Page 21 of Paths
Before that it was piano, voice lessons, gymnastics, ballet, and Latin.
It was my gym teacher in the eighth grade who pulled me aside and asked if I had an interest in track and field. I’d never thought about it, but after he called the high school coach to check out my skills—it was on. It took one call to my parents from the coach, and quicker than I could pass a baton, I had a private trainer three days a week for the next five years.
It’s amazing what money can buy you. As a freshman, I placed first in two events at the state tournament. I only got better from there and the scholarships came rolling in, not only for the flute, but also track and field. At the time, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. My mother finally pushed me into something I loved.
Being a runner has an addictive quality. If I go too long without my feet hitting the ground, I don’t feel right. Even after college, it was a great way to work out my frustrations, and there were many.
But tonight, my frustrations are of a different variety.
After Grady spoke to me in a way no one has before, I needed to run. I’ve never had the luxury of thinking about another man, not when the only one in my life oppressed me from the young age of sixteen. He might not have been outwardly oppressive and controlling until a few years ago, but when I look back on it, it was there. All the signs I didn’t know to see because I was young and infatuated—I thought I was in love. It didn’t help that our mothers basically set us up for a long, happy, privileged life. Hell, I’m sure they thought they’d have grandbabies by now.
Somehow, as the years passed, it didn’t feel right. That’s when things started to fall apart, because not only did I get pressure from him, but from his family and my mother, as well. I’d hit my breaking point. I was done. It was over, damn the consequences. And the consequences were as big as they could be.
Warm from my hot shower, I pull on a tank with my favorite lounge pants. I’ve got music going from the small TV Addy provided when I moved in.
I still can’t believe my luck, happening upon Addy and Whitetail. I needed a place to settle and some income. I’d blown through all the cash I was able to withdraw before I left. No way have I chanced using a credit card. They’d find me in a flash.
The extra job and furnished place to live was like a miracle when I needed it most. It’s private here and I finally feel somewhat safe. Not completely, but it’s more than I’ve felt in a long time.
Right when I was about to make something to eat, there’s a knock at my door. It’s not late, but it’s late for anyone who’d knock on my door here at Whitetail.
Morris comes by every once in a while to check on things at my bungalow. His wife, Bev, stops by a couple times a week if she’s made too much for dinner, insisting it will go to waste. These plates of leftovers are always hot and right out of the oven. Deep down, I know these meals aren’t extra food, but just her excuse for trying to take care of me, and that feels good.
All my lights are on—it’s going to be hard to make an excuse not to answer with the TV going. I go to the window and lift a slat to peek through the wood blinds I keep closed tight all the time. I see a car I don’t recognize—a midsize sedan—pulled up to the small porch, parked right next to mine.
Another knock, but this one’s more insistent. Damn, I wish I had a peephole.
It’s been months, I need to quit freaking out and making things out of nothing. In the beginning, I swear my mind played tricks on me everywhere I went.
More knocking.
Trying to talk myself into being rational instead of the hyper-paranoid freak I’ve turned into over the last few months, I go to my purse and grab my prepaid cell, just in case.
When I flip the deadbolt and turn the lock, the knocking immediately halts. I barely crack the door and look through, when my heart drops.
Fuck!
“Maya, wait.”
But I don’t wait. I use all my might to slam the door, but he’s faster and stronger. He always was.
He catches the door and pushes.
“No!” I scream, but it doesn’t matter. I’m in the middle-of-nowhere Virginia, no one will hear me.
“I need to talk to you,” he hisses.
He wants to talk, my ass. It always starts with him talking.
I made it months without them finding me. Even though it seems like forever some days, there are others where it still feels like I only left yesterday. When I escaped, I had no idea what I was doing. I guess I should be happy it lasted this long, but there’s no fucking way I’m going back, much less back to the way things were. Over my dead body—literally—will I return to that life. I’ll shout it from the rooftops if I have to, and I’ll enjoy every second of it, knowing it’ll be my demise.
Now that he’s here, knowing he’ll never leave me be, I have no choice but to face him head-on. I open the door halfway, the cold air from the December night flooding through me in my minimal state of dress, but nothing chills me like seeing him again. Standing on the porch of my bungalow, he’s a completely different person than he was the day I met him all those years ago.
Weston was eighteen, only two years older than me. It was at a political fundraiser my parents were hosting for a state senator, and he came with his family. Weston was young, handsome, charming, and sweet. Even though he was off to college the next month, it didn’t matter—he ensnared me in his web. Being young and oh-so stupid, I never fought it. I did all I could to wrap myself up tight in him.
He’s even taller now, and has always taken care of himself. He’s built, and would be incredibly handsome to any female. But not to me. Not any longer. Over the last couple years, his beauty has grown ugly. Standing before me, staring at me with his deep brown eyes, his perfect wavy black hair, with his perfect bone structure, and framed by his perfect mouth—he’s never been uglier.
“I never want to talk to you again, Weston.” I seethe, trying to calm my voice, yet still giving away the fact my heart is racing out of control.
