Stolen (14 page)

The door flies open, a welcomed relief honestly. I
think I’m going to need some help prying myself out of this sardine can
otherwise known as a bathtub.

Wrapping my arms around my chest, tightly fisting the
towel in two hands up to my chin, and bringing my arms to either side of my
breasts in a protective stance, I must look like I’m wearing a turtleneck made
out of a towel with the way I’m trying to cover myself, but I hadn’t expected
this. I thought mom or Cass would come in, not Bruce! Definitely not Bruce. Oh,
my God, this is embarrassing. I can’t even be sure everything is covered since
I can’t feel most anything at the moment.

“What are you doing here?” I ask in a harsher tone
than is probably necessary.

“Your mom invited me over for dinner. I got here a
little while ago. Your mom and Cass have been calling for you, but when you
didn’t answer, we came to see what was wrong. We’ve been knocking on the door
for a couple of minutes. I’m sorry I came in like this, but I was worried you
might have fallen.”

His head is bent, looking away from me. I can clearly
see that he’s embarrassed, which makes this situation only slightly less
humiliating; only slightly.

“I didn’t fall or anything, okay? I’m fine. I guess I
just lost track of time. I was trying to relax from the day and probably fell
asleep or something.” I lie to keep everyone calm. They don’t need to know I
had a mild nervous breakdown, and I know it was mild. I’ve had far worse.

“Do you mind leaving, though, so I can get out and
dressed? Except mom. Would you mind staying and help me get out of here? I’m
kinda stuck.” I grimace at the pain I’m sure to feel. 

“I got this, Beth,” Bruce intervenes.

Um, no way! This is beyond his duty as my protector.
“Um, no way! This is beyond your duty as my protector,” I reiterate my previous
thoughts.

He kneels in front of me, hands on the edge of the
tub. “Jess, I won’t do this if it’ll make you uncomfortable, but I want to help
and I think it will be easier for me to do this than your mom. You look like
you might snap if you try to stand, so I think it will be better if I lift you
out of the tub the way you are, then you can stretch out on your bed instead of
falling over onto the hard flooring in here. Is that okay?”

I think on his words for a moment, looking behind him
at mom, who’s standing in the doorway looking worried as she nods in approval
at his request. Maybe she’s afraid she won’t be able to help, that she would
drop me as Bruce suggested might happen. I’m still not comfortable with this,
mind you, but what choice do I have? I got myself into this position literally,
so I’ll have to accept whatever means of help I can get to get out of this.

I nod, muttering “Fine” under my breath.

“Okay, I don’t want you to move. I’m going to put an
arm under your knees and one on your back, then lift you. I’ll take you into
your room and leave so you can stretch out on your bed.”

This is going to be completely awkward, embarrassing,
humiliating, uncomfortable, whichever word you want to pick to describe this
situation. I can’t believe I did this. Counting hours like a crazy person and
now having to be pried from a bathtub because I broke down over counting those
very hours. I would say I need help, but I don’t want help, and I’ll never say
aloud that I need it either. Everyone has tried to get me into a shrink’s
office, but I refused then and will refuse just as adamantly now.

My towel starts to pull away from me when his arm
first goes under my knees. Stopping immediately, he grabs my robe hanging on
the door, wrapping it tightly around my shivering body. The dryness is welcomed
warmth; so welcomed I shift, what little I can shift anyway, pushing the soaked
towel off me all while keeping the dry robe over my body. If anything is
revealed, Bruce doesn’t let on. I suppose it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before,
but that doesn’t mean he’s seen anything on me before, and I’m not about to let
this become a show and tell experience.

“Are you ready now?” he asks, after waiting patiently
for me to get the towel/robe situation under control.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I agree.

After some awkward attempts at lifting me, a minor
robe shift, nothing coming out of hiding, thank the Cosmos, we’re in my room.
My hands are holding tight to his neck, not wanting to let go to the warmth
radiating off him. How is it that he’s so comforting?

“You know what I was just thinking?” I ask him.

“What’s that, Jess?”

“I was just thinking how weird it is that I’m so
comfortable with you. I mean, look at me, I’m a naked, soaking wet, shivering
mess, yet I don’t feel embarrassed by that at all. That’s weird, isn’t it?”

In the middle of talking, he has sat on my bed with me
on his lap, yet another “should be” awkward moment that feels anything but. I’m
so incredibly lucky to have someone like him in my life. 

He clears his throat, looking contemplative for a
moment before speaking. “I have to admit, I’ve often wondered why you’re so
comfortable with me. Don’t get me wrong, I feel privileged that you are, but it
has crossed my mind in the past. The only thing I can figure is that it’s like
the Nightingale effect. Are you familiar with that?”

I shake my head.

“Well, in simplest terms, it’s when someone gets
attached to the first person who takes on the role of, as you’ve put it
‘protector.’ I came into your life in a time of turmoil, causing you to seek
comfort and safety in someone other than your family, and that just so happened
to be me. I imagine if it had been my partner or just anyone else who could
make you feel safe you would have reacted the same way. I’d like to think not.
That it’s just me,” he says lightheartedly.

I shove him in the chest.

“But, in all seriousness, I do feel privileged that
I’m in your life, that you’ve allowed me into your life. I just don’t think
about the whys. It doesn’t matter, does it?”

I think about it for a second. I suppose it really
doesn’t. He’s here and that’s all that matters.

I tighten my hold around his neck, hugging him,
whispering into his ear that it doesn’t and thanking him for always being there
for me, even if only to pull me out of my bathtub.

“No problem. Now can we eat? I’ve been starving
forever waiting for you to get your ass out of that tub. People need to eat,
you know,” he states while pinching my side, making me squirm in his lap and
giggle ridiculously. I hate being tickled and am, unfortunately, extremely
ticklish.

I see a wicked gleam in his eyes. I try to stop him
before this gets out of hand, yelling at him not to do it, but he doesn’t
listen. Soon tears are streaming down my cheeks for entirely different reasons
than in the shower. I can’t stop laughing and, believe me, I want to. This is
not the fun laughing. Have I mentioned how much I hate being tickled?

“Bruce, stop it!” I yell through fits of giggles.

Mom appears in the doorway, yelling at both of us for
acting like children. Bruce stops when she tells me to get dressed so we can
eat, but as soon as she’s out the door and walking down the stairs, he starts
again. I’m not prepared. I thought he had stopped for good, but I was wrong. I
laugh some more before shoving him away from me, telling him between painful
giggles to leave—it hurts to laugh this much.

Holding his hand to his chest as he falls back onto my
bed, he declares that I’ve wounded him terribly. “You don’t have to be so mean
to me, ya know?”

“Stop being such a baby. I didn’t hurt you, and even
if I did, you deserve it. You shouldn’t have tickled me.”

“Fine, fine, if you’re going to be a sore loser like
that . . .”

He throws me off him, so I end up flat on the bed with
him standing at the edge staring triumphantly down at me. I’m thrown completely
off guard, ending up winded and scatter-brained. As I see him stretching his hands
out toward my sides, clearly preparing to tickle me some more, I kick my feet
out to keep him at bay, holding my robe close to my chest and tucking in the
sides beneath my body where I’m lying now; there’s no way he’s going to start
tickling me again.

“You better stay away from me! If you’re so hungry, go
get some food and stop pestering me,” I shout in a dismissing tone.

“Oh, I see how it is. I help you in your time of
distress, and now I’m being dismissed. That’s pretty rude, ya know?”

“I wouldn’t be dismissing you if you hadn’t started
tickling me. I was having a moment actually and you ruined it. Who’s rude now?”

“That’s still you,” he declares as he walks out the
door, shutting it behind him, grinning like he just won some sort of victory
against me.

“What an ass,” I think aloud even though I’m smiling
and don’t mean a word of it.

I drop my robe onto my bed, walking toward my dresser
to get new clothes out since mine are still in the bathroom. Just as I’m
stepping into my pajama shorts, there’s a knock on the door. Assuming it’s mom
or Cass, I tell whoever is on the other side to come in.

“I’m coming. I just have to finish getting ready,
okay?” I tell whoever is standing behind me. When there’s no response, I turn
around.

There’s little relief in having at least gotten into
my shorts because I wasn’t in them when the door first opened and I hadn’t
bothered to put any underwear on. I was in a hurry, so I wasn’t concerned, but
now . . .  now I wish I had. I really wish I had.

Covering my hands over my breasts, grabbing the first
shirt I can find, not putting it on, but holding it close to my chest,
attempting to cover all pertinent parts, I’m looking directly into Bruce’s
eyes.

Oh my God! I can’t look away. We both seem unable to.
This is the most embarrassing moment of my entire life. I see his face redden,
turning his back to me so quickly I feel a breeze prickle across my bare skin.
“Don’t turn around,” I command.

“I won’t. Oh my God, Jess. I’m so sorry. I came in to
see if my phone had fallen out of my pocket and I just thought that when you
said to come in that you’d be dressed. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me,” he
begs.

I have a t-shirt on now, with a bra and underwear—not
sure why I care about being fully clothed after all this. He’s seen most of me.
I just do. “You can turn around. I’m dressed.”

He hesitates, looking over his shoulder cautiously
making sure the coast is clear before facing me. The fact that his face is
still crimson red makes this situation only slightly less mortifying, and by
slightly I mean measurable only by those involved. To anyone else, nothing has
changed. This is a thousand times worse than the bathtub fiasco.

Why are the Cosmos playing such evil pranks on me
today? Cruel. They’re just cruel, that’s why.

“So. Well. Okay. I’m just going to head back
downstairs. If you find my phone, will you bring it down when you come?”

He doesn’t let me answer him before he shoots out the
door, the door slamming in his wake. I thought I was embarrassed. I don’t think
it can compare to his embarrassment.

I hear his heavy footsteps thudding down the stairs. I
decide to give him a minute before I follow. Needing a minute of my own, I lay
my head against the door, both arms resting on the door jamb on either side of
my face, and I take a breath, attempting to forget this horrible incident,
along with the horrible bathtub incident as well. Can I just be swallowed up
into some big hole or eaten by a whale or some equally efficient method to get
myself out of this disaster?

“Jess, hurry up, will you? We’d like to eat sometime
this week, ya know,” mom’s voice echoes up the stairs.

Guess not.

Present
day . . .

The dinner isn’t as awkward as I expected. Except for
a few knowing glances between Bruce and me, everything seems fine. He seems to
be able to put it behind him, so I do my best to do the same, even though it
was my lady parts hanging out for the entire world to see. I try not to focus
on that part. I’m sure it was no picnic for him seeing me naked any more than
it was for me to be seen naked by him.

Have I mentioned how cruel the Cosmos are? Seriously,
I manage to stay covered during the tickle fest only to be seen uncovered
moments later? Damn Cosmos!

When Bruce is getting ready to leave for the night, I
debate what I should do; get up and give him a hug like I’ve always done, wave
goodbye from the sofa, seemingly more interested in the TV than his leaving, or
say goodbye from the sofa but at least look at him when I do?

I stare at the TV for a while, waiting to see what he’ll
do. He says his goodbyes to Cass, his thanks for dinner to mom, then a moment
of silence, a moment that is making my skin flush with anxiety. What will he
say to me?

“Hey, Jess, see me to the door?” he questions.

I choke on my heart as it lodges itself in my throat.
Coughing a few times, trying to get my bearings, I stand, straightening my hair
and smoothing my shirt, walking toward him in as casual a tone as possible. If
mom notices anything, she doesn’t say. She’s back to watching a show on TV. Of course,
what would there be to notice anyway? It’s not as if this is an awkward
situation because this man has seen me naked or anything.

Once I reach him, the door is already open, his hands
in his pants pockets, feet balanced on the threshold. “Jess, before I leave I
just want to apologize for earlier. I feel so bad, and I don’t know what to do
about it. Are you mad at me?” His eyes are laced with concern.

I feel horrible for him. I want to make this better so
I attempt a joke, hoping our way of coping will work in a situation like this.
Putting my hand on his forearm, I stroke the fine hairs on his arm as something
to do to calm myself down, before taking a breath to speak.

“Bruce, it was an accident. No harm, no foul, so let’s
just forget about it, okay? I feel bad that that horrible image will probably
be permanently singed onto your brain, but that’s the price you had to pay for
walking in, or maybe that was the Cosmos’ punishment to you for tickling
me.” 

I had avoided looking him in the eye until this point,
but when I summon the courage there is an expression I don’t recognize. My hand
drops to my side as I take a step back, staring at him as if that will give me
the answer. When he finally speaks, to say I’m surprised by his response would
be an understatement.

Holding my chin in his palm so I won’t look away, he
says, “I don’t ever want to hear you talk about yourself like that, do you hear
me? I’m sorry I saw you in such an inappropriate way, and please don’t take
this the wrong way, but seeing you has no ranking on the list of horrible
images that are seared into my brain. Be uncomfortable with the situation. Be
uncomfortable that it was me, but never be uncomfortable with your body. You’re
beautiful. Back in the day, I would have loved to know someone as amazing as
you are. Don’t demean yourself, okay?”

His words take me by surprise. It’s so strange to hear
him talk like that about me, and even stranger that it doesn’t feel all that
strange to me.

He doesn’t give me a chance to reply. With his hand
still holding on to my chin, he nods my head for me before dropping his hand
and walking out the door. I go to bed in a stoned state, not knowing what my
feelings really are, too exhausted to care to figure them out.

I was hoping I’d wake up this morning feeling rested,
having answers to what the hell happened last night with Bruce, and feeling
excited about the party tonight.

No such luck.

Last night will most likely go down as the worst
night’s sleep I’ve ever had. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything that
happened, between Kyle and me, Rachel, Alex, the breakdown in the shower, then
the comment that Bruce made about me being beautiful and that he wished he had
known someone like me when he was younger. That was mostly the one that kept me
up. What did he mean by that?

Dragging myself out of bed and down the hallway into
the bathroom, I make the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror. Oh, the
horror!

I never brushed my hair last night after the shower; I
just put it up into a ponytail, and now I’m reaping the rewards of that
decision. Two times in almost as many days, a rat has found refuge in my hair.
One of these days a furry little face is going to pop out from atop my head,
that is, if it ever wants to leave its comfy confines.

My face is red and splotchy from a lack of sleep and
tossing and turning all night, which goes wonderfully with the black saucers
around my eyes. I can’t accurately describe to you the image in front of me and
be happy for that. To top it all off I’m wearing Hello Kitty shorts and a ratty
old Mickey Mouse t-shirt. I would love to say I look cute and eclectic, but
really, I look like I stole the shorts from a child and was given a t-shirt a
thrift shop would never even sell. This is what Bruce finds beautiful? He’s a
sick man.

I strip out of my clothes, my shoulders sore from
wearing a bra all night. I can’t believe I forgot to take it off; it’s not as
if I wasn’t awake throughout the night to do it.  

With one foot in and one foot out of the tub,
something hits me.

That would be me! I smell some sort of weird. I knew I
had been sweating a lot last night, happens if I can’t sleep because of stress,
but oh my God.

I almost trip on the side of the tub, getting wrapped
up in the shower curtain as I close it, in my attempt to move this show along.
I need to wash this funk off me before I risk anyone coming within five feet of
me, or fifty. Fifty would be just as bad, I’m sure!

Once I’m showered, hair and teeth brushed, body spray
sprayed, and deodorant applied heavily, I head into the kitchen to make some
coffee and maybe breakfast, too soon to tell how my body will handle food after
the somersaults it was doing throughout the night.

The coffee is made, mom is sitting at a bar stool at
the island with one cup of coffee in front of her and a fresh cup in front of
an empty stool. I look quizzically between her and the empty stool, trying to
figure out why she’s here, why my coffee is made, and what’s wrong. I glance at
the clock on the stove—9:15 in the morning. Why isn’t she at work?

I slide onto my seat, eyeing her with caution, or
maybe apprehension. It was in this room three years ago that Rogan and I had
found her and Cass crying over something unknown to us at the time, where I
passed out as Bruce caught me, and where I found Kyle yesterday morning after a
ridiculously horrible evening we had had the night before. I think we can say
this hasn’t always been a happy place, and seeing her here now, at home, on a
Friday when she should be at work is making me thankful I put on that extra
deodorant, otherwise I would be sweating through my pale pink t-shirt right
now.

What’s wrong? What’s happening?

“Mom,” I begin. “What’s going on? Why are you home on
a Friday?” Patiently waiting for her response, I slowly sip my coffee, mostly
for something to do.

Looking into my eyes, she says, “I thought maybe we
could play hooky and have a girl’s day. I know you have a class today, but, I-I
thought maybe you would want to come out with me? Let me buy you something to
wear for tonight?”

I had planned to skip class today. I’d have to see
Rachel, and I don’t think I’m ready for that, or Kyle, for that matter. It’s
bad enough I agreed to see him tonight. I couldn’t bear to live through seeing
him in front of Rachel. I’ll save that for tonight. Yay me!

Mom seems to need a break just as much as I do. She
doesn’t look upset or angry or anything bad per se, just worn out. If this is
what she needs I’ll do it for her. Not that she’s pulling my leg to cut class
and go shopping, but still, I’m doing this for her. It just happens to be
something I would want to do, too.

“I’d love that, mom. I think we both need a day off
from life. Let’s just not tell Cass. You know she’ll get mad we didn’t invite
her.”

“True,” she agrees. “This will be between us. Mum’s
the word and all that,” she says through a small laugh.

Since we’re both dressed and ready to go, we head out
as soon as our cups are drained of their coffee, shoes are on, and purses
locked and loaded with cash and charge cards—no telling how crazy a shopping
day this is going to become.

In the car, we blast “Cry Baby” by Janis Joplin,
singing our hearts out, belting out the lyrics in a way that would make all
wildlife, small children, or anyone with hearing run in fear, but we sing
anyway, not caring who might hear. This is our thing, something we haven’t done
in so long.

The mall isn’t busy since it’s only ten o’clock in the
morning on a Friday, leaving us free to roam the stores without the normal
annoyances such as kids running rampant, parents screaming, and teenage girls
talking in those ridiculously high-pitched voices.

Is anyone actually born with voices like that? I
swear, girls get together when they’re twelve, decide that’s the voice boys
will like, and practice until their natural voice has completely vanished.
Thank God, I was never like that, nor did Cass turn out like that. I don’t know
who tells them that anyone likes being spoken to with a baby’s voice, but
whoever it is has played a cruel joke on them and those of us who have to listen
to it.

After hitting all of the best stores, we each crash
into a seat in the food court, spent, starving, and completely sated.

“This has been awesome, mom. I can’t believe how much
we bought. And thank you so much for the dress and shoes. I absolutely love
them,” I exclaim.

“You’re welcome, sweetie. You’re going to look so
great tonight. Kyle may need CPR after he sees you,” she says, while wiggling
her eyebrows suggestively.

“Mom! You can’t say that!”

“Oh, please,” she says dismissively. “If I didn’t say
things like that, you’d worry about me and you know it. Now give me some of
those nachos before you devour them all without me.”

Once our bellies are full, our arms weighed down with
shopping bags, and our feet exhausted from so much walking, we head to the car.

Somehow, we make it back before Cass gets home, just
barely managing to stash away any proof of our mall extravaganza before she
walks through the front door.

The evening passes quickly. Dinner, Cass telling us
more about the gorgeous new kid she had told me about on her first day of
school, washing dishes, and packing leftovers. It’s just after seven o’clock in
the evening. I know it’s too early to get ready for the party, but I’m going
crazy just sitting around, waiting, so I run upstairs and start the prepping
process at least an hour earlier than necessary.

Standing in front of the floor length mirror in my
room, I take in the view. I’m in a sleeveless, nude colored dress with black,
asymmetrical stripes, making it seem almost like the small stripes of black are
all the dress is made of, admittedly a little more daring than I would normally
go, but mom insisted this was the one.

I have matte black high heels on, making me even more
ridiculously tall—per mom’s suggestion, of course. My hair is swept onto one
shoulder, pinned in the back, and sprayed with enough hairspray to deplete the
ozone further, and a pair of long black, twist-shaped earrings. Over all, I
have to admit I don’t look too shabby.

“Oh, honey, you look amazing,” mom says with a beaming
smile.

“Thanks, mom, I couldn’t have done it without you,” I
say while gingerly hugging her. I don’t want to ruin my hair or makeup after
all.

“It’s easy to do when you have such a gorgeous girl to
work on.”

“Mom, stop being so gushy.”

“Fine. Fine. Don’t let me have my moment. It’s not
like it’s a common occurrence for me to help you get all dressed up. I mean, I
didn’t get to help you with your prom . . .  

“Oh my God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that,” she
says quickly, trying to take back her slip on commenting on my prom, or lack
thereof, since I never did get to go to mine.

Rogan and I were broken up by the time prom came
around, and I wasn’t about to go with anyone but him. In fact, he died soon
after prom, so even mentioning the word twists my insides.

Pulling strength from somewhere deep inside, not
wanting to cry, not wanting to taint this night with dark thoughts, I reassure
her that I’m fine, that it’s okay that she mentioned prom, but just to drop the
subject. For a moment I can see the pain etched on her face and in her eyes,
and for a moment I almost lose my resolve, wanting to curl up and cry, but I
won’t. I want to let myself enjoy tonight, to forget about who I was. I just
want to forget for one night—no missing proms, no stalker, and especially not
the death of the love of my life.