thankful. He's offering me a new start, an easy way to get to know people and a night of fun on the beach. But all I can think of is how awkward I'll feel.

Inside the store, I load up my basket with whatever basics I think I can fit in my motel refrigerator. In the produce aisle, a pint of blueberries screams for my attention. At the deli, I pick up a quarter pound of roast beef and a few slices of American cheese for sandwiches. On an end cap hangs freezer bags. I stop to consider how long it will take me to walk four or five miles back to the motel in eighty degree weather and toss one in the basket. Hopefully it will do the job. I grab buns to complete the sandwiches. In the cereal aisle, I browse colorful boxes, spot Lucky Charms – on sale! - and grab a box for Bosley. He'll be happy.

Delivery stops midway from the shelf to the basket as a flash flood of realization hits me. The colors on the box hold my surprised gaze. I don't need cereal for Bosley. Will I ever? I miss him so much. My eyes well up and my breathing grows shallow. If only I could snap my fingers and make it all go back to the way it was. I want his arms around me. I want to say good morning with a hug in the kitchen while we wait for the coffee to percolate. I want dinner at the Kostas no matter how annoying they are. I want Damian to be flirty Damian again, not dangerous ...whatever he is now.

The sound of tears dropping onto the cardboard box brings me back to my current location – Food Lion, Outer Banks, North Carolina ...far away from Bosley. My free hand wipes the tears off my hot face while the other returns the now-stained box to the shelf.

“Tough decision. Isn't it?” I hear a man say behind me.

I ignore him and wipe my tears again. I can't even fake a smile.

“Lucky Charms?” he continues. “Or Fruity Pebbles?”

Does he really think I'm upset over which cereal to choose. I turn to look at him indignantly over my shoulder. He smiles. I realize it was a joke and smile too, lowering my head in embarrassment. Out of the corner of my eye, I can still see his white shirt and dark blue jeans. But my focus returns to the cereal boxes.

“Are you okay?” he says, his voice indicating a change of tone.

“Oh, yeah,” I say, shooing the thought away. “I'm fine.” I have to turn my back to him as I say it or he'll see that I've begun to cry again. “I just can't find Special K.” I pretend to focus on my search and hope he doesn't hear the quivering in my voice.

“You mean this?” He stands a few feet away, holding up the white box with a red K on it.

“Yes.” For a moment, I hesitate to step forward and take it from him. “Thanks,” I say, tossing it in my basket.

“Wesley,” he says, presenting his hand to me.

“An-...d I'm Mollie.” I get a good look at him now, long hair pulled back into a ponytail, several days stubble, a hemp necklace with one shark's tooth around his neck.

“You going to be alright now or do you need help finding the milk?”

I laugh. “I'll be okay. Thanks.”

He remains in my thoughts throughout the remainder of the store. Around each corner, I worry about running into him again. I could not be more embarrassed.

The cold items just barely fit into the freezer bag. The rest of my items are tossed into two plastic bags. The heat hits me as the automatic doors separate. Crossing four lanes to get across the main strip almost kills me. Between the heat and the stress, I drip with sweat.

I figure it'll take me half an hour or longer to walk back to the motel. That will give me about two hours or so before I need to go to DuneBurger. Then... the party. A list of pros and cons occupies my thoughts on my long walk back. I'm not feeling very social. I'm not cool enough to fit in down here. Up north, snobby was cool. Being an anti-social artist was cool. Staying in and reading was cool. Down here, it's beaches and parties, burgers and grease, summer fun and meeting new people. I'll have to adapt eventually if I'm going to stay here – and I'm not planning on going anywhere soon. But walking towards a beach party at midnight will be harder than walking into the lunchroom on the first day of school.

~~ Should Ana go to the party? ~~

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Going South: The Dip

2010-06-08T09:00:00.003-04:00

I peel my clothes off, drop them in a pile on the floor and grab a towel from the bathroom. Unlike a beach towel, this white motel towel barely wraps around me and comes down just over my back side. I lower it a bit on the top to cover more of the bottom, checking myself in the mirror to ensure all the important bits are covered.

My heart races as I reach for the doorknob. I already feel exposed and I haven't even stepped out of my room yet. Something inside me, something unlike anything I experienced before, urges me on. I tip toe out the door onto the shore-side boardwalk lit by one orange light, then jump two steps down to the sand and escape into the darkness, towards the crashing of the waves. My eyes scan the shore one way and then the next over and over until the water laps onto my feet. It feels chilly at first, and I stop to look down at the water swirling around my ankles. I feel instantly cooled to my core, but still sticky, sweaty and aching.

I toss my towel onto the dry sand after one last check in each direction then run into the black water with foaming white breakers. It splashes up my thighs as my feet pound down then break free to advance further and deeper into the cool. A wave crashes against my bare stomach, flowing forcefully between my legs, touching me like the ocean has never touched me before. Another wave builds in front of me. I dive head first through the base of it and surface on the other side where it is calmer, blacker.

Cold water, salt and sand whirl around my body, invading me, caressing me. The chill exhilarates me. I feel invincible ...almost invisible. Me against the great big black ocean. Me against the strip of twinkling lights that represent Nags Head. Me against Bosley. Me against the world. And, at the moment, I'm sure I'll come out on top.

After a few minutes bobbing and dipping between waves, I push the water behind me and head for the shore. My feet touch the sandy bottom as I check both ways again. Still clear. I press my feet into the sand and push against the pull of a growing wave. The water drops around me to my hips, then plasters me from behind with a wall of water, throwing me to my knees, grating my skin with sand and rocks. I relax and let the wave pass, holding my breath under the force of the water. When it passes, I get to my feet again and run. A second wave crashes into my calves but I'm prepared this time. I run free of the water, the skin of my whole body prickling into goose bumps from the breeze. I pick up the towel, shake out the sand and cover what I can, shivering as I run through the dry sand back to the motel, to the only room with the light still on.

Panic sets in as I leap up onto the boardwalk and realize I didn't bring the key. Standing by the door bathed in orange light, I look left then right. What am I going to do? I'll have to go to the main office and ask them to let me in. I look down at my barely covered body and sand-covered feet, look around one more time as if a better solution will miraculously appear then resign myself to the first solution. I walk along the boardwalk lining the ocean side of the motel until I get to the end where another boardwalk half buried in the sand leads the way around the front.

The lot is well lit, unfortunately. I scurry as quickly as I can across the front of the building, holding my towel closed where it joins. I pray it's the same girl at the front desk, not someone else – especially a man.

“I locked myself out of my room,” I say, shrugging, attempting to make myself smaller.

She pulls her feet off the counter and stands up then looks me up and down. “Your legs are bleeding,” she says with no expression.

I look down. They are. Before I can respond, she's asking my name.

“Mollie Bar.” Doesn't she remember me from earlier?

“Oh right. You owe the $50.” She reaches over a counter to a pin board and pulls down a key.

“I have that payment for you now,” I say as we walk together towards my room, almost forgetting to hold my towel closed.

After she lets me in, I rummage through my pants pocket and retrieve $50 from my tips.

“Thanks,” she says and I notice her name tag - Ali.

I expect her to leave but she lingers, eying my legs again.

“Don't get blood on the towels,” she says, gaze dropping from my knees to my feet. “And rinse your feet in the showers out back before you come in next time.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I say, fidgeting. “I will. Sorry about that. Thanks.”

She leaves. I let out a sigh. With key in hand, I head out the back door again to the showers out back that I hadn't noticed before.

Two showers are open to the air, one is surrounded by a tall fence-like structure. I step into that one, hang my towel up on the hook and rinse down. The water is colder than the ocean and it seems the breeze has picked up.

Wrapping the towel around me once more, I scoot back to my room, grab a clean towel to dry myself and collapse onto the bed, face up so my skinned knees won't stain the sheets.

I meet with John at 11:00 sharp the next day, wearing shorts and a plain t-shirt rather than the Dune Burger shirt I soiled with sweat last night. If he wants me to work tonight, he'll give me a new shirt. He ushers me past the kitchen and into his office, a small greasy room not much larger than a walk-in closet.

I wait to sit until I'm sure it's what he wants me to do.

“What happened?” he asks, catching me by surprise. I follow his gaze to my knees.

“Oh, nothing. I fell,” I say, shooing his concern away with a wave of my hand.

“Oh. Hm.” He takes a seat behind a desk that occupies most of the room.

I take my cue and sit in the chair tucked into a corner. He writes my info on an employee index card and shoves it in a box. We agree on a schedule and pay, and he tosses me a second t-shirt.

“Welcome to the Dune Burger,” he says, holding his hand out for an official shake. Soon we're walking together towards the front.

“Could you tell me where the nearest grocery store is?” I ask over my shoulder as we pass the kitchen.

“Sure. There's a Food Lion about five or six miles up on Croatan.”

“Oh,” I said, thinking of the walk. “Nothing closer? I don't have a car yet.”

“Not a full grocery store, no.”

I stop by the front counter when I realize John has ducked back into the kitchen.

“Chris is going out to pick up some supplies,” he says, returning from the kitchen with one of the cooks in tow. “He's headed that direction. I'll have him drop you off if you can find your way back okay.”

I glance at Chris over John's shoulder. Chris is inches taller than John, about ten years younger, light brown hair hanging down over his ears. I need some staple foods but my trust gauge is still out of wack.

~~ Should Ana accept the ride? ~~

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Going South: New Girl

2010-06-01T09:00:00.000-04:00

I take a quick look around the restaurant in search of an excuse to start immediately. That's when I realize there are no waitresses, no bussers, just a long line of customers waiting for their food. In a split second, I've made up my mind.

“You look like you could use the help now. I'll work until closing without pay. If you think it will work out for both of us, I'll come back tomorrow morning to settle the details.” I'll worry about the money tomorrow. Tonight, I need to secure a job.

Both John and the young cashier stare at me, my mind still whirling to find a place for me here – right now without training ...or trust. In the few minutes I've been here, I understand the system. Take the order, submit to kitchen, take payment, call number, hand over food. Simple.

“I'll take orders while she handles the register,” I say with a nod towards the girl after what feels like a five minute stare-down and before I remember I don't know the menu.

“Liz, the register will be easier for her. You take the orders and let her cash.”

A sigh of relief is not enough to express my delight. I am elated ...and in disbelief. Without waiting for further instruction, I step behind the counter. John is already back in the kitchen. Liz is taking the next order.

“4.95, .99, 1.50,” she says with each item the customer orders.

After a momentary setback, she points out that I need to hit the food button after each amount. After that, I'm good to go. Total, payment method, count back change. Easy. The line begins to move again – a family, eight teens, a couple, a mother and her young daughter.

John returns to check on me, tossing a t-shirt at me. “Put it on over your clothes. You need to look like you work here.”

I slip it on quickly, ignoring how hot I already am with just one shirt on. John sticks around for a moment, watching, assessing me. It should make me nervous but I am surprised to discover my own confidence. I am doing well, sweating bullets but doing well. His absence after inspection almost goes unnoticed.

“Special, side cheese,” Liz yelled to the kitchen, shoving the order slip into the spinning stand.

“66.95,” I say to the tall guy who is overdressed in a collared shirt and suit pants, smiling at me with a dimple in his chin. Then I realize I've made an error. I immediately blush, searching the register for a cancel or void button. Nothing.

“I've only got twenty,” he says, obviously trying to relax me with a joke.

“Sorry. It's only 6.95,” I say, shrugging. I can't find any way to cancel the order and Liz is busy with the next customer. So I hit the cash button and give him 13.05 in exchange for his twenty. “Sorry, we're out of tens,” I say, handing him two fives instead. Could this transaction go any worse?

He hands a five back to me. I look up, confused.

“For you,” he says, perfect teeth revealed through full lips. “You look like you need it.”

Five dollars closer to paying the motel... I think about it as I hold it suspended over the pooled tips bin – the pooled tips I gave up for tonight.

“I'm sorry. Tips are pooled here,” I say, making up rules I'm not sure exist just to cover my butt. “Do you still want to leave it?”

His gaze drops to the bucket below my hand. “Yes. Keep it.”

I drop it in and turn towards Liz to see where we're at. She'd been watching me, curious to see what I'd do, I'm sure. Tall guy is still in ear shot so I can't discuss it with her. We move on.

I have no idea when closing is but a couple of hours into working, when the line has dwindled down, I pause to stretch my back and realize it is almost 10:30. Helping Liz seems silly now as people trickle in two at a time. The other two girls working in front near the register are wiping down the counter and reloading the napkins. Some tables inside the restaurant are littered with trash, plastic trays, cardboard french fry boats, spilled ketchup.

“Should I clean up those tables?” I ask Liz. She has become my unofficial manager.

“Sure,” she says, without much expression. Is she happy I offered? Or is she laughing behind my back now? Either way, I'll keep working until John says to go home.

Using the scattered trays, I pile up the trash and dump it in the garbage can. The larger trash on the floor I pick up with my hands and toss onto another tray. I'm sure there's a broom around somewhere. I walk past the register and past the kitchen for the first time. Beyond the kitchen stands a mop, two brooms and some rags. I head straight for it, pulling a rag out of a bucket of soapy water and ringing it out.

I pass the kitchen again on my way back out, peek across the grills at John and two other guys. They nod as if they know me, as if I've worked there for months and I momentarily have a flashback to my teens when I waitressed in downtown Boston. It was a different kind of restaurant, different menu, different prices, but the atmosphere behind the front counter seemed just the same – hot sweaty workers flipping meat on a grill, metal tools clanging, sizzling, spattering, frying.

I use the wet rag to wipe off the empty tables and smile at a boy entirely too young to be out past 10:30.

“What's she doing?” the boy says to his mother while he watches me.

“She's cleaning,” mom answers in a pampering voice.

He continues to watch me.

“That's some ice-cream sundae you got there,” I say, a subtle reminder to eat instead of watch while making a friendly gesture.

Reminded, he looks down at his ice-cream which is half melted and mostly chocolate sauce. “It's my present,” he says.

I move one table closer and wipe it clean. “Ah.”

“I was a good boy today,” he says, quite proud of himself.

Mom gets nervous and ushers his attention back to her. “Eat your ice-cream now. It's late.”

I sense there's more to the story than she'd like me to know so I move away, heading back through the kitchen to get the broom.

At 11:20, when the last guests leave, John peeks out from the kitchen and says, “Clean up,” to Liz who is leaning against the register grooming her cuticles with her teeth. Liz looks sideways at me across the room. John's gaze follows.

“Oh,” he says, making a full appearance by the counter. “You did that?” he asks me, gesturing to the clean restaurant.

“Yes. I hope that was okay.” For a moment, I think he'll be mad I cleaned while customers were still here.

“Yes, it's okay.” He looks back at Liz as if he's about to ask her something. Then he looks back at me. “How'd it go tonight?”

I join him on the opposite side of the counter. “Good,” I say with surety. My lower back has a piercing pain and my mouth is dry as cotton.

“Great,” he says.

“Oh,” I'm reluctant to add. “There was one thing.”

“What?”

“I rang up an order wrong but Liz was busy so I left it and just counted the change back.”

“Oh.” He moves to the register. Liz reluctantly moves out of his way, dumps the tip jug over and begins counting it. “Tell me what happened,” he says, eyes on the register. I can't tell if he's angry or not.

“It should have rung up as 6.95 but came up as 66.95.”

“So what did you do?” He pushes several buttons now.

“I hit the cash button, took his twenty and gave him change.”

“Okay,” he says, hitting one last button which begins a long printout. “No problem.”

No problem? Really? “I hope it was alright. There was a long line and I wanted to keep it moving.”

“It's fine. You handled it well.” He waits for what I assume is an end of night report from the register. “What's the total?” he asks Liz as she finishes counting the tips.

“523,” she says. He makes a note on a paper log.

“Give Mollie a hundred. Split the rest between you three.”

Her eyes widen in disbelief. My heart leaps in my chest.

“She cleaned, Liz. So you're getting out of here half an hour early with less work. Give her a hundred.”

Liz counts out a hundred and hands it to me.

“Thank you,” I say to Liz modestly and then to John, “I really appreciate it.”

“Come back tomorrow morning at 11:00 so we can make this official.”

“Great,” I say, my stomach flickering with hope.

It's almost midnight when I get back to the motel. I'm exhausted and need to cool down. A hot bath would sooth my aching muscles but a dip in the ocean would be refreshing and therapeutic. I pick up my duffel bag from where I left it earlier and drop it on the bed. Unfortunately, I failed to pack a swimsuit during my escape. There's always the birthday suit.

I go to the back window, pull the drapes back and peer out at the ocean just hundreds of feet away. It's dark and looks deserted. I’ve never skinny dipped but I feel… empowered.

~~ Should Ana go skinny dipping? ~~

<a href="http://www.buzzdash.com/polls/should-ana-go-skinny-dipping-200583/">Should Ana go skinny dipping?</a> | <a href="http://www.buzzdash.com">BuzzDash polls</a>

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Going South: Settling In

2010-05-25T09:00:00.002-04:00

I need a quick story, some explanation for leaving half the application form blank.

“I just moved here and haven’t found an apartment yet,” I explain as we sit together in her quiet office, the door closed.

She slides the application back across her desk to me. “I will need your social and references.”

Damn. I need this job. I won’t survive without it. My name is already on the form so what difference would it make to add my social? But the references… How can I get around that? I could use my waitressing job from ten years ago. But she might be suspicious of the gap.

“I haven’t worked in ten years,” I say, averting my eyes, afraid it’s the last straw. “My husband worked so I didn’t have to but… we just separated.”

A crease appears above her brows.

“Would you like me to fill in the last job I had?”

By the tightness of her lips, I am sure this is goodbye.

“No,” she says. “Why bother? What good is a ten-year-old job reference?” Her pen scratches as she makes a note on a notepad.

My head lowers. Defeat. Who would ever hire me under these circumstances? I feel the weight of her gaze on me and raise my head.

“Where are you staying?” she says in a more motherly tone.

What point is there in lying now? I’ve already ruined my chances. “I’m not sure. I’ve been staying at a hotel. I’m looking for one with a monthly rate for now.” I hadn’t been, but as the idea formulated and then spilled out, I was instantly sold. No contracts. No yearly lease. It’s perfect.

“How long have you been separated?”

A personal question, one too personal for this interview.

“Not long at all.” It’s all I could say. Take it or leave it, I thought.

“I’ll tell you what, come back tomorrow and we’ll give it a go. Let’s say, a week probationary.”

What? Is she serious? By the warm smile radiating from her face, I decide that yes, she is. “Thank you so much,” I say, shaking her hand, trying not to look too thankful, trying not to cry.

A week later, I am settled in at Neva’s Beauty Salon. Washing hair between answering phones and taking payments is a synch. It’s something to distract me, something to keep me busy. Listening to the stories of clients about their kids, their spouses and their annoying bosses is like watching a reality tv show. I can’t help but get sucked in.

“You’re so quiet,” Tony says one day when it is just him, me and Neva left. I shrug. What would I talk about?

A few weeks pass just like the first. I enjoy the routine. I like the busyness of the salon over the stale air of the travel agency back home. I feel creative without being creative.

Memorial Day weekend approaches and I look forward to a day in the warm sun. Neva invited me to her place for a day by the pool. I hesitated at first because I didn’t know anyone who would be there. But I decided to go anyway. I need some fun.

Friday afternoon, out of work early for the weekend, I head to my hotel and collect my dirty clothes, tossing them into the duffel bag and heading to the Laundromat - Friday night routine. On my way to the Laundromat, I make a stop at the bank to have my check cashed. I have managed to save a few dollars to buy some new clothes. The few I brought along with me are looking warn and tired. So tomorrow will be a pleasant day of shopping. I fold the week’s pay into one of the bag pockets.

“I thought for shore I wouldn’t be seein you tonight, girl,” says Jackie, her corn rolls replaced with extensions.

“Yeah, well laundry still needs to be done, even if it is a holiday weekend. Love the new look,” I added before plopping down in front of ‘my’ machine with my laptop and a soda from the vending machine.

She dismisses my compliment with a wave of her hand and returns to her receipts.

When the laundry is done and folded, gently stacked back up in the duffel bag, I head back to the hotel, enjoying the walk more than usual. The weather is finally feeling like summer and I’m in heaven.

Stacey smiles at me from behind the front desk.

“Oh!” she says as I’m about to turn the corner. “Your husband is here.”

My heart kicks at my ribs. “What?” I step back towards the front desk, eyes darting around the area, looking for him.

“I wasn’t sure if I should give him a key or not.”

“Did you?” I say carefully.

“Yes. Should I not have?” Her pleasant smile is gone and she looks concerned, probably because my face has lost color.

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” I lie, softening my expression, glancing towards the front door. “Is he here now?”

“I think so, ma’am. I haven’t seen him come back down.”

“Oh. Okay…” I creep towards the door.

“Is something wrong, Ms Knighton? If I handled that wrong, I can get the manager to compensate you.” Her eyes are pleading with me now – please don’t get me fired.

“No. Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.” I’ll be gone tomorrow. “I’m gonna go pick up some dinner for us. I’ll see you soon.”

Goodbye to my savings in the room safe. Goodbye to my job. Goodbye to my new life.

A bus is stopped a few yards down the street and I take off running to catch it. It drops me off in the next town where I catch another bus into the city.

“When’s the next bus out of state?” I say to the ticket lady at the bus station in Hartford.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere. Whatever is leaving next.”

Through a series of buses and trains, and after over a day of travel, I end up in the Outer Banks, North Carolina. The bus stops at the hospital and I exit to the warm night, salty air and ocean breeze. I have no idea what this place is like though I’ve arranged travel plans here for so many clients. I have no idea if I’m safe yet. But how far can I run? I used half my money just to get here.

I take a road away from the highway, towards the water. The line of condos and beach homes is backed by only the ocean. I close my eyes and ‘breathe’ summer.

The Sandspur Motel is small and old. I assume it will be just what I can afford.

“Your name, ma’am?” the woman says. Her tank top reveals two tattoo sleeves that I can’t take my eyes off. Her blonde scraggly hair is tied into a messy knot high on her head, skin tanned, flip-flops revealing several toe rings.

“Mollie.” I visually explore the foyer, stopping to drool over a plate of cookies set out on a food bar at one side.

“Mollie what?”

“Bar,” I say, without thinking, still staring at the food bar. I’d spent hours coming up with Mollie, but hadn’t even considered a last name. How foolish.

“Okay, Mollie. It’ll be $367 for the week.”

I dig out all the cash I have left and lay it out on the counter.

“You’re fifty short.”

“Can I pay it later?”

She looks at me like I just asked to stay free. “Pay by tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? How will I manage that? “Okay. Thanks.”

She hands me a normal key on a ring, not a card that slides into a magnetic reader. I snatch three cookies from the bar on my way out. My room is three doors down from the main office. The handle jiggles as I slide the key in and turn it. The place smells moldy and stale. I open the sliding window towards the ocean and drop my stuff by the bed. There is no time to waste. I must find a job tonight.

I head south from the hotel, happy to have lightened the load. While I walk in the now chilly night air, the smell of fried food wafts towards me. Dune Burger, a red fast food shack with road side picnic table dining, glows from within. All the outdoor tables are loaded, a line is formed out the door and I can see workers through the window, hustling around in the kitchen.

It’s bad timing to ask for a job. But then… maybe it’s good timing. Maybe they’ll take me on the spot because they’re so busy.

I squeeze by the line at the door and sheepishly make my way to the register. A teen girl wipes her forehead with her arm while punching keys on the register.

“Excuse me?” I say, leaning over the counter towards her, as if it’ll stop everyone else from hearing me.

“Can I help you?” she says curtly while passing change back to a customer.

“Are you hiring?”

“John!” she yells over her shoulder.

Why do I feel so stupid?

A middle-aged man appears from the kitchen, sweat dripping down his face, thick brown hair matted slightly at his temples.

“She wants a job,” the girl says and he lets out a laugh.

“Bad timing, hun. Can you come back tomorrow morning?”

If I can start tonight – now – I might earn some tips to pay for the hotel. I have the experience, even if it is ten years old. And he can use me now. I’m sure of it.

~~ Should Ana push to start now or come back tomorrow? ~~

<a href="http://www.buzzdash.com/polls/should-ana-push-to-start-now-or-come-back-tomorrow-200080/">Should Ana push to start now or come back tomorrow?</a> | <a href="http://www.buzzdash.com">BuzzDash polls</a>

Vote by the poll. The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday (your local time).

Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?

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Going South: The Inquiry

2010-05-18T09:00:00.000-04:00

The coffee in my hand lands on the neck and shoulder of a man twice my size – an officer. I am just as shocked as he is. He gasps and pulls at his crisp blue shirt, pealing it away from his skin, mouth open in shock. I back into the breakfast table while the reception guy comes running with a towel. I shouldn’t be afraid but I am. How does he know my name? Am I in trouble for not leaving a security deposit? If not for that, surely for assaulting an officer. I want to run but I'm frozen, watching the two men fumble over each other.

“Ms Knighton?” the officer says, still toweling off, irritation in his voice.

“Yes. I'm sorry, sir.” I wish the table would disappear so I could back up further. I wish he didn't know my name. I wish I weren't so freakin petrified.

The reception guy skedaddles as soon as possible, tossing me a nod before disappearing.

“I'm Officer Joe Hayes.” He presents his hand for a shake and I take it. “What is the nature of your stay here?”

My breath hitches in my throat. The nature of my stay? Escape. Survival.

“Just a little vacation,” I say and smile, my shoulders up by my ears with tension.

“Where are you visiting from?” Now that the coffee has been cleaned up, his hands are on his hips... er his holster ...belt.

“Boston.” Close enough.

He looks around the area where we stand. “Are you traveling alone?”

“Yes, sir.” Please don't ask any more questions.

He looks me up and down. I can't tell if he thinks I'm a suspect or victim. His inspection stops at my waist, which I soon realize is where my left hand rests.

“Your husband’s not with traveling with you?”

I suck in much needed air and avert my eyes. “No. My husband and I are separated.”

With narrowed eyes he asks, “Mrs Brighton, are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No!” I answer too quickly and let out a nervous laugh. At least I'm not a suspect. “Why would you think that?”

“Mr. Domki thought you were... in need of help.”

Damn you, reception guy. Why couldn't you just stay out of it?

“No. I'm fine. That's silly. Honest. I'm alright.” Shut up, Ana. Just shut up.

“Where will you be staying for the remainder of your …vacation?”

Crud. I don't know and, if I did, I wouldn't tell him. “Here.”

He made eye contact with Domki then looked back at me. “Okay, ma'am. If you need anything, you know who to call.”

“Yes. Thank you, sir.” Thank you for leaving.

In my room – without breakfast – I grab my bags and head for the sliding glass door, slip out, checking both ways for …anyone. It's a courtyard, unfortunately, so I must find another door back into the hotel. I walk briskly through the hallway and exit onto a side lot, running as soon as I clear the door. Across the street, I duck behind a convenience store to catch my breath.

The buildings along the busy highway hide me for several miles until I spot a HELP WANTED sign posted out by the road. I have no idea what help is wanted until I circle around the front of the building – a hair salon.

The smell of hairspray and curling irons hits me the second I open the door. Hairdryers drown all other sound. A young girl in ripped jeans and layered tank tops puts on a fake smile and greets me.

“I'm here for a job,” I say.

“Excuse me?” she yells.

“I'd like to apply for the job,” I say a bit louder, pointing towards the road where I saw the sign.

“Oh.” She drops the fake smile. “Hold on.” She leaves me there in a cold sweat. I have no idea what the job is, if I'm qualified or if she'll pay me cash. She returns with a middle-aged woman, slightly heavy set with short funky hair.

“Hi, I'm Neva. And you are?” the woman says, shaking my hand.

“Ana. Hi.”

The hairdryers shut off within minutes of each other, leaving me with a sense of deafness in the quiet.

“You're here for the job?” she says.

“Yes.”

“Are you a stylist?”

I can tell she's skeptical already. I realize my jeans and top are not very trendy.

“No,” I admit. “Is that what you're looking for?”

“No. Actually, we need a shampooer and receptionist.”

Over her shoulder I catch the receptionist rolling her eyes.

“I can do that,” I say with confidence.

“Great! Let me get you an application.” She leaves through the arched door to the salon area and returns a moment later.

Sitting in the thin leather chair of the waiting area, I plop my bags down next to me, smooth the application over a magazine on my lap and begin work on the application.

Name: Ana Knighton

Address: …

Crud. My pulse picks up. How can I fill out an application without an address? I skim down the rest of the page – references, insurance, social security number. My sweaty palm sticks to the paper as I lift my hand to my head.

Don't panic. Maybe there's some way I can explain my situation to her without giving too many details. I stare at the blank form with my name at the top and suddenly remember George and Rosanne, wondering if they miss me yet, wondering if Bosley has called them looking for me. Do they know what's going on? Do they know I won't be coming back to work for … well maybe never? Will they manage okay without me?

I wish I could call them to explain but I can't. I just can't get them involved. And I can't risk Bosley tracing me here. Officer whatever-his-name-is was scare enough. Someday I hope I will have a chance to explain and apologize.

“All set?” Neva says, standing in front of me, breaking my gaze.

“Not quite. Two more minutes.”

~~ Should Ana fill in fake info or come up with some explanation? ~~

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Vote by the poll. The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday (your local time).

Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?

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Going South: The Traveler

2010-05-11T09:00:00.002-04:00

Standing outside the shelter, staring at the door, I contemplate going in. What I envision on the other side scares me – beggars, homeless people in rags in layers, eying me up, encircling me to attack and take all I have. It doesn’t matter if it’s real or just my imagination. I’ll never be able to sleep. I must find some other solution.

I walk on, wandering, hoping my eye will catch on an answer. And then it does. My bank. How stupid could I be? The withdrawal limit is only on the ATM. Why didn’t I just go inside?

Relief! I grab the shiny metal handle on the glass door and walk in with confidence. Maybe I can get enough cash to last a few weeks. How much would I need? A thousand? Two? I go for three just to be safe, handing my withdrawal slip over the counter to the teller with red-orange hair and strong perfume.

Her well manicured nails click against the keys as she begins the transaction. I almost want to laugh, I was so stupid. A smile creeps onto my face instead. How I would love to see Bosley’s face when he realizes I’ve gone.

My confidence is stolen away as the teller says, “I’m sorry, ma’am. This account is frozen.”

I gasp and step back. Already? I look over my shoulder as if Bosley might be right behind me. Leaving my card behind, I head for the exit, the teller yelling after me, “Are you okay, ma’am?”

Does Bosley know I’m in Boston. Has he been following me? Is he here now? I have to get out of here. I pick up my pace and keep checking over my shoulder for him, afraid he’s waiting around every corner or sneaking up on me from behind.

A train station! I duck in and hurry to the ticket booth.

“How much to Hartford?” I ask.

“$31.50 with one stop in Springfield.”

“I’ll take it.” I hand over two twenties. She returns change and a train pass.

I fall into the seat on the train, spent on stress. With the duffel bag snug between my feet and the laptop bag on my lap, I lean my head against the window and fall fast asleep.

Nearly three hours later, in Hartford, I find a bus out of the city going ...anywhere.

“Wethersfield,” the driver tells me and I feed my money into the machine.

Another twenty minutes and I'm left standing alone on a busy street, stores, gas stations and fast food lined up as far as I can see in either direction. I choose the slightly downhill direction, no goal in mind, and begin to calculate my possibilities. One night in a hotel – a cheap hotel – could be about... $50. What will I do tomorrow? I'll need to find a job. Who will hire me without asking any questions … and who will pay me in cash? I can't open a bank account. Where will I keep the cash? No place seems safe. No option reasonable. Panic builds again.

Motel 6 comes into view as I emerge from an underpass. It's got to be the cheapest stay around.

The man behind the counter speaks broken English, though I can understand him just fine. $45.99, one night, one adult, cash.

“Need your credit card for security, ma'am,” he says with a big smile.

I hesitate. “I don't have one.”

His smile fades a bit but not entirely. “Don't have one, ma'am?” Now he's scowling, confused.

“No, sir. Please let me stay. I'll clean for you.” Good God, did I really just say that? “I mean, I need a job.” Shut up. Just shut up.

He seems unsure what to do with me. His smile is gone. “You want to clean?”

Well no I don't want to. “Yes.”

“We not hiring, ma'am. So sorry.”

My eyes water up out of nowhere. He's not my last resort. He just feels like it. “Okay,” I say, mad at myself for giving up so easily. I drop my head, shoulders sunken. “Can I just stay the night?”

He keeps his eyes on me as he obviously contemplates. “Okay. Yes, ma'am. No credit card but you can stay. Tonight.”

“Thank you.” My face contorts as I let the tears fall.

He averts his eyes, concentrating on the computer, or the key register, or the front door. I've made him uncomfortable and for some reason I feel bad about that.

“Room 132, ma'am. Enjoy your stay.” His smile is back but I can tell he can't get rid of me fast enough.

The room is cleaner than I expected for $45.99 although the stench of carpet shampoo is overwhelming. I close the door behind me and lock the dead bolt then head straight for the glass doors on the other side, facing the pool and courtyard. How odd to have sliding glass doors in a hotel room. I pull on it to check the lock and it slides open. No matter what I do with the handle, it won't lock. Nice. Just what I need. I'm about to go back to the service desk when I spot a stick leaning against the wall. I suppose it's better than nothing. I drop it into the track of the door and try opening it again. This time it stays.

With the drapes pulled closed and everything locked down, I begin to feel safe. It's dinner time. I have approximately 18 hours to figure out what to do next.

Pulling the covers back on the bed reveals some unsightly stains near the edge of the cover sheet. My instinct tells me to go complain, ask for another room or just leave. But that was before my options were so slim. Now I just live with it. It's a bed, and I'm safe.

After a restless night, I emerge from my room in search of food. I locate the continental breakfast bar and begin to collect fruit, a bagel, a small box of cereal... I stop by the coffee machine, place my breakfast down on the table and pour myself some hot coffee.

“Ana?” I hear from behind me, in a clear no-accent voice and my heart jumps into my throat.

~~ Should Ana throw her hot coffee at the person behind her or make a run for it? ~~

<a href="http://www.buzzdash.com/polls/should-ana-throw-hot-coffee-on-the-person-or-make-a-run-for-it-199118/">Should Ana throw hot coffee on the person or make a run for it?</a> | <a href="http://www.buzzdash.com">BuzzDash polls</a>

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Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?

If you like this story, please share it with your friends.

At 50 readers, I'll give away a free copy of Livid.

Going South: In the City

2010-05-04T09:00:00.000-04:00

A ride sounds great. I am so tempted to accept. But my gut tells me not to. Damn Bosley for putting me in this situation!

“No, thanks, Henry. I’d rather walk.” Walking away will put an end to this conversation.

“Okay, if you’re sure.” He drives alongside me. “But why didn’t you just go to Loco-mat? It’s practically on your block.”

My heart races as I come to a standstill. … “I told you I want the exercise,” I say, injecting cheeriness.

He looks doubtful as we both watch each other, waiting for the next move.

“Is everything okay at home, Ana?”

All I have to do is walk away. Say yes and walk away. But confession kicks up inside me, whirling about, flipping my stomach, stealing my breath. He seems so sincere. Maybe he can take me away from here. Maybe he can save me.

The pause goes on too long, only confirming his suspicion, I’m sure. I mean to tell him everything but instead I say, “Everything’s fine,” and then wonder why my instinct is working so hard against accepting help from him. “I’m gonna get going now, Henry. Thanks so much for stopping to offer a ride.” This time I walk away more briskly, with purpose, with a goal. When I’ve walked a few steps, he rides off, shouting a goodbye out the open window, holding one hand up in a motionless wave.

I wonder as he disappears around a corner whether it was crazy of me to pass him up. He could have been my only chance at survival. He could’ve been my death.

The strange heat of the mid-April sun steals my attention. A breeze blows, giving me relief for a moment. As I wander in search of a bus stop, sidewalks lead me in and out of thin Spring shade. My feet hurt. My neck is one big knot.

At last! I spot a bus stop – a measly little sign indicating a bus may stop here at some time today. I’ll wait all day if I must. It’s my only way out of here. Thankful to ditch the bags, I take a seat on the curb and shade my face with my hand.

An hour and a half later, I’m melting, parched and losing hope. I check my phone for the time. Almost noon. Surely a bus will come around soon. After tossing my phone back into my purse, I decide to check my wallet for cash, suddenly afraid he’s taken that too.

When I see a twenty, I let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps he didn’t think I’d get this far. Maybe he thought I’d have no need for cash - or credit cards - if I couldn’t leave the house. Twenty isn’t much but at least it’ll get me out of here so I can figure out what to do.

The hum of the bus engine grows louder as it approaches. In a moment, I’m on my feet, the duffle and laptop bags strung across my chest and over my shoulder. It slows to a stop, the doors pop open and I step in, what-if’s clouding my thoughts.

The air inside is cool, almost cold, sending a shiver through me. The doors close briskly behind me and I struggle to find my balance as the bus moves on. Two other riders sit silently, staring out opposite windows, ignoring each other. I fumble for my cash, eyeing the strange machine while trying to stay on my feet.

“How much?” I say. Then without waiting for an answer, “Where are we going?”

The driver gives me a look, then points to the machine. “Two fifty. Downtown.”

Not my first choice but how many do I have really? I feed my only twenty to the machine and wait for it to spit out my change.

Still trying to make sense of things, I gaze out the front window, the world outside a blur. Details seem lost as I try to remember the events that led me here, in denial that Bosley could do all the things he’s done. Did he do it alone? Or did Damian help him? Is it the first time Bosley’s done something like this or just the first time I discovered it?

Twenty minutes later, I and the other two passengers are dumped downtown. An ATM is the first thing to catch my eye, drawing me to it like a magnet. Get all the cash you can, I tell myself, before he discovers you’re gone. What is the limit? How much can I get? I close my eyes in a silent prayer before inserting my card. I try $1000, anxious about carrying that much cash in the city but worried it’s all I’ll have for …who knows how long.

A receipt delivers my rejection. I push the card back in and try $500, holding my breath while I wait for the verdict. Inside, I hear it beating out the twenties and my heart races, thankful to be getting something.

I grab the wad of bills and shove them into my purse, clutching it tightly under my arm until I can hide them better. In the stall in a restroom at the back of a convenience store, I split the wad up into smaller chunks, shove a few in my pocket, split some more between duffle bag pockets, slip three into my bra, put several in my wallet until the entire amount is all split up and concealed.

Sitting at a greasy table in fast food joint crammed between two skyscrapers, I contemplate my next move. Am I safe here in Boston? Will he find me? Will he come after me? I could get a hotel for the night. But could he trace my card? Damn, if he can, then he can trace my withdrawal. Should I move on? Get further away? I can’t go far with only $500. Can’t even afford to stay in a hotel. I just know I must get further away. I feel the city closing in on me, eyes on every corner and in every window, watching me.

A taxi delivers me to the nearest bus station where I discover I can get to Hartford for only $15 but will have to wait three days until Friday when it runs next. I’ll be caught and killed before then. Back at the curb, I hale another taxi.

“What is the fare to Hartford?” I ask.

The woman looks at me over her shoulder as if to confirm I really just asked a taxi driver to take me to Hartford. “Hartford, CT?”

“Yes. Hartford, CT.”

She pulls out a spiral bound book from the console arm rest and flips through. “$300.”

Crud. That’s way too much. My options are dwindling and with each failure my pulse picks up speed and my stomach tightens a notch. What can I do? Where will I go?

“Where to ma’am?” the taxi driver calls, apparently not her first attempt to get my attention.

“Sorry,” I say and get out. Alone on the street of a massive city with loads of people, transportation and lodging, I am lost. I just want to hide, want to curl up in a safe place until it’s all over. I begin to pace slowly down the sidewalk, passing store fronts, busy people rushing in and out through glass doors, car horns honking, walk signs buzzing, sun shining, heart racing, mind numb.

My body twists abruptly as someone bumps my shoulder, calling out an apology as he retreats. My fingers automatically tighten around the straps of my bags and I scowl. Has he pick-pocketed me? I can’t check now, out in the open. A woman emerges from a plain white door and smiles at me on her way by. The smile is unexpected and soothes me for a moment.

Then I notice the sign over the door – Shelter. I glance quickly down the street where the woman was headed to get another look at her. She looked much like me. Does she stay here or does she work here? Could I go in there? Could I stay for the night? Would they let me? If not as a guest, then maybe as a worker.

~~ Should Ana stay at the shelter? ~~

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Going South: Escape

2010-04-27T09:00:00.006-04:00

Sometime later, the stairs creak and my body stiffens as I lay pseudo-secure, wrapped up in the corner of the comforter. I don’t want to see anyone at the moment, but if I must, I hope it’s Bosley, not Matt.

A strange calm settles over me as I watch the handle turn. As soon as Bosley appears, I wish it is Matt instead. Too mad to face Bosley, I roll over, close my eyes and hide my face.

“Why are you home so early?” he demands from somewhere behind me.

My eyes open to face the wall. Why am I home early? Me?

“Ana!” He tugs my shoulder to make me face him.

Being treated like a child isn’t helping.

“Leave me alone.” I toss his hand away and climb off the far side of the bed, walking around it to leave the room.

He blocks me. “What are you doing here?”

“I wasn’t feeling well,” I say, pushing him out of my way and heading for the door. There are so many questions in my mind but I’m too irritated to ask. Ignoring his calls, I go downstairs to the kitchen where there is plenty of cleaning to busy me.

“Hey,” he says from the doorway behind me after half the dishes have been thrown into cabinets.

I can’t face him. I’m not sure whether I’ll punch him or cry. Neither sound appealing. Both are likely.

“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” he says.

“Yes.” I toss a stack of clean plastic containers into the cabinet, keeping my back to him.

“Why did you walk away?”

I don’t know why. Perhaps it was childish. Slamming the cabinet door, I turn around to face him and feel the verbal vomit about to escape.

“You want to know why I’m home early? You’re the one making some …sort of …deal here that’s obviously …” My hands flail as I try to form thoughts into sentences. “What are you doing home early… with that guy… who had a gun?”

“I told you not to mention it again.” He moves closer, one hand poking a finger at my chest. “Just forget you ever saw it.”

“How can I?” My mouth hangs open as I stare at him in disbelief.

“You just have to,” he says, his upper body leaning towards me, brow low, eyes locked on mine.

“Well, I can’t!” My body trembles as I yell, a rare thing for me. I can’t ever remember a time Bosley and I shouted at each other before this.

Bosley grabs me by both arms and tugs me closer. “Well you have to.”

My heart pounds from the strength of his force. I can’t ever remember a time when Bosley hurt me…

As he glares at me, he adds, “Ana, you don’t understand but you need to trust me.” My arms hurt and my eyes well up. “If you know what’s best for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut and let it pass. Do you understand?”

Tears are my answer since I can’t form words.

“Don’t,” he says, releasing me with irritation and I fall back against the counter.

Don’t what? Cry? The idea of it releases a torrent of tears. I have to restrain myself from literally attacking him - pounding my fists into him. I’ve never known such rage in me, especially towards him.

“If you’re not feeling well, you should stay home tomorrow,” he says, turning away from me as if to say the conversation is finished.

“I think I can determine for myself –“

He spins around to face me. “Just. stay. home. …Unless you’re not really sick.”

What the…? The tears stop – the calm before a storm of defiance brewing inside me. He walks away, leaving me alone in the kitchen with no outlet for my anger. I begin to think up methods of revenge, how I can hurt him, how I can teach him a lesson about how not to treat me.

The moment he’s gone in the morning, I hop out of bed, get dressed and begin my reprisal. I pull several outfits out of my dresser and toss them onto the bed, add some essentials and head to the closet for my suitcase. I’ll spend the week away … at a hotel if I have to. We’ll see how he reacts then, when he doesn’t know where I am, when he thinks I’ve left him ...or have been killed.

I spot my suitcase buried in the back of the closet. I forgot how massive it is, almost too heavy for me when it’s full. Perhaps there’s another bag that will do for the week. It’s not like I need a lot. Shoes, bins of out of season clothing and winter coats get tossed aside in my search. When I spot Bosley’s old duffle bag, I grab it and head for the bed, shoving my clothes into it with force.

Tossing the duffle bag strap over my shoulder, I head downstairs, collect my laptop and purse and am out the door. The warm air hits me, surprising me. It feels like summer but it’s only April. I toss the bags in the back seat, hop in, belt up and turn the key.

It doesn’t start.

I try again. It makes a turning noise but still nothing. I stare at the dashboard as if I can intimidate it into working. That’s when I notice the tank is empty. Empty? Really? That’s weird.

It was fine yesterday on my way home, I thought. My gaze is glued to the “E” as I try to remember when I last stopped for gas - yesterday morning on my way to work. My pulse picks up. Would Bosley have siphoned the gas? I can’t even imagine! It’s too impossible to believe. I won’t believe it. A call to roadside service should fix it. Since I will have to wait for them to arrive, I retrieve my bags and head back to the house.

My mind goes into overdrive. Everything seems foreign now - my husband, my car, my house, my life. Even the phone seems different as I hit the talk button and hold it to my ear for a dial tone. Digging through my purse for my account number, it takes me a minute to realize there’s no dial tone. My heart gives a kick to my ribs. I refuse to believe it, holding the phone away to inspect the status screen. NO LINE.

Okay, I tell myself. Don’t panic. Bosley wouldn’t have cut the phone line. It’s just coincidence. I search through my purse with one hand for my cell phone but can’t find it. Irritated, I drop the bag on the counter and dig through with both hands. It’s not in there. Where could it be? It never leaves my purse unless it’s charging. I spot the charger cord on the counter empty-ended. Too many things are now out of place. I feel lost and scared.

His laptop catches my eye and instinct tells me to try the internet. My body breaks into a sweat as I wait for the computer to wake up. I bounce my leg and dry my palms on my thighs. When the computer is up and running, I click to open the browser. PAGE NOT FOUND.

My attention shifts immediately to the five gray bars in the upper corner. No internet. My hand comes to my mouth in disbelief. I can hardly breathe, my face and chest tingling with adrenaline. I have to get out of here. I have to leave. I feel trapped, claustrophobic.

I throw the duffle bag over my shoulder, grab my laptop and purse and run out of the house. Walking as fast as I can, without knowing where I’m going, I feel I can’t get away fast enough. The warm air and added weight leave me feeling lightheaded before I’ve walked a mile.

I need to find a bus. Surely there are buses around here so close to Boston. I know I’ve seen them. I’ve seen lots of them. I just never used one. Where do they stop? What time? How much do they cost? Where will they take me? Where will I go?

None of that matters. One step at a time – one large step at a time. A glance over my shoulder does nothing to calm me. Two miles distance between my new foreign life and me does nothing to calm me. I’m sweating now, part from the sun and part from my nerves.

A car pulls up alongside me and startles me. I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize it’s Henry, our neighbor down the street. We hardly ever speak to him but he always seems friendly, waving and smiling when we pass.

He rolls down the passenger window and leans over to talk to me.

“You okay, Ana?” he says.

Hearing my name from his mouth unnerves me although I’m not sure why.

“Yeah,” I say, faking a smile. “I’m fine. How are you?” My mind works up an explanation for my own strange behavior.

“Where you headed?”

“Oh…” I say. I haven’t formulated a good story yet. My grip tightens on the duffle bag strap. “I’m just heading out to do some laundry.” Yes, good one. “Our machine broke.” Even better.

“Oh,” he says, looks out the front window and back at me. “Why are you walking?”

Crud. I can’t say my car’s broken. Too many broken things for one story. “Just trying to get some exercise.” I let out a weak laugh. I’m sure he can see right through me. I’m sure he knows all about Bosley and me.

“That’s a long walk.”

He’s onto me. I can feel it.

“Want a ride?”

~~ Should Ana accept a ride from Henry? ~~

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Going South: A Visitor

2010-04-20T09:00:00.004-04:00

It’s just past noon and the roads are packed with lunchtime traffic as I head home ‘sick.’ The sun is shining, heating up my car, calming me. I’m barely aware of the steps I take to get home. My heart is racing just thinking about calling Damian. What will I say? Will I need to say anything? Perhaps he’ll just understand and explain everything.

Without warning, I’m in tears, longing for someone’s arms around me, not sure whose, just someone’s. There’s no holding back, knowing I’m alone and will be all afternoon. No need to wipe them away or cool my blotchy face. So I let it out, the road blurring as my eyes fill up.

The sight of a foreign car in the driveway next to Bosley’s causes my breath to hitch in my throat. My hand unconsciously wipes my face dry although more tears are mounting. I’m afraid of what I will walk in on. I can’t help but think the worst, imagining him in bed with another woman. Pain shoots through my chest, piercing my heart. I don’t want to think of how my life will change if that’s the case. I don’t want to think about life without Bosley.

With gripping fear, I push the door open and step in. Bosley, Damian and another guy are standing in the living room. Mystery man – hefty build with a bushy red beard - reaches behind him quicker than I can blink and retrieves a gun. My heart stops beating. I hold my breath. I can’t move.

“No!” Bosley shouts, knocking mystery-man’s arm down. Damian swears and goes pale, standing as frozen as I am.

Mystery man tosses Bosley aside and raises the gun to me.

“No, Matt!” Bosley shouts again, coming back at him, gripping his arm to try to shove it down. “It’s my wife!”

Matt keeps the gun aimed at me but looks at Bosley. Tension builds in the seconds that follow as they glare at each other. Finally, Matt lowers the gun. “What’s she doing here?” he demands.

“I don’t know.” Bosley looks back and forth from Matt to me as if he can’t decide which one of us to address first. “Just…” he says to Matt, “put that away.” Bosley straightens his clothing, takes a step back and glares at Matt.

For the first time since I’ve known him, Damian looks lost, shocked …scared. The realization makes my skin tingle, the hair on my neck prickling as it stands. What the heck did I walk into? Just when I feel myself about to break, tears gushing, Bosley turns on his heel and comes straight at me. I back up, without thinking, until I hit the wall, wide-eyed and tight jawed. Bosley grabs me by my forearm and pulls me upstairs. I follow. What else can I do? I don’t know this man anymore - this once mild, quiet and laid back man who now hurts my arm with his tight grip, shouts and meets a man with a gun at noon in my house.

“Listen,” he says with a firm voice as he closes the bedroom door behind us. “Forget what you saw down there, ok?” He’s not asking. He’s demanding.

I open my mouth to protest.

“No, Ana!” he says, pressing his fingers to my mouth. Then he continues, pacing back and forth in the small area by the door while I stand, petrified, next to the bed. “Just forget it. You should have never seen it. You shouldn’t be here.” He stops pacing and approaches me. “Forget about everything. Don’t ever mention it to anyone.” I can feel his breath on my face now, he’s so close. “Don’t ever bring it up. Don’t go investigating. Forget it! Do you understand?”

No. I don’t. My eyes well up with tears. My throat is too tight to speak. All I have to do is nod – yes, I understand. But I don’t. How can he say these things to me? How can he expect me to be ok with it? Who is this beast in front of me?

“Ana,” he says, closing his eyes and forcing a deep breath, “promise me you’ll let it go.”

Promise? Like he did when he said he would honor and protect me forever? Fine.

I nod my head.

He lets out his breath, shoulders sinking. “I have to finish up with these guys. Stay here until they’re gone.”

With that, he leaves, closing me into this makeshift prison. The sound of the door closing echoes in my mind as I stare at it. A moment of panic strikes me and I stand there, hyperventilating until my knees give out and I sit down on the bed. Then the tears flow and all I want to do is run away and hide. I lay down on top of the bedding and curl up, crying, soaking the comforter.

I can’t imagine what is happening. I can’t figure out the change in Bosley. I don’t understand why Damian has taken a back seat. I don’t know why there’s a man downstairs with a gun. I can’t imagine how Bosley knows him. Or how Damian knows him. What could I have walked into that would find me at gunpoint? Matt could have shot me. I could be dead right now. I could be dead soon if he comes upstairs and shoots me. My life is in danger.

I sit up to find a tissue on the nightstand. My head throbs and I feel cold suddenly. I wish I could hear them downstairs but I can’t. I blow my nose, grab another tissue to dry my tears and stand up. For a moment I stare at the door. My pulse begins to race as I contemplate cracking the door open to listen. Surely they won’t hear me open it.

I step towards it and the floor creaks. I pause and shrug my shoulders. Then take a deep breath. I’m allowed to walk around the room after all. I haven’t done anything wrong …yet.

I close the gap between me and the door, place my hand on the knob and stop to listen. I hear nothing. Slowly, I turn the knob, pressing the door closed tight with my other hand to avoid friction. When the knob is fully turned, I pull to open it just a crack and press my ear to the opening. Downstairs and in the distance, I barely make out their voices.

“She doesn’t know anything,” Bosley says. “Leave her out of this.”

“ … doesn’t matter … It’s too risky,” Matt says. I’m irritated I can’t hear every word. I open the door a bit more, slowly release the handle and lean my head out the opening.

“Look, Matt,” Damian says. “We don’t have … …”

I squint as if it will help me hear.

“…not a game,” Matt says. “… have her telling all her friends.”

“So what are you gonna do? Kill her?” Bosley says quite loud and clear. I draw my head back into the room, afraid to hear the answer. Kill? Was he being sarcastic? The man has a gun. Why would he make such a suggestion?

I close the door, paying no attention to being quiet now, and return to the bed to lay down. I reach over the side of the bed and pull the corner of the comforter around me. I feel safer all wrapped up. As I lay there, I notice the telephone on the nightstand. Bosley’s words keep echoing in my mind. “Forget it.” “Never mention it.” But I’m scared. I want to call Tania and let her fix it. But it seems too dangerous to get her involved now. I begin to shake from the inside as if I’m cold but I’m not.

~~ Should Ana call Tania for help? ~~

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Going South: Sick of It

2010-04-13T09:00:00.004-04:00

I pull into Chili’s Restaurant and find a place to park. I need Tania to keep me sane, talk me down, find a reasonable explanation for all this. Ten minutes later, she joins me, the first time in years she’s not ‘late.’

“What’s going on?” she says before she even makes it across the parking lot.

“Nothing,” I say without thinking then shake my head. “Well, something. I just don’t know what.”

We head inside and choose the bar over waiting for a booth. The place is packed. We squeeze through the tall tables and settle into the only two empty stools. The noise and commotion drown my thoughts for a moment. Then I’m distracted by the drink menu and the smell of frying tortilla.

“So?” she says, eyes on me, ignoring the bartender as he slides our drinks to us. “Speak.”

I sigh and twist my martini glass by the stem, trying to think where to begin and what will be ‘ok’ to tell her.

“What?! Come on,” she says, my time apparently up.

“Alright. Bosley has been acting weird …”

“I know. You already said that this morning.”

“Just let me finish.”

She sits back in her stool and sighs. Patience is not her strong point.

“I told you Bosley was …. in a mood. Well Damian showed up at our house this afternoon.” I pause to consider mentioning the kiss and decide against it. “After I got back from the library, he and Bosley were going at it, yelling.”

“Really? Bosley?”

Chips are served and I take one to nibble on even though the salt will kill me.

“Yes, Bosley. I asked what was going on and he wouldn’t tell me.”

“Well that’s no surprise.” She scoops a chip through the salsa and inhales it.

“I know. But there’s more.” I hesitate, knowing she will distort what I say. “He shouted at me too, told me to stay out of it.” I can’t look at her, knowing she’s about to blow it out of proportion.

Leaning towards me, she says in a lower voice, “Did he hit you?”

“No! God, no. He just yelled.” Was I stupid to think something was wrong? I hear myself speak and it sounds so lame. He yelled.

“Well, if he hits you, I swear to God I’ll kill him.” She sips her margarita.

“Shhh.” I glance around to see if anyone heard.

“What? I will.” Leaning on her elbows, drink propped up in one hand, chip in the other, she tosses the idea around like it’s nothing.

“Stop. It’s not like that.” I have second thoughts about getting Tania involved. “Look, I think Damian was about to tell me what’s been going on but Bosley told him to shut his mouth before he could.”

“Really? He really said that to Damian?”

“Yes.”

“Damian has always been ‘in charge.’ I can’t believe Damian would let Bosley speak to him like that. I wouldn’t be surprised if Damian punched him.”

“Well he didn’t. He shut up. And he wouldn’t look at me straight after.”

“Are you serious?” She stops mid- salsa dip to think. Finally she continues. “And you have no idea what it could be?”

“No. I thought at first it was the whole swinging thing like you said because…” Crud. I didn’t want to mention that.

“Because what?”

“Because… I was alone when Damian showed up.”

The waitress comes to take our order and I pray Tania will forget what I just mentioned. Instead, she’s on the edge of her stool, waiting for the good part.

“Why were you alone? Where was Bosley?”

“He went to work.”

“On a Saturday?”

“Yes. Something with inventory. But anyway, I really don’t think Bosley would agree to swing. It’s just not like him. So it must be something else.”

“Yelling is not like him either.”

She’s right. “But swinging? And he told me to stay out of it,” I am glad to remember.

“Oh right. Yes that would be hard to do. Maybe you should just ask Damian.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to me. Ask Damian? Like… call him? He’d just love that.

We are unable to come with any better idea. We stay late, I drink more than I ever have and find Bosley asleep when I get home. I crawl into bed next to him, wanting to cuddle into him but too irritated to make the effort.

I wake up late Sunday morning, my mouth dry, head throbbing. I can’t believe it’s after 11. My body is like dead weight as I roll out of bed and head for the bathroom. My eyes are puffy and dark. I can hardly open them to the light over the mirror. I close them and stand there for a moment then realize the house is quiet. Do I even care where Bosley is? No, I don’t think I do.

While sitting at the kitchen table, nibbling on toast, I spot Bosley in the back yard, picking through the garden. It’s way too early for gardening. I put the toast down and watch him for a minute. He rips out dead plants, loosens up the soil and straightens the stakes. I realize hours later, when he’s still at it, that he’s avoiding me.

Fine. Avoid me. See if I care.

…but I do. It breaks my heart that Bosley is pulling away. What could possibly be so important …and why won’t he tell me? My stomach turns at the thought of it. The remainder of the day is spent apart even when we’re together.

I head to work on Monday feeling defeated. Not a word from Bosley since Saturday afternoon. I greet George and Roseanne with a smile even if I don’t feel it. Roseanne, my work mom, throws her arms around me for a hug I have come to expect. She’s wearing the usual polyester pants and matching cardigan/v-neck.

The work on my desk stares back at me while I try to get my head together.

“Coffee, dear?” Roseanne asks on her way to the kitchenette.

“That would be great.”

She returns, placing my mug on my desk.

“Thanks, hun. You’re a sweetheart,” I say, shifting papers around to appear busy.

She takes her seat at the desk across from me and watches, glasses tipped down.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I look up and smile. “How are you?”

“You look …tired,” she says, avoiding my attempt at diversion.

“Yes. I am. So what do we have today?” I try again.

She hesitates. “The Millers’ payment arrived so send them their package. The tickets and hotel information are in their file. We haven’t heard from Demby in over a week so you need to call him to see if he still wants the cruise.” She goes on with the list which I only half hear. My mind is on Bosley.

By noon I have managed to accomplish two of the long list of things to be done. I just want to sleep. My stomach is unsettled and my hands are shaky.

“You want lunch first today or shall I go?” Roseanne says from her desk across from me.

“Go ahead and eat. I don’t feel much like eating.”

“You didn’t eat breakfast either. What’s wrong?”

“Not sure. My stomach’s bothering me.”

“Well, maybe you should go home then.”

I hadn’t thought of that. But then, I’m not really sick. Getting the afternoon off would be great. …or would it? Sitting home thinking about Bosley could be torturous. But trying to concentrate on work seems just as bad. Maybe I should go home and think about calling Damian.

~~ Should Ana go home ‘sick?’ ~~

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Going South: Pushy

2010-04-06T09:00:00.002-04:00

With my arms pinned between us, I try to push him away. He latches around me and pulls me closer, quick enough so our lips never part. Stunned, I hesitate. When his tongue meets my teeth, I shove him hard and he stumbles backwards, catching himself with one hand on a chair.

Wide-eyed, unsure of what to do next, I wait motionless, watching him recover. He stands tall, straightens his shirt and returns a deadly glare.

“You should leave,” I manage to say, still unable to move.

He steps towards me, his expression softening. “Come on, Ana.”

“Stop.” I hold my hand up to block him, averting my eyes. “Leave.”

We both remain motionless for a moment, my heart pounding in my ears.

He shifts, opening his arms to me as if I might climb in for a hug. “Ana, I –“

Another shove to his chest and I slip away. Stopped by a yank on my arm, I turn to face him again. His grip tightens when I try to pull away.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he says, his eyes locked with mine, his hand squeezing my upper arm.

Twisting does not help me break free. “Get out!” I yell. Yelling is all I have left. “Now!”

Our staring match goes on.

“It was just a kiss,” he says, releasing my arm. The sudden freedom leaves me shaky.

He takes a seat at the table as if nothing significant has happened. “I need to talk to Bosley. I’m not going anywhere.” He flips through the paper.

Infuriated yet unnerved, I am speechless. What can I do? I can’t make him leave. Am I in danger? Would Damian really hurt me? I never thought so until now. I rub my arm where it stings, glaring at the back of his head as he browses the news. Loyalty to Bosley’s ‘friend’ battles with personal safety. If he won’t go, I must. Bosley might not like me leaving him here alone but would he prefer I stay? I don’t think so. I make a judgment call and grab my purse.

“Bosley should be home soon. I’m going out.”

He stops reading and raises his head. I’m out the door before he has a chance to speak.

The keys jingle as my shaky hand attempts to get them in their place. I back out and take off down the street. When I’m clear of my neighborhood, I pull into an empty parking lot, put the car in park and stare straight ahead until my surroundings blur. Silence while I contemplate. Breathe while I regain composure. Could Bosley have planned it? How convenient that he had to go out… How interesting that Damian appeared only minutes after Bosley left. Did Bosley even go to work? Or did he visit Myra while Damian was attacking me? Tempted to confirm Bosley’s whereabouts, I take out my phone and hold it. The time display mocks me. I can’t make the call.

I must be losing my mind. Bosley wouldn’t agree to swing, I’m sure. It’s just a misunderstanding, coincidence that Damian appeared when I was alone, just like Damian to come on to me the second the opportunity arose. No, Bosley didn’t set me up. I am sure.

Nearly half an hour has passed and I feel settled again. To make sure I don’t go home until Bosley is there, I head to the library, my sanctuary.

The art section greets me with open arms. The scent of molding books soothes me. I browse the stack, my eye skimming the titles yet not reading them at all. I wrack my brain to come up with some reasonable explanation for Bosley and Damian’s behavior but can’t come up with one thing. My stomach turns.

I pull a book off the shelf and flip through. Monet. He’s not my favorite so I put it back. Another by Munch catches my eye. I open straight to The Scream. How cliché yet how perfectly fitting for the moment. I stay with it a while longer, exploring the colors and emotion. It speaks to me.

An hour passes like minutes as I continue to browse famous painters, then how-to’s. I decide to get out my acrylics and paint again after this mess is cleared up. It’s been years. My stomach flips …more like rumbles. I realize I haven’t eaten lunch. It’s almost dinner time. Bosley was due home hours ago. I deem it safe to return.

Bosley’s car is in the driveway when I get home. I feel better already. The misunderstanding will be cleared up in no time. Just outside the door, I start at the sound of yelling from inside. Bosley and Damian are going at it though I can’t make out what they’re saying. Does he know Damian kissed me? Does he think I kissed him? I push through the door, unsure of what I’m up against. The yelling stops. Both stand frozen, their heads turned to face me as I stare back.

“What’s going on?” I say.

“Nothing,” Bosley says, obviously irritated. He props his hands on his hips.

I know it’s not nothing. Does he think I’m stupid?

“Look, Ana –“ Damian begins, facing me, but Bosley cuts him off.

“Damian, shut your mouth!” he yells, stabbing his finger at the air in front of him. I am shocked to hear my quiet, mild Bosley shout like this. He turns to face me, his finger stabbing towards me now. “Ana, stay out of it. Go back out until I call you.”

What?! My mouth drops open. Excuse me? Stay out of it? How can I stay out of it when I’m already in it?

Damian steps towards me with an empathetic look on his face and Bosley blocks him, walking towards me himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says with forced patience. “I shouldn’t have yelled.” He holds my arms as if to keep my full attention. “Please give me and Damian some privacy for a bit.” I’m not sure how to react to this …foreign Bosley. I look at Damian. He looks away. I look at Bosley.

“An hour,” he says.

I don’t understand. I don’t want to leave. “Bosley, what’s –“

“Just don’t, Ana. I said stay out of it.” He removes his hands from my arms and slides them into his pockets. His determined expression tells me we won’t be discussing it - not now, not later, not ever maybe. I am hurt. Hurt and irritated.

I slam the door behind me on my way out, a pointless retaliation. I am tempted to leave and never come back, just to spite him. How dare he push me around, keep secrets and expect me to work around them?

I drive with more speed now, sharper, more dangerous. I have no idea where I’m going. I’m just going. This mystery plagues me. I’m determined not to rest until I know what’s going on. Bosley is so private he would wring my neck if I said anything to Tania. But she could help me figure out what to do. Then again she might overreact and do something crazy like confront him about it.

~~ Should Ana call her friend Tania for help or go it alone? ~~

<a href="http://www.buzzdash.com/polls/should-ana-call-her-friend-tania-for-help-or-go-it-alone-196740/">Should Ana call her friend Tania for help or go it alone?</a> | <a href="http://www.buzzdash.com">BuzzDash polls</a>

NOTE: Vote by the poll. The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday (EST).

In addition, leave comments below to persuade me one way or the other in case there's a tie. Click on the word ‘comments’ below to open the comments form. Watch next Tuesday for the following episode based on your votes.

Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?

Going South: Betrayal

2010-04-02T15:20:00.000-04:00

My fingers find the keyboard while my eyes are glued to the computer screen. I pause to reconsider what I’m about to do, then type.

Bosley says… hey

My breathing grows heavier as I wait for his response.

Damian says… hey man wutz flyin

How would Bosley respond?

Bosley says… not much

My heart pounds. There’s no turning back.

Damian says… no man wutz flyin

His response confuses me. Didn’t we already cover this? Let’s move on.

Bosley says… not much

what do u want?

I wait for indication that he is typing. Nothing. My eyes burn into the screen, scanning my last line to see if I missed something. Seconds feel like minutes as regret kicks my pulse up another notch. At last Damian types…

Damian says… ana?

I jump back in my chair, the sound of my own gasp echoing off the walls in the quiet kitchen. My eyes shift left then right. How does he know? How!? I search for a way out of it, an excuse, some explanation. But my mind goes blank.

Damian says… ana i know its u

get Bosley

I still can’t move, ashamed of myself for trying to deceive him, embarrassed that he somehow figured it out, afraid Bosley will find out too. My fingers graze the keyboard but refuse to type. What can I say?

Bosley says… He’s sleeping

Damian says… wake him up

Yeah right. Wake him up. My brows lower into a scowl. Waking Bosley before he’s ready is like taking your life in your hands. On top of that, waking him to come see my incognito chat with Damian? I don’t think so.

Bosley says… no

No? What am I saying? No is not enough. What to say?

Bosley says… I’ll tell him to call you when he gets up

In a panic, I close the chat window and log off before Damian can post another message.

After shutting the laptop, I sit back in my chair. Silence settles around me. Surely Damian will tell Bosley. Then what? Can I pass it off as a mistake? A misunderstanding? It would depend on exactly what I wrote. But the chat window is closed already. So I wrack my brain to remember the exact words I used. The longer I replay the messages, the more obvious it becomes that I had been deceitful and the more my stomach turns. Why couldn’t I just leave it alone? Do I really distrust Bosley that much?

The air in the kitchen stifles me so I open the back door and close my eyes to the sun, taking deep breaths to calm down. It’s probably not a big deal, I try to tell myself. But myself doesn’t believe me.

“Morning,” Bosley says some time later, making an appearance in his boxer briefs and t-shirt.

“You mean afternoon.” I can’t bring myself to mention Damian's expecting his call though I know it’ll make matters worse later if I don’t. Buying myself another moment to think, I slide my hands around Bosley’s waist and press my face to his t-shirted chest.

He wraps his arms around me and I settle into him. We hold each other for a while. He rubs my back. I kiss his neck, enjoying his just-out-of-bed warmth and scent. He kisses my forehead. I could stay all day with him like this.

“How was brunch?” He slides away and heads towards the fridge.

“Good.”

“Good. I’ve got to meet Mike at work in a few minutes. There was an issue with inventory this week that we need to straighten out.” He pours himself a glass of milk and heads toward the pantry. “Did you get my cereal this week? It’s been a while.”

Fruity Pebbles. His guilty pleasure. “Yeah. They were on sale.”

He pulls out the box and pours some in a bowl. All the while I try to come up with a way to mention calling Damian. If I say anything about the chat, he’ll know I was snooping. If I say Damian called, it would add to the lie.

“Damian wants you to call him,” I say and busy myself with the newspapers on the table.

Leaning against the stove, bowl in one hand, spoon in the other, he stops crunching and looks at me. “Really?”

I get vigorous with the newspaper cleanup. “Yeah.”

“Why?” The cereal is still on hold.

“I don’t know. He just wants you to call him.” I pray he stop asking questions while I wipe the counters down …again.

He puts the bowl down. “When did you talk to him?” His full attention is on me.

Talk, chat – same thing, right? “This morning. You were sleeping. It was just for a second. He just wants to talk to you.” I realize I’m saying too much, speaking too fast, avoiding eye contact, but I can’t stop.

“Oh.” He picks up the cereal again. “I’ll call him later.”

Bosley finishes his cereal in deep thought and I’m smart enough to leave him alone. When he's barely gone, the doorbell rings. Expecting Bosley, I instead find myself face to face with Damian – ripped jeans, button-down shirt, a trendy striped sports jacket. He looks anxious. I must look stunned.

“What are you doing here?” is all I can come up with.

He steps past me into the house and turns towards the living room.

“Bosley’s not here,” I tell him with one hand still on the door.

He stops and spins around. “Where is he?”

He comes at me so fast I find myself backed into the now-closed door. “At work.”

He stares me down as if to read me, as if I might be lying… or deceiving him again perhaps. For a moment, I think he might hit me. This sort of frenzy is uncommon for cool, collected Damian. It makes me aware of our aloneness.

I brace myself and bravely slip past him, heading for the kitchen at a casual pace that denies my rattled innards. “You shouldn’t have driven all the way here without making plans with him,” I say to the air ahead of me while fighting the urge to run.

He follows me to the kitchen, slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the fridge. Cool, collected Damian is back.

“Want some coffee?” I say, pulling the pot out before I even have a mug to pour it into.

“How long is he going to be?”

“I don’t know. An hour or so maybe.” I head to the appropriate cabinet.

“Then, yes, I’ll wait. And I’ll take a cup of coffee.”

My hand shakes as I reach for a mug. Hopefully he can’t see it. To let him see he has unnerved me would be disastrous. I can’t remember a time when I was alone with Damian. I mean this alone. What will we say to each other for the next hour? How awkward will it be? How often will I blush? The fear of blushing makes me blush and I want to kick myself. Instead I pour his coffee and hand it to him. He sits in the very chair I sat in when I tried to deceive him. He leans back comfortably, stretches his arm out beside him and lets his fingers glide over Bosley’s closed laptop, a reminder of my indiscretion.

Elbows resting on the back of a chair at the end of the table, I try to think of something else I can do to escape. Laundry, vacuuming…

“Sit,” he says and presses his foot against the very chair I’m leaning on. I’m sure he can hear me swallow. The chair scrapes across the floor as I pull it out. I sit and clasp my hands together in my lap, prepared for a lecture …or something.

“Thanks for having us over last night,” I say, a weak attempt to divert the conversation I know is coming. Stupid. Stupid.

He watches me, analyzes me. “Sure. Any time.”

My eyes stay on his mug and follow it to his mouth as he sips his coffee. A heat rush spreads through me as my gaze meets with his lips. I look down at my hands and wait in silence for his next move.

He stands up to remove his jacket, sending the citrus and clove scent wafting towards me. Can’t he just get it over with? Call me out or let it go? I know he enjoys watching me squirm. I can’t sit still any longer so I stand to dump the grounds from the pot. He backs out of my way as I head for the trash, then he leans against the counter.

Hand-washing it will kill some time so, pushing my sleeves up, I grab the sponge. Damian’s scent grows stronger which tells me he stands behind me. I clean the pot better than I've ever done.

“Why did you pretend to be Bosley this morning?” he says, sending my pulse flying.

I have no answer. Nothing I can think of sounds right. The situation begins to irritate me. Why does it have to be such a big deal? I turn and face him straight on, strong and defiant, ready to defend myself. Except nothing comes. No defense. No explanation.

“I had no idea you were so nosy,” he says then explores me with his eyes. “Unless of course you just wanted to talk to me.” A grin comes to his face. His investigation stops at my mouth.

“No,” I say and turn my back to him then dry the pot.

“No what?”

I sense his grin without even seeing him.

“Nothing. Just…” leave me alone? I can’t say it. For some reason I don’t want him to leave me alone. Something about him has my body doing all kinds of flips and turns although I’d never admit it, especially to him.

“Just what?” His voice is closer now.

My breathing becomes heavy and I pray he can’t see my heaving chest. I feel trapped. “I’m just nosey.” Nosey is better than him thinking I want him. He’d just love that. Nosey is definitely better than --

The room around me blurs as a force on my jaw turns my head, leaving me lost and dizzy. Heat rushes over my body, starting with my lips, and I realize he’s kissing me. I’m horrified to discover I’m too weak to stop it, enjoying it in fact. My arms are limp, legs frozen, insides twisted, skin melting. His hand slides from my jaw to my neck. His tongue presses through my lips.

~~ Should Ana shove Damian away or enjoy the kiss and come up with an excuse later? ~~

Voting is now closed!

<a href="http://www.buzzdash.com/polls/should-ana-shove-damian-away-or-enjoy-the-kiss-196122/">Should Ana shove Damian away or enjoy the kiss?</a> | <a href="http://www.buzzdash.com">BuzzDash polls</a>

NEW: Vote by the poll. The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday (EST).

Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?

Going South: Notions

2010-03-24T09:00:00.008-04:00

I lay my hand over Bosley’s as it rests on the stick shift. Even without touching his palm, I feel his clamminess. I hold my breath. Something is definitely up.

“What’s wrong,” I say, the sound of my own voice unsettling as it breaks the silence.

He stares straight ahead, downshifts unnecessarily and says, “Nothing.”

I retract my hand and lay it in my lap, watching him through the dark as he watches the road.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

I look straight ahead as I try to decide whether or not to push it. Sometimes it only irritates him more. Sometimes I don’t care. I want to know.

“It doesn’t seem like nothing,” I say. “You’re upset. Why won’t you tell me?”

“I’m not upset,” he says in a tone that confirms he is upset, the same tone that begs me to drop it.

“Does it have anything to do with Damian?” Even as I ask, my heart races, afraid he will turn this conversation on me.

His eyes leave the road and burn into me.

“I said it’s nothing.”

Okay. Fine. I let it go... for now.

It’s the usual routine when we get home; slide our shoes off at the door, change into our comfies, settle in front of the TV. I want to talk. I want Bosley to talk. Instead, we watch Stewie attempt world domination. Usually we laugh. Not tonight.

“I’ve got brunch with the girls tomorrow,” I say just because I feel the need to say something to lighten the mood.

“Oh.” His eyes are glued to Stewie.

I reach over and lay my hand on his forearm. It’s warm. It always is. And I’m always cold. The simple touch makes me want his arms around me but I let it go and bring my hand back to my side.

When the episode ends, I head to bed. “I’ll try to be quiet in the morning so you can sleep in,” I say, though I know he sleeps like the dead.

“Okay. Have fun.”

~~~

I wake up early Saturday morning, my night restless as usual lately. The sun is shining and it’s the first day over fifty degrees in months. The kitchen table is strewn with Bosley’s evening leftovers; his laptop, a mug and a plate with crumbs. The newspaper is separated and strewn about. The coupons have been stacked neatly for me at one end of the table. I grab the dishes and quietly put them in the dishwasher before heading out the door.

London is waiting at a table when I arrive at the restaurant. I dismiss the hostess who is more than pleased to greet me and a tad disappointed when she realizes I’ve already got a seat. I shuffle through the maze of family breakfasters as I head towards London. Even from behind, I know her perfect soft brown curls and size 2 waist. She looks especially chipper as I pull out the chair next to her. I plaster on my biggest smile just so I don’t look out of place next to her.

“Tania just texted,” London says. “She’ll be here in 10.”

I roll my eyes. Big surprise. It’s the natural order of things. London early. Me on time. Tania late.

“So how was your night at Damian’s?” London says with a grin.

“It’s not Damian’s. It’s Damian and Myra’s. …and don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

I cock my head to the side and raise a brow just as Tania joins us. She’s got ten years on me but you’d never know – she’ll outlast even the Energizer.

“Sorry I’m late. Oh good!” she says as the waitress stops at our table. “Coffee.”

I love London for being early …and knowing we want coffee. Conversation waits for us to prepare our drug; warmth, comfort, caffeine.

“Enough small talk,” Tania says although she hasn’t made any small talk yet. “How was dinner last night?”

I keep my eyes lowered to my coffee as I drop in sweetness and stir much longer than necessary. “The usual,” I lie and feel my face heat up.

“What happened?” London says, placing her hand on my arm as if to ensure an answer from me.

“Nothing.” Crud. They know me too well. I still can’t look up. When I finally do, both are holding their breath, wide-eyed, curious as George. “Nothing.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” Tania says. “It’s something good, isn’t it? Something juicy.”

“No.” I keep up the lie and search for a diversion. “Bosley was in a mood. That’s all.”

“Oh right. You’re red as a rocket and you expect us to believe that?”

Crud, crud and triple crud. “It’s true! He was.”

London flips the menu open and browses the options. “Fine, if you’re not going to tell us. But honestly, hun, we don’t care about Bosley’s mood.” She gets engrossed in the menu now. Not Tania. She narrows her eyes at me while she plays with one earring.

I sit up and lean forward on the table as I retrace the evening in my mind. “Here’s the weird thing though,” I say. “I think Damian is up to something.”

“What?” they both say, menus pressed back down to the table.

“I don’t know. But I walked in on him and Bosley …” I pause, enjoying the fact that they are hanging on my every word and I am not blushing. “Bosley looked upset, like I said. He told Damian not to ask.”

“Not to ask what?” Tania says, scowling.

“I don’t know. That’s all I heard. ‘Don’t ask.’ ”

We slip into deep thought for a moment, menus forgotten, until the waitress returns to take our order. As soon as she leaves, Tania is back at it.

“Was Damian his usual self?” she says. We all know what she means – did he flirt with me?

“Yeah. Pretty much.” There are no more distractions so I look out the window.

Tania grins. “What do you mean pretty much? I knew something happened.”

She is way too excited although I don’t know why. Damian flirts with everyone. And he might be hot but he’s entirely too into himself for my taste.

“Ooooh you’re blushing again,” London says in a tone I don’t appreciate.

“No. Nothing happened.” What would I tell them? He almost kissed me… I think.

“He kissed you, didn’t he?” Tania says as if she read my mind.

“Not exactly. But… I think he might have tried.” My voice rises as I confide and brace myself for their response.

“What?”

“Almost?”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell us!”

“It was dark…” I begin.

“Dark? Why the heck was it dark?” Tania interrupts.

“Because he hadn’t turned the light on yet.” The twisted expressions on their faces stop me dead. What did I say? They look at each other then back at me. “What?”

Both are silent. All I get are shrugs.

“Anyway… so I thought he was leaning in towards me but I’m not sure so I slipped away.”

Tania’s eyes are narrow again. London rests her chin on her hand and curls her fingers up over her lips.

“He wants to swing,” Tania finally says.

“What?”

“Swing. That’s what he asked Bosley, I bet.” Tania is proud of herself for demystifying the situation. She leans back in her chair and scans the restaurant.

“No,” I say, deeper than my voice has reached in ages. I won’t believe it.

“Yes,” London confirms. “I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s so like him.”

I don’t know what to say. How can I defend myself? Why do I feel the need to defend myself? I’ve done nothing. I hadn’t even thought of doing something. What if they’re right? That would definitely set Bosley in a mood for sure.

Though conversation moves on, my thoughts are plagued with the girls’ theory. I keep thinking thank God Bosley said no. Then I realize Bosley never said no. He said don’t ask, which is kind of like no but not exactly. It could’ve meant don’t ask Ana, or don’t ask yet, or you don’t even have to ask.

What am I thinking? Of course Bosley said no. …if that was even the question.

Bosley is still asleep when I get home past 10:30. Like I said, he sleeps like the dead. I’m feeling anxious so I wipe down the counters. Still uneasy so I unload the dishwasher. My stomach churns so I grab the broom and sweep under the table where Bosley dropped crumbs.

A bling from Bosley’s laptop startles me and I jump, dropping the crumbs I just swept into the dustpan. That’s when I notice the Messenger chat window open and Damian’s picture smiling at me. My heart jumps out of my chest. Suddenly I feel like he can see me. I look around as if to locate a camera. It blings again. My hand presses to my heart as I lean forward and begin to read the waiting messages.

10:42 Damian says... hey u there?

For a minute, I think he means me. But why would he? It’s Bosley’s laptop.

10:47 Damian says... don’t ignore me man

Yes, Bosley.

10:48 Damian says... you owe me

He owes him? What the …?

~~ Should Ana pretend to be Bosley and chat with Damian? ~~

Voting has now closed.

NEW: Vote by the poll. The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Friday (EST).

In addition, leave comments below if you’d like to expand on your vote. In the event of a tie, the decision will be mine but your comments may persuade me to go one way or another. If the comments form is not visible below, click on the word ‘comments’ to open it. Watch next Wednesday for the next episode based on your votes.

Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?

Going South: The Dinner Party

2010-03-17T09:00:00.004-04:00

I push my half-eaten, mega slice of chocolate on chocolate cake away, thankful the god-forsaken evening is almost over. Bosley, next to me on one side of the massive dining table sits still and quiet, his face slightly pale, brows furrowed, obviously lost in thought while conversation continues to revolve around Damian, Bosley’s old college roommate. It’s not out of the ordinary for Bosley to be quiet, but something is different. Something …wrong.

“Well, let’s say we bring these dishes into the kitchen and give the boys some space. You mind, dear?” says Myra, Damian’s tall, dark and gorgeous wife. She stands and picks up her own plate, her black spandex capris and four inch high heels showing off her perfect figure. Damian and Myra belong together; both are hot, both know it.

If their we’re-more-successful-so-we-can-help-you attitude isn’t enough, the ‘dear’ sends me over the edge. I grit my teeth and smile. “Sure,” I say, collecting the remainder of the plates. Anything to speed things along. What’s next? Cigars and bourbon for the men, hair and make-up for the ladies?

I’m not entirely off. The kitchen door barely swings shut behind me and Myra starts in on the spiel.

“We’re having a sale on MAC products this week. Did I tell you?” She slides the one plate with two utensils she carried onto the marble countertop. Her shoes click across the stone floor as she walks. My rubber-soled slip-ons are silent.

I carefully lower my stack into the sink and turn on the water to start cleaning up.

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear,” she says, shooing me away from the sink. “We’ve got a maid for that.”

Oh right. How could I forget?

Grabbing me by the wrist with her cold, fake-finger-nailed hand, she leads me around the island and backs me onto a leather and cowhide stool. Then lifts my chin and turns my face towards the light. Yes, inspection time. My low-maintenance look bothers her …immensely. Her painted-on look bothers me too. I never mention it.

From …somewhere a metal case appears which opens to a tiered display of colors; powders, lipsticks, liners. Her gaze shifts from my face to the choices laid out next to us while I wonder what the guys are up to. I could just imagine Bosley, with his buzz cut, jeans and polo shirt, sitting in stark contrast to Damian – his hair tossed carefully into a mess over his ears, a goatee and trendy Armani suit just for lounging around. They’d probably be catching up on old times. It wasn’t often we got together with the Kosta’s.

“You know what?” I say as Myra comes at me with a powdered brush, “I’m all set.” I slide off the stool to one side and head for the dining room.

“Wait!”

I pause just a few feet from the door and turn back to look at her. Is that panic in her painted-up eyes? Is it really so bad that I don’t wear make-up? Or is it that she lost a sale?

“Come here.” One hand circles through the air, beckoning me towards her.

For some reason, I follow. With her hands on my shoulders, she twists me to face an ornate mirror on the wall. Dear God I look awful. Maybe she’s right…

“Don’t you see what potential you have?” She smiles over my shoulder at the mirror, her eyes on herself, I notice, rather than me.

Who am I kidding? My eyes are on her too. Smooth, straight brown hair, caramel skin, green eyes…

“You’ve got such rich, dark hair and fair skin.” Her hand strokes my hair as if I am her pet. “You could really play up that contrast. Won’t you just let me show you?”

Puppy dog eyes don’t work on me. And now that I feel like a Mastiff next to her, I decline, heading for the dining room again. There’s probably no hope anyway.

“Don’t ask a--” Bosley says as I push through the door. His face has color again. It is red. Bosley is sitting straight up in his chair, his body language screaming rejection of Damian who is now at his side. Damian puts on a dimpled grin and stands as Myra scurries in behind me.

“Ladies! Welcome back.” He walks around the table, takes Myra under one arm and me under the other. “And so soon.” He kisses Myra, sending a red glow over my skin that I try to hide by looking away. Bosley seems to have no reaction.

“You ready to go, hun?” I dare ask. I usually leave it to Bosley to decide when it’s time to leave the Kosta’s. He knows I dread these dinners. I know he feels some eternal connection to Damian, though I can’t understand why.

“Yup,” Bosley says and stands up. “Thanks for dinner, Myra. It was wonderful.”

He knows Myra didn’t cook it.

“Alright, if you must go…” Damian says, letting Myra go but keeping one arm draped over my shoulders. “I’ll take you to your coats then.”

Yes, our coats. The ones that didn’t fit in the foyer closet because it was stuffed with Myra’s furs. Furs! Who wears furs? Apparently, Myra.

“She’s been trying to convert you again, hasn’t she?” he asks after we pass the metal case still open on the island in the kitchen.

“Yeah.”

We continue down the long hall and into the spare bedroom, all the while his citrus and clove scent invading my senses.

“Don’t let her bother you,” he says as we step into the dark room. His hand lifts off my shoulder, leaving it noticeably colder, as he reaches for the switch on the wall behind me. I wait for the light. It doesn’t come. So I wait for my eyes to adjust to the faint glow spilling down the hall from the kitchen while I am conscious of his arm blocking me from behind.

“You’re a natural,” he says and I can barely make out his dimpled grin. Is he closing in on me or is it just my imagination? My heart races and my face heats up. Good thing it’s so dim.

“A natural what?” I say, slipping away from him into the dark room. I pray for light and wonder if my mind is playing tricks on me. Damian has always been …a flirt, but he’s never made such a bold move as a kiss.

The light comes on and the strange world I’d just visited a moment before disappears. Of course it was my imagination. Of course. I pick up our coats from the bed next to me and high-tail it out of there, unable to look him in the eye as I pass him in the doorway.

After hugs, good-byes and promises to get together sooner next time, we begin the forty-five minute drive home in silence. The muddled memory of Damian closing in on me plays over and over in my mind. What would Bosley think if he knew? But then, what is there to know? Nothing happened. And what is bugging Bosley? I know he’ll talk when he’s ready, but not knowing just kills me. How bad could it be? Does it have anything to do with Damian? I blush again. Good grief, no way I could talk about Damian right now. But… I hate to see Bosley upset.

~~~ Should Ana ask Bosley what’s bothering him? ~~~

Vote by commenting. Click the word 'comments' below next to the time to open the comments form. Votes received by midnight Friday (EST) will be tallied to determine what Ana will do. Watch Wednesday for the next episode based on your votes.

Going South

2010-03-13T14:01:00.005-05:00

Welcome to the series where you decide what happens next...

Living an artist's life on the countryside has been Ana's dream for ages but her and Bosley live a boring life in the suburbs of Boston, both too busy to even share a meal together. At age 26, Ana imagined things far different from the average life she lives as a secretary in a small family-owned travel agency. But are things as average as they seem? What happens when too many secrets stack up?

Each Wednesday, an episode will be posted, ending with a decision Ana must make. Here's where you, the reader, come in. You decide what Ana should do. Cast your votes (by commenting) by Friday to have a say in what happens next. Watch for the series premiere Wednesday, March 17, 2010.

Important update: New episodes are now posted on Tuesday morning 9AM (EST) and voting closes midnight Thursday (EST). Vote by poll but leave comments to persuade me in case there's a tie.