The cool breeze blew down St. Ann, and I closed my eyes for a moment, enjoying its caress in my hair.
Laurel’s “To the Hills” drifted like a heartbeat through my earbuds, and I soaked in the sun and the wind blowing my off-the-shoulder blouse against my skin.
I’d been strolling all day, playing tourist and enjoying the atmosphere that I rarely took the time to experience even though I’d lived here for more than five years.
It was funny. I’d woken up this morning with a list and a plan. Clean the inside of the stove, work out, and then research field trips for my classes, since we’d been discussing so much war history, and New Orleans had some wonderful sites to visit.
But when I’d gotten dressed, I’d realized I wasn’t in the mood.
I’d crumpled up the list, tossed it in the trash, and grabbed my little bag, which now hung at my hip with the strap across my chest, and walked out of the house.
I took a streetcar to Canal and hopped off, disappearing into the Quarter.
Around the corner from St. Louis Cathedral, with its madness of artists, musicians, and palm readers, I traipsed a block or two to Maskarade, a little shop I’d discovered last Mardi Gras when I was searching for my first mask.
I wasn’t interested in the gaudy souvenirs sold in the French Market or tourist shops. I’d wanted handmade work by real mask makers, and I’d always intended to come back, perhaps to start building a collection for my wall.
When I stepped in, the rough wooden floors creaked under my sandals, and the woman behind the counter smiled at me before returning to her paperwork.
That was one thing I liked about New Orleans.
Merchants didn’t jump on you the second you walked into their establishments.
Masks covered all of the walls but were divided into categories. Leather to the left, then animal-inspired masks and feathered work to the right. Many of the masks were styled simply for male customers, while others were jeweled, glittered, and ornate for even the most audacious buyer.
“It’s almost Halloween,” I told her, looking around and seeing the place empty. “I thought you’d be busier.”
“It goes in spells,” she explained. “Mardi Gras is the really busy time.”
Yeah, I could imagine. I couldn’t believe it was only about four months until the next carnival season began.
Nearly a year since the first time I’d met Tyler.
And—I let my eyes drop for a moment as I walked around the shop—it had been more than a week since the last time I’d talked to him.
I’d seen him—once.
He’d picked up Christian last Monday from school, and even though I wasn’t sure, because I’d refused to look for him, he was most likely there every day this week to get his son.
I’d smiled at the parents, wished the students a good afternoon every day when they left, and returned to my classroom, closing my door and blaring Bob Marley as I worked late and didn’t think of him.
Or tried not to think of him.
But then I’d see the bra in my drawer that no longer had matching panties and remember that they were left in an alley in the Quarter. Or I’d wake up hot, the sheets chafing my naked skin, and let myself fall apart, wishing my hands were his.
He was right, though. What we were doing was careless and selfish.
I turned back to the clerk. “Where are your metal masks again?” I asked.
She pointed behind me. “Through there on the left wall.”
I saw the French doors in the middle of the room and gave her a small smile. “Thank you.”
Walking into the next room, I gazed at the walls, all adorned with masks, much like the first room, and went straight for the small selection of metal masks they carried. Some looked very much like the one I had purchased here last winter, but that was another perk of this place. No two masks were alike.
I picked up an ornate gold one, shining with crystals built into the center part that sat in the forehead. Along the sides, curling designs traveled up both temples, and exotic eyes gave it an erotic look, like a mixture of sex and mystery.
A smile I actually felt crept out for the first time in a week.
I loved the black one I’d worn all those months ago. I didn’t know where I would wear this one, but I was buying it.
I picked out a mask for my brother as well, since he had mentioned he had a Halloween ball to attend for his new internship at Greystone Bridgerton, letting her wrap both up and bag them before heading back up to Canal to catch a streetcar.
It was after three in the afternoon, and even though I hadn’t accomplished anything useful today, I’d promised Jack I’d make him dinner.
The only things he cooked were Hot Pockets and scrambled eggs.
Carrying my bag, I walked under the fragrant lilac tree in my quiet neighborhood and crossed the street to my apartment.
But as I jogged up the steps to the porch, I slowed, seeing my front door open.
What the . . . ?
Fear attacked me, slicing across my chest like a giant claw, taking everything in its grasp, and I instantly backed up, stepping down the stairs.
But I locked the door.
I remembered locking it, because a neighbor had greeted me, and I’d turned around to say hello before clicking the lock and jiggling the door handle to make sure it was secure.
I shook my head. No. I am not going through this again.
I charged up to the door, pushing it open with my hand.
“Who’s here?” I shot out, trying to keep the shakiness from my voice.
Air rushed in and out of my lungs as I quickly scanned the room, looking for any movement. The interior was dark. I’d turned off all the lights before I’d left, but the day’s last light was coming through the windows.
“Who’s here?” I shouted again, dropping the bag to my feet. “Come out right now!” I dared.
The cabinets, the window, the shower curtain . . . They weren’t my imagination or lapses in concentration.
Someone had been coming into my house.
I forced down the lump in my throat and inched into the foyer, searching the area for anything out of place.
And then I widened my eyes, seeing the pile of wreckage in the center of the living room.
I rushed for the debris and fell to the floor, the skin of my knees burning on the area rug.
“No,” I gasped.
Someone had broken into my house, and they’d known right where to go.
My shoulders shook as I cried silently.
My treasure box—the one Jack worried about—lay shattered on the floor, its contents scattered about and ripped to pieces.
I squeezed the scraps of papers in my hands, feeling the agony that I’d felt all those years ago when I’d locked them inside the box.
Chase.
All of his letters. His threats. Everything he’d sent me after my parents fired him as my coach. Everything they’d hidden from me.
After they died, I’d found the file in their home office with his “love” letters to me. From the dates, he’d been mailing them since he was fired.
I’d found them and read them, and my instant reaction was to want to self-destruct. They made my skin crawl and made me hate my parents for never pressing charges. They’d confiscated my phone not long after the stalking began, and also cut off my e-mail, so these letters were the only proof of what he was doing. Hard proof to give to the police. Why keep this from me instead of using it to protect me?
How could they have read these letters—some of them disgusting and perverted—and not done anything?
And then I remembered that they were dead because of me—because of what I’d done that night—and I didn’t want to be rid of the evidence.
Jack would’ve burned them, but I kept them locked in this box, never opening it and yet keeping it in plain sight, as a constant reminder of what losing control of your own life does to you.
Never again.
“Easton?” I heard a voice come from behind me.
I forced a deep breath.
“Easton,” Jack’s voice repeated. “What the hell happened?”
“You need to leave,” I demanded, hurriedly taking the handfuls of paper and stuffing them into my arms.
“Easton, what are you doing?” He stopped next to me, but I ignored him.
Dropping to his knees, he grabbed a piece of paper and studied it as I took my armful to the kitchen to find a gallon bag to keep them in for now. This pile of trash had kept me on a straight track for five years.
“Easton, stop!” Jack called. “How did you get these?”
I charged back into the living room, grabbing more scraps from the floor, pushing the pieces of wood out of the way to get every bit of paper.
“Easton.” Jack grabbed my arm. “You can’t keep them!”
I pulled away, gritting my teeth as I marched back into the kitchen and stuffed everything in bags.
But Jack dove around me, taking the bags out of my hands.
“Leave me alone!” I shouted.
“Like hell!” he bellowed. “You’re not keeping all of this. It’s sick!”
My whole body felt tight, and I growled, shoving at his chest.
But he just dropped the bags and pulled me into his arms, wrapping them around me.
I instantly closed my eyes and shattered.
My chest shook, and I collapsed against him, sobbing. “Jack, please,” I begged.
“I’m sorry, Easton,” he nearly whispered, and I could feel his short breaths as his chest shook. “I’m so sorry.”
I hated this. My brother had suffered enough. Suffering he shouldn’t have had to go through if it weren’t for me, and here I was again, center stage with the drama.
No more.
I pulled away, pushing at his chest to distance myself. “I don’t need to be taken care of.”
I stared up into his eyes and narrowed my own, forcing my tough outer shell into place. “Stop worrying about me and stop interfering,” I demanded.
And I circled around him, picked up the ziplock bags, and ran upstairs.
—
On Monday I left school after the bell, having changed into my workout clothes, and crossed into Audubon Park for a jog. It was something I did every Monday and Wednesday, but instead of hanging around school a few extra minutes like I’d done the last week in some pathetic hope that Tyler would seek me out, I just left.
I’d spent the entire day yesterday filing a police report about the break-in, and then I’d cleaned the house from top to bottom, removing any trace that someone had been in my home.
This morning, before I’d left for school, I’d remade my bed twice, checking the corners, and then checked to make sure the windows were locked and all of the cabinets were closed.
Four times.
I’d pushed my car locks eight times, and I’d counted my steps into the school.
And then I’d sat down at my desk and laid my head in my arms, crying my eyes out before first period, because I didn’t want to be scared anymore.
I didn’t want to be like this.
I wanted to be how I was with him.
Not that Tyler could save me, but I’d been happy.
I was in love with him.
But I refused to miss him.
Tyler couldn’t make me feel better anymore, and I wouldn’t let him fix me.
So I dried my eyes and decided no more. I didn’t know who had been in my apartment, but I would be the one to deal with it. I’d called the police and reported it, deciding that I wouldn’t try to handle it quietly like my parents had. Instead, I’d be proactive and not sit and wait for anything.
I pounded the pavement, sweat running down my back as I completed my eighth lap and kept going. Shaman’s Harvest’s “Dangerous” charged my muscles, giving me the energy that my mood had depleted, and I started to feel more like myself for the first time in a long time.
It was a little chilly today, but I wasn’t feeling it, despite the white workout tank and black shorts I wore.
I stuffed my earbud back in my ear, as it had started to fall out, but then something slapped me on the ass, and I jerked to a halt, yanking both earbuds out.
“Hey.” Kristen jogged in place next to me. “You actually do this for fun?”
She smiled sweetly, looking a little comical, because she was losing her breath but trying to hide it.
I shook my head at her and continued jogging, not caring if she kept up. “What are you doing here?”
“Well,” she breathed out. “I always see you run out of school at the end of the day in your workout clothes to go jog, and I think to myself . . . I could do that,” she mused.
I couldn’t help it. I snorted, my chest shaking.
“Made you laugh.” She gloated. “You haven’t been smiling the past few days—actually the past week—so I consider that my special skill.”
“What?” I grumbled, trying to sound annoyed.
“Making you crack a smile,” she pointed out. “I’m sure not everyone can do it. I might be like your hetero soul mate. Your other half.”
I rolled my eyes, the breeze flying under the canopy of trees cooling my skin.
“I’m fine,” I stated. “The honeymoon is over, is all. Teaching finally got hard.”
“Amen, sister,” she shot back. “But if I had your technique in the classroom, I’m sure I’d be very happy with my class. At least you’re not dealing with behavioral issues up the butt.”
No. I wasn’t. And what I’d told her hadn’t been the truth. Teaching was always hard, but that wasn’t the reason for my mood.
I just didn’t feel like telling her about everything.
Despite what had happened at the club, I liked her. It wasn’t her fault, after all, and with the way she’d handled herself at school afterward, and her discretion, I’d grown to trust her.
And she seemed to like me, though I had no idea why.
“I heard Shaw asked you to conduct a lesson for the teachers at Staff Development on engagement techniques,” she continued.
I nodded, draping my earbud cord around my neck. “I said no.”
“Why?”
“Because I think it would rub other teachers the wrong way for someone as inexperienced as me to tell them how to do their jobs,” I explained.
“Screw ’em.” She waved her hand at me. “Just like the students, the teachers have to be willing to change in order to succeed.” And out of the corner of my eye I saw her lean in, playing with me. “And you’re so capable, I think you could get them to want to.”
What did she know? Teachers usually hung on to their jobs for a lifetime, and they became creatures of habit. The idea that I could swoop in and tell them—people who had years of experience—how to improve was presumptuous.
Why would she care what I did?
I regarded her with a sideways glance. “Why are you so nice to me?”
She twisted her lips. “Skeptical much?”
“No,” I answered. “I mean, I haven’t really let you see anything about me to like.”
She giggled. “Not true. You’re a wonderful dancer. You do great things with your hands.”
I knocked her on the arm, letting out a snicker as I slowed to a walk and headed for the grass.
She smiled wide, following me. “I like you,” she panted, out of breath. “You do your job as if procedures weren’t already in place. You’re inventive. You do what you want, how you want.”
I dropped to my ass and pointed to my feet for her to hold as I crossed my arms over my chest and immediately started curling into sit-ups.
“People respect that,” she told me, kneeling down to hold my feet with her hands. “I respect that.”
I shot up, keeping my abs tight as I leaned back and curled up again.
Why shouldn’t she be my friend? I didn’t have many.
Or any, really.
And it had been a long time since I’d had one.
She was messy, and I could tell she enjoyed disorder. Everything I was against.
“I’m shy,” I warned her.
“You’re intolerant,” she corrected. “There’s a difference.”
I gave her a small smile. “I’m cynical,” I pointed out.
“Ohhhh, cynics are so cute,” she cooed, and I shook my head in amusement.
“And I don’t really like to party,” I told her, laying down the law.
“And I do,” she threw back, shrugging. “We’ll meet in the middle.”
