Going South: Escape

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

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? ~~

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

In addition, leave comments below if you’d like to expand on your vote. 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: Sick of It

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?’ ~~

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

In addition, leave comments below if you’d like to expand on your vote. 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: Pushy

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? ~~

          

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

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!

               
           

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

In addition, leave comments below if you’d like to expand on your vote. 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: Notions

 

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?