I expect to feel different. Lighter, happier, better, something other than nothing, but I don’t.
In my bedroom, I dig through the plastic bins and pull out some shorts, slide them on, then right as I’m about to head toward the kitchen to get the phone, a loud pounding on the door stops me in the middle of the hallway. I lean against the wall and peek around the corner. Through the crack of the green curtains in the living room, there are red and blue lights.
That’s impossible.
No cops are ever out this way.
I don’t have time to answer the door because someone kicks it in. I cover myself, the courage gone, replaced by the boy who pissed himself in the bed.
“Houston Police Department!” a cop yells, followed by a stampede of footsteps. The steps come closer until I see a pair of boots in my line of sight. “Hey, I got a kid here!” the police officer shouts over his shoulder to his partners. He squats, and his knees pop. “You okay, kid? Does Jeremy Cooper live here? Can you tell us anything?”
Don’t make a sound.
“I know you must be scared. You’re safe now. Look at me. Let us help you.”
“There’s a dead body back here!” another voice booms from Uncle Jeremy’s room.
I whimper, shake my head, and start to rock.
“Do you have something to do with that?” he asks. “Your uncle was involved in some pretty shady things, kid. You aren’t in trouble here. I just need you to talk to me.”
I can’t.
I lift my head and meet his eyes.
“Holy shit,” he hisses and clicks the button on his radio that’s attached to his shoulder. “We need an ambulance to…”
I tune him out when I see an officer coming out of my room holding my journals. I run toward him and try to yank them from his hold, but the cop that called the ambulance holds me back. All I do is grunt and shake my head, pleading with them not to open the journals.
They hold all of my secrets.
“Did Jeremy Cooper do this to you?” the man opens my journal to the middle and flips through page after page, showing images that I drew.
Pictures of what Jeremy did to me.
“Did he do this?” the same man asks, waving his hand over my body.
I nod.
“Jesus Christ, we knew the guy was fucked up, but we never knew he had a kid.” He seems guilty, like he should have known better.
Maybe he should have. I don’t know.
“You’re safe now. We’re going to get you to the hospital. We’re going to find you a good home.” The officer that called the ambulance stands in front of me, taking the place of the cop holding the journals. His name tag says Lionel. I reach for his arm and squeeze it tight, trying to tell him that I don’t want to stay with strange people.
But I can’t get the message across because I can’t make a sound.
Present day
There is nothing like the smell of old books. Flipping the worn, discolored pages sets my soul on fire. I love the ink embedded in the paper. Someone’s mind came up with an idea, and letter by letter was written until the story was complete. It’s fascinating.
We have a book by Emily Bronte, but it was published under Ellis Bell, and it’s titled ‘Wuthering Heights.’ It’s from 1847, the original publication date. It’s a freaking classic. Everyone needs to read it.
I’m not allowed to touch the book. No one is. It’s on display, safely guarded in a glass box, flipped to the title page.
It’s unfair. It’s like my boss enjoys tormenting me. Imagine a kid going through a toy store and their mom says, “Don’t touch that. Keep your hands to yourself.” It’s like that, but much worse.
One page.
That’s all I want. I only want to flip one page, and my life will be made.
And only the manager’s key can open the gosh darn box. I’m only an Assistant Manager.
“Daphne, step away from the glass box,” Andrew, my boss says from the front desk. He isn’t even looking at me. He’s indexing a new arrival of books.
“I’m not even near it.” I stretch my leg behind me and take a big step back, nearly running into the bookshelf where all of the non-fiction reads are.
Blah. Non-fiction is my least favorite. Who in the world wants to read something real? Real life surrounds us every day. If I want to read a book, I want to get lost in magical romance, fantasies, paranormal, realms, shifters; whatever it is, I want to read it.
“Liar,” Andrew teases, smirking.
Yeah, he knows how much I want to hold this copy of ‘Wuthering Heights’ in my hands, and he loves to watch me squirm for it.
“Can I just—”
“No.”
“Just one time—”
“No.” He chuckles at our conversation that happens at least twice every day.
One day I’ll break him. One day.
Until then, I have to keep my hands to myself. I sigh dramatically and fall onto the black velvet chair nestled in the nook next to the window. I glance outside the window and place my chin in my hand, watching the empty street. It’s early morning and no stores are open yet, including ours. Well, the exception is the coffee cart at the corner, but everyone needs to start their day off right.
Coffee is the nectar of life, and anyone who disagrees with me must only drink tea.
Yuck.
Tea is good when you need something warm to drink before going to bed.
But the thought of a hot caramel latte with whip cream and a dash of cinnamon has my taste buds coming to life. The watch on my wrist reads 7:30 in the morning. I have another half hour before the store opens, and I’ve done all the work needed before we unlock the door to start the day.
“Hey, Andrew? Do you want coffee? I’m going to run down to the coffee cart.”
“Sure, I’ll take it black.”
Black? Who would want to miss out on the yummy number of flavors that creamers offer? I’ll never understand.
As I push off from the couch, the soft material rubbing against my fingers causes me to sigh. I want to curl up on my own couch with a blanket and a spicy romance novel that reminds me that love is possible. Then, I want to fall asleep and dream of my one true love.
Yeah, like that will ever happen.
Maybe I read too many books…
Now, that’s just crazy talk.
I skip down the aisle between mystery and suspense and head toward the back room to grab my purse and cardigan. Vegas might be hot, but when cooler weather starts to come around, the mornings are chilly. I slide my arms through the dark blue cardigan and wrap the strap of my purse over my shoulder, then peek inside where I see the cash folded up in one of the side pockets.
I haven’t seen the man who tossed forty dollars at me in a few weeks. He overpaid for the book he grabbed by twelve dollars. He never came back for his change. He was interesting and handsome.
He had long hair, which isn’t my type of thing on a man usually, but he made it work. He was mysterious, tall, broad, and wore a leather cut. I only know what they are because of all of the romance books I read. He was astonishingly quiet for a man who was so good-looking, and there was no reason why he couldn’t have all the confidence in the world.
I have no way of figuring out how to get his change to him, but I don’t have it in me to spend it. It isn’t right.