Demanding Ransom (11 page)

“My turn.” Ran twists his hands, one over the
other. “And I really hope you’re getting full because I’d like an answer this
time.” He interlocks his fingers and hovers his hands over his mouth. He
breathes into them and after a short pause says, “When are you going to forgive
your mom?”

The room starts to spin, the nauseating smell
of fish fills my nostrils, and I grip onto the edge of the table to center
myself. “What?” I grit out, so quietly, yet it feels like a scream as it burns
against my lips.

Ran doesn’t respond, but his eyes attempt to
draw an answer out of me with their infuriatingly tender warmth. They’re trying
to draw out an answer Ran is not going to get.

Pursing my lips to fight back the tears and the
anger that’s pressing just at the back of my tongue, about ready to fly out in
the form of spiteful words and insults, I shove a third piece of sushi in my
mouth.

I don’t think he’s intentionally shaking his
head, but I notice it rotating side to side, almost as though it’s in slow
motion, disbelief drawn on his face.

I make deliberate eye contact, and then lift a
fourth piece up to my lips. As soon as it is swallowed, a fifth. And once I’ve
choked down the last bit of greasy, pungent seafood, I deposit the sixth into
my mouth, suppressing the attempt at escape the previous bites are making up my
esophagus.

Like silver dollars on his face, Ran’s irises
are encased in nothing but white. “Well,” he begins, but I notice the shake in
his voice. “Now you’ve left nothing for me.”

 
My
stomach heaves, but I quickly down the remainder of my soda, all the way to the
bottom where it makes that crackling, empty echo against the ice cubes and
plastic cup.

“So your only option is to answer me then.” I
run my napkin across my mouth and then toss it onto the table. “What did you
think about me the first time you saw me?”

“The first time I saw you?”

“Yes. The night of the accident.”

Ran’s indigo eyes pierce into me. “That you
were beautiful.”

The monotone quality in his words leaves me
numb. Not because the unexpected compliment flusters me, but because the
seriousness in which he delivered it chills me.

“I couldn’t have been beautiful with all that
blood, Ran.” My eyes dart anywhere they can without coming into contact with
his. “And I had a black eye for over a week. I was a mess.”

“That wasn’t the first time I saw you.”

“What—?” Shock courses through me,
pulling me perfectly upright in my chair.

Ran shakes his head vigorously. “Nope. You’ve
used up your three questions. Not my fault you chose them poorly.” He yanks the
rice bowl toward him. “And you didn’t leave any dinner for me, Maggie. That
wasn’t very nice.”
 

“I think we’ve already established the fact
that I’m not nice.” I suck on my straw again, even though I know there’s
nothing left in the cup. “So you thought I was beautiful—blood, bruises
and all. Anything else?”

“Yes, Maggie,” he says. “I felt incredibly
guilty that everything had to happen the way it did.”

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

“Maggie, he has abs for
days
!” Cora squeals, cross-legged on her bed, bouncing up and down
like a child on Christmas morning. “Forget six-packs—hell, even
eight-packs. Ran is the literal definition for washboard abs. How many grooves
do you think a washboard has? Like twenty? That might not even be enough.”

Her voice trails off and I transfer my focus
back to my paper. It’s two in the morning and I think I may have just completed
my rough draft. One more read through and I’ll be ready to turn this in to
Professor Long tomorrow morning.

“I’m not sure why you wouldn’t get on the back
of that bike again. I would ride it all night long if I could.”

I don’t look up from my computer screen when I
say, “Are we still just talking about the bike?”

“Maggie, Ran is hot, thoughtful, and he takes
you to nice restaurants.” She stretches out her legs and swivels under the
covers, yanking the comforter up under her chin until she looks like she’s
wrapped like a burrito. “I still don’t understand the SOS signal. I thought we
only texted that when we were in dangerous situations.”

“It felt dangerous.” I scan through the first
page of the essay, frustrated when I notice it’s riddled with typos, like
whoever wrote it was severely lacking in the focus department. “Ran feels
dangerous.”

“Ran feels
amazing
.”
Cora rubs the tips of her fingers together as if the memory of his muscular abs
is still tangible on them. After she came to rescue me from the restaurant with
her vehicle that ran on
four
wheels,
she’d opted to let me drive her car home while she took to the back of Ran’s
bike.

“Ran asks too many questions, makes me feel
uncomfortable, and he wants to know things about me that aren’t any of his
business.”

Cora props herself up on her elbows. “You see,
all of those things you just mentioned have you as the common denominator. I
don’t think Ran is the problem here, Maggie.” She lets out a deep sigh before
she says, “Have you ever thought about talking to someone? You know, like other
than me?”

“You’re starting to sound a lot like my mom.”

Cora’s elbows unhinge and she drops onto the
mattress with a thud and holds her hands up in the air in surrender. “Then I
take that back. Don’t ever compare me to that lying wench again,
mm-kay
?”

“Then don’t say things that will lead me to
draw any comparisons.”

“Deal.” Cora reaches out for the lamp on her
desk and clicks the knob twice until the light flickers off. She rolls over to
face the wall and calls out over her shoulder, “Give Ran a second chance. He’s
worth it.”

His words echo in her tone and make me feel
sick to my stomach. Ran hadn’t really done anything wrong. It’s not his fault I
didn’t like the questions he asked. He let me have a do-over. Maybe I should
return the favor.

I rush through the rest of my editing, my eyes
blurred from a groggy stupor that can only be remedied by a good night’s sleep.
By the time it’s 3:30 a.m., the weight of my eyelids rivals that of a 50-pound
dumbbell, and I’m only seeing through thin slivers.

With my clothes still on, I make the transition
from my desk chair to my bed in one clumsy swoop. The sheets still hold the
repellent odor of Cora’s latest overnighter, but traces of Ran rise just above
the surface. The smell of both sweat and soap. Dirty and clean.

I don’t notice how tightly I’m clutching onto
the pillow—smothering my nose in its feathery fabric that smells like
Ran—until the vibration of my phone shakes me out of my tense slumber.

Ran: I’m sorry.

I don’t respond.

Ran:
Maggie, I know I’ve asked too many questions already, but can I please see you
again?

I re-read his text three times before I come up
with a reply, and even then I don’t write it.

Ran: No more questions. Promise.

I punch my fingers on the keys.

Me: And no more games. Period.

Ran: I’m
not playing games with you. That’s not what I’m trying to do here. I just
really need to see you again.

Even though I want to shut off the power to my
phone and ignore him completely, I fire off another text.

Me: I’m
turning in my essay tomorrow during Prof. Long’s office hours. I’ll need a ride
back home.

Ran: Are you headed home for good?

Me: No. Just a few days. Pick me up at noon at
the south parking lot.

Ran: Okay.

Me: If
you show up on your bike, I’m not getting on it. Find some other mode of
transportation.

Ran: Got it. No bike.

Me: And let’s agree to not go out to eat
tomorrow. Us + eating out = bad situations.

Ran: Then we’ll eat in. My place. I’ll cook.

Me: You’ll cook? That might even be worse.

Ran: Why
do you assume I can’t cook? You’d be amazed by the amount of things I’m very
good at, Maggie.

Me: You’re not very good at succeeding in
getting me to like you.

Ran: Working on it. Gimme time.

Me: Tomorrow. 12:00.

Ran: See you then.

***

“I must say, Margaret, I am very impressed with
your diligence and ability to perform under pressure. I don’t like to admit it,
but I had my doubts that you’d be able to complete this essay in time.”
Professor Long takes my paper from my hands and sets it down on the mahogany
desk behind him. There are picture frames holding perfect looking families,
similar to the ones that come in them when you purchase the frames from the
store. But I recognize Professor Long’s face in the photographs, so the images
must be of his actual family.

He strokes his charcoal-colored mustache with
his fingers. “I wish the rest of the faculty had given you the same opportunity
to prove yourself academically.” He offers an apologetic smile.

“It’s alright. Most people don’t give second
chances.” And I don’t think college professors are known for their flexible,
accommodating ways.

I shrug my shoulders and have my hand on the
handle to his office door when he replies, “I think you would be surprised,
Margaret. Most people are very willing to give second chances. It’s those that
are willing to give
themselves
another chance that are harder to come by.”

***

The walk back to the dorm is enjoyable. The
December air holds just enough chill without being unbearably cold. And my
steps feel lighter. Probably because I just turned in the one assignment that
offers any proof that I was even here; something that gives this quarter a
little purpose. That’s a huge weight off my shoulders and I physically feel it.
My stride adopts that same, weightless buoyancy.

That is, until I see the red and white
ambulance parked in the south lot.

When the passenger door pops open and
Ran—outfitted in full paramedic attire—slips out, all of that light
feeling disappears. My feet are like two-ton bricks mortared firmly on the
pavement below me. Even if I wanted to take a step toward it, they wouldn’t let
me.

“Maggie!” Ran calls out and waves, as if I
can’t see him. As if I don’t notice the massive, colorful ambulance taking up
space in our dorm parking lot. “You ready to go?”

I clamp my jaw shut because it had popped open
the second Ran and the vehicle came into view. “Are you serious?” I hiss as
soon as he’s within hearing distance.

“You said no bike.” He swivels around and holds
both arms out on either side. “This is not a bike.”

“No,” I breathe. “This is a freaking ambulance,
Ran!”

“I have fond memories of my ambulance rides
with you. Plus, we fixed the light, so you don’t have to worry about
sunglasses.” He grins coyly.

“Yeah, because that’s what I was worried
about,” I mock. “Try being worried about getting arrested for riding in an
ambulance when you’re not the patient!” I yank my messenger bag off my shoulder
and lob it at Ran but it falls to the ground and my compact and lip gloss spill
out of it.

“You’re not going to get arrested,” he laughs
as he condescendingly bends down to retrieve my bag and its contents, and then
settles the strap onto my shoulder. “It’s called a ride-along. We do them all
the time. And our morning has been pretty slow, so I’m hoping things pick up
and you get a real show.”

“You’re sick, Ran. Wishing tragedy on people just
so you get a little more action.”

Ran’s face goes white, the usual rosy-pink
pigment drained from it. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, his eyes suddenly
crammed with emotion.

I instantly wish I could retract my words after
seeing that look on his face. Why do I always feel like the bad guy when I’m
around him? “I’m sorry.”

“I just meant that since it’s been slow, things
will probably pick up. I’d never wish for someone to sustain an injury for the
sake of entertainment.” Ran looks me up and down, and the hurt in his eyes is
still present, though he’s regained a hint of his color on his skin.

“I know.” I change the subject. “Let’s go get
my bag.”

“Already did. Cora let me in.”

I roll my eyes. “So now I’m adding intruder to
the list. Stalker, kidnapper, hostage holder, ransom demander, and now
intruder.”