Snowflakes & Fire Escapes (5 page)

He was so beautiful when he smiled.

I wished he’d do it more.

He kissed the corner of my mouth, his bare chest pressing against mine. I wondered if he could feel my heart beating, if he could hear it speed up even more when he unbuckled his pants. He took off the rest of his clothes, and I let my eyes explore. He was covered in battle scars—some from fighting, others his father put there—way too many scars for his eighteen years.

He seemed so at ease, so confident, not a stitch of nerves showing. I tried to always be strong like him, untouchable by outside forces, but he single-handedly disarmed me.

“Have you … ?” My voice sounded magnified in the quiet bedroom. “Have you done this before?”

He paused again. Another ten seconds. It felt like ten years as he stared down at me, his smile suddenly gone. After those seconds pass, he seemed to find the words to speak. “You think I’d do this with somebody else, Gracie?”

Stupid question, because no, he wouldn’t. We never had the kind of talk other people do, the kind of talks I heard the girls at school whispering about. It had just
always
been us, in a way. Just me and Cody. My best friend. My soul mate.

“I love you, Grace Elizabeth Callaghan,” he said, his voice a serious whisper, like he was spilling a deadly secret that was far too big for the world to hear. “Nobody else.
Nobody
. Nobody else gets me. Nobody else can have me. I’m yours, as long as you want me,
if
you want me. Fuck knows, I don’t know why you
would
, but if you do …”

I did.

I didn’t say it, though.

It sounded like a silly declaration, the kind that words could never do justice. Instead, I pulled him back down to me, kissing him. He settled between my thighs, and my breath hitched when I feel him press against me.

“I’ll try to be careful,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Slowly, he pushed in. I wouldn’t have called it comfortable, but it wasn’t painful. It was pressure, accompanied by a slight ache when he started to move. My muscles eased after a moment, my body relaxing as I started to adjust to the strange sensation of him being inside of me. I wrapped my arms around him as he covered my body with his own, sliding in and out, finding his rhythm. His lips found mine, never leaving, swallowing every moan and cry, every hitch of breath, knowing they were intended for him and him alone.

It was over too soon.

He stilled on top of me, breathing heavily. His forehead was pressed against mine. I opened my eyes, seeing his were closed, a relaxed expression on his face. A smile touched his lips again, natural and graceful. I didn’t even know if he realized he was smiling.

I may not have seen any stars that night, but this couldn’t really be Hell, I thought … not when I looked at him and swore I could see Heaven.

***

Witness Protection, or WITSEC, is nothing like the movies make it out to be. Like most people, my impression of it came from Hollywood storylines, but reality slapped me in the face the second I involuntarily joined.

There is no glitz, no exotic locales, no sitting on beaches sipping fruity drinks with tiny umbrellas as a generous gift of gratitude from the government for giving up your life. They legalized my new name with all of the proper documents, and shell out barely enough money every month to cover the bills for this rundown house, but other than that, I’m on my own. It’s Holden’s job to make sure I’m happy—I know, because he’s told me that more than once. It’s how I acquired the twenty-year-old broken down Chevy in the first place: the government’s idea of going ‘above and beyond’.

When I wake up the next morning, the first day of December, the air is still muggy. I’m sweating like a pig, my skin clammy and face flushed. I’m fucking miserable as I climb out of bed, not bothering to change clothes or even get dressed for the day.

It’s not like I have any plans, anyway.

I roll up my shorts along the waistband, jacking them up even shorter, and bunch my tank top up in the front, tucking it into my bra to get it off my stomach. I don’t give a shit how I look, nor do I care if it’s inappropriate with present company … it’s hot and all I want to do is stay cool.

Opening my bedroom door, the first thing I hear is noise in the kitchen, before the scent of food hits me like a freight train. My stomach instantly starts growling in response. Above that smell is something else, something I haven’t smelled in a while.
Coffee
. Curious, I make my way that direction, pausing momentarily in the living room when I nearly trip over an air conditioner lying on the floor. It’s one of those little window units, big enough to maybe cool half a room in this place.

I step around it, heading for the kitchen, spotting Holden standing in front of the stove, wielding a spatula. He’s dressed, still looking composed even when going without a tie, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s not wearing his badge, probably because he’s not supposed to around me.

We have this façade to maintain.

Cover stories are a bitch.

They drilled mine into me before I relocated here … Grace Kennedy, hailing from upstate New York, no relation to the actual Kennedy family if anyone got too nosey. I live with my uncle, who works in international trade, so he’s gone more than he is at home. They even trained me to call him ‘Uncle Holden’, but it creeps me out to think of him like that. It’s a simple story to pull off, not hard to remember, but I always feel like people can tell I’m bullshitting whenever I speak.

Holden, on the other hand, effortlessly lies. It’s sort of awe-inspiring.

He’d make a good actor.

Or maybe one hell of a conman.

“Good morning, Grace,” he says as he turns to face me, his voice coated with a phony New York accent that he somehow manages to make sound authentic. “I hope you’re hungry.”

I stare at him with confusion, wondering why he’s speaking that way. He raises his eyebrows, subtly nodding toward the open window across the room. Glancing that way, I see a figure out in the yard, the hood up on my old car as a man tinkers with it. It’s the same guy from yesterday, the tow truck driver who picked me up along the highway. The sight of him ties my stomach in knots. In public, I work hard to pretend to be this Grace Kennedy, the girl I’m not, but I relish on getting to be just Gracie again within the privacy of these walls.

As much of Gracie as I have left in me, anyway.

“Sure,” I say. “Starving.”

Holden smiles, knowing I’ve caught on, and waves toward the small kitchen table with the spatula. “Have a seat.”

I head for the refrigerator instead, curious, and find it packed full—he went shopping without me. Shaking my head, I sit down, just as he sets a cup of coffee on the table. I think it’s meant for him but I snatch it for myself anyway, picking it up to blow in it. “You don’t have any Bailey’s to go in this, do you?”

He shoots me a look that tells me I’m out of my mind. Shrugging, I take a sip of the coffee and grimace, knowing he bought that generic bitter shit even
I
can barely stomach.

I watch in silence as he makes up a big plate of food and slaps it down on the table in front of me. He joins me with his own plate after a moment, as well as another cup of coffee, immediately diving into the food, while I just stare at mine. Holden’s game is strong this morning. I’m almost impressed. He tried to replicate the traditional Irish breakfast: bacon, sausage, eggs, hashbrowns, and beans. While I appreciate the effort—really, I do—he should most definitely keep his day job. The bacon’s not crispy, the hashbrowns are soggy, the eggs dried up and the beans … dear God, the beans came straight out of a Campbell’s can.

I can sense him watching me as he devours his breakfast. I take a few bites to alleviate his concerns, but it doesn’t seem to work. His expression slowly shifts, his worry again shining through.

“Not good?” he asks quietly, dropping his voice low to ensure only I can hear as he lets the accent slip. “I can find you something else to eat.”

“It’s fine,” I say, giving him another smile, but he doesn’t buy it.

His gaze bounces between our plates before he lets out a deep sigh. “Look, I know it’s not perfect … frankly, I’m not Irish, nor am I what we’d call a good cook. I googled and thought I’d try to make you something special. You know, because it’s your—”

Holden doesn’t get a chance to finish what he’s saying, and I’m grateful for it. His words are cut off by the loud bang of my car hood slamming closed. Seconds later, the engine of the Chevy roars to life, rumbling and hesitating, but it stays cranked.

Holden shoves his chair back and stands, walking out of the kitchen. I hear the front door open and set my fork down, watching out the window. Holden approaches the man, the two exchanging some words, Holden’s New York accent back in full force. The car is turned back off and they shake hands, before Holden pulls out his wallet, handing over a big wad of cash to the man.

I turn back to my food, slouching down in my chair, but I don’t eat any. Holden returns as the tow truck rumbles down the road, the man leaving, the job done. “So what happened to getting me a
new
car?”

Holden retakes his seat across from me. “That’s still on the agenda, but it’ll take some time for approval to come through.”

I know that.

I do.

They’re quick to pull you in, but once they have you, they start dragging their feet.

“And the air conditioning?”

“Same,” he says. “I’ve got a window unit to install for the time being.”

“Too swamped to fix the problems,” I say, “yet they somehow found the chance to approve minor repairs.”

Holden doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. I know it wasn’t the government that paid for any of this. That money came right out of Holden’s pocket.

“Call it a gift,” he says after a moment.

“Friends give gifts. Family gives gifts. Handlers don’t give gifts.”

“I don’t like that word.”

“What? Handler?”

Holden cringes. “It insinuates you’re something I need to handle.”

“Aren’t I?”

His eyes shoot daggers at me.

Maybe he doesn’t think of me that way, I don’t know, but that’s how it feels. He does whatever he can to placate me, not realizing it usually just makes me feel worse. I’d rather be ignored than be humored. It’s condescending.

Pushing my chair back, I stand up, picking up my breakfast. I scrape the food in the trashcan before tossing the plate in the empty sink and heading for the door. “Thanks for breakfast, Holden. I appreciate the effort.”

***

Academy of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart
. I never liked the name. I liked the school even less. I stood on the front steps after final dismissal my first day back, staring down at the sidewalk at the last person I expected to see standing in front of the ornate stone building.

My father.

He was wearing gray slacks and a white button down, the top few buttons undone. His hands were in his pockets, his gaze everywhere except for on me.

I almost wanted to run back inside before he saw me.

His presence tended to bring bad news. There was no reason for him to be there, which meant one of two things: either I was in trouble or else
he
was.

He scanned my classmates as they rushed past, laughing and chatting, paying him no mind. It was an unseasonably warm fall afternoon, so most of the girls were taking advantage of it, their skirts rolled up to indecent levels, shirts tied in knots, showing their midriff. But there I stood, the picture perfect Catholic schoolgirl: knee-high socks, gray plaid skirt, white shirt and gray blazer.

All I was missing were a pair of Mary Janes.

A bewildered look covered my father’s face as he turned my way. He scanned me quickly, probably to ensure I didn’t look like the rest of the girls around there. I descended the steps toward him, knowing I couldn’t hide now.

“What happened to the dress code?”

“They don’t get paid enough to enforce it.”

“They’re nuns, for Christ’s sake,” he grumbled. “They’re supposed to do it because the good book tells them to.”

I didn’t argue, but seeing as he probably knocked out every last commandment from his to-do list, he was the last person who ought to lodge a complaint about someone’s holiness. He shook his head, meeting my eyes, but he said nothing else. He didn’t look angry, at least. Maybe just exasperated.

“Is there, uh … is there a reason you’re here?”

“Just wanted to see how your first day back was.”

My brow furrowed. “You couldn’t ask me that at home?”

“I had some free time so I thought I’d make up for what I missed. You know … thought we could go see your mother today.”

I just stared at him as those words sunk in. It had been over a month since the anniversary, over a month since he
forgot
. I figured he just chalked it up to a loss, that it was time to move on, but this? This was even worse.

He was
just
now making time for me.

Just now making time for her.

I didn’t argue, although I was scarcely in the mood to go. My father called for a car to drive us to Queens, right to the cemetery. My mother was buried in a family plot, a massive headstone adorning it that would someday also have my father’s name on it.

It was nothing like it usually was.

Usually there were flowers, and tears, sometimes laughter and stories.

We were both quiet today.

Very little was spoken before we left again, heading to a small restaurant around the corner, the same place we ate at every year on the anniversary. It was my mother’s favorite. I couldn’t remember that, but my father told me.

We both ordered meatloaf, also my mother’s favorite.

Another thing I didn’t remember.

He ate while I picked at my food, wanting to just go home and end this sham of an outing. Sometimes ‘better late than never’ was complete and utter bullshit.

“You know I love you, right, Grace?”

The question surprised me, not because he had to ask, but because he said that word:
love
. He said it less than Cody acknowledged Cormac as his father, which was practically never. Not to say I doubted my father’s love. He loved me in his own way. I just always doubted his ability to express it normally. “Yes.”