“every woman under the age of fifty” wanted to know. Namely, why he was still single. He laughed, said he wasn’t ready to settle down, if you know what he means, and gave the reporter a wink. I stopped searching his name online after that day.
We make our way through the streets of Burbank, Fish mentioning landmarks along the way, most of them his favorite places to eat. I realize, as we’re driving through a small subdivision with modest houses with large yards and gates for security, I really like Fish. He’s funny and laid-back and makes me feel comfortable without even knowing him. That’s probably how Jeffrey Dahmer’s victims felt right before he hacked them to pieces and shoved them in the freezer.
But Fish doesn’t seem like a serial killer. He seems like a guy I’d be proud to call a friend back home. Easygoing, fun, always cracking jokes.
I can see why Mack likes him.
He slows his car and turns into a driveway. There are several manicured shrubs and small trees along the roadway blocking the view of the house, but the moment we get past them, the house is there. It’s not too small, but not huge, by any means. It’s a white structure with a large concrete porch and a black front door. The landscape looks well maintained, as does the fence around the perimeter, but what really catches my eye, is the garage. It’s massive and extends all the way to the back of the property.
“This is Mack’s?” I whisper, taking it all in as he stops his car in front of the first garage door.
“Sure is. This is what he left me for,” he teases as he shuts down the car. “But I don’t blame him. I woulda had a hard-on a mile long for that garage too,” he adds with a shrug and gets out.
Before I can get my own door open, he’s there, extending a hand. The chivalry feels weird, but yet so familiar. Mack used to do the exact same thing when we were together. Though, he used it as an opportunity to maybe pull me into his arms or steal a kiss. Fish, on the other hand, doesn’t try anything, and the moment I’m standing beside him, he releases my hand and steps back.
“Thank you,” I tell him, turning to meet him at the trunk to grab my suitcase. I already know he probably won’t let me carry it myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to leave him alone to deal with my belongings.
The moment the trunk is popped, he’s got my bag in his big hand. Smiling, he tells me, “I got it.” He reaches up and shuts the trunk with a thud.
That’s when we see him.
Mack.
He’s standing by the stairs, his arms extended up and gripping the framework on the porch. His basic black T-shirt is riding up, a little sliver of dark tanned skin showing above his belt. Just the sight of him, standing there in the flesh, has my heart ready to beat out of my chest and my lungs forgetting what their main function is. He’s wearing well-worn blue jeans and nothing on his feet, which brings back all sorts of vivid memories of when we were young and dumb and in love.
He always loved to walk around my room barefoot. He said he didn’t dare do it at the trailer for fear of what he’d step on.
I’m stuck in this weird trance, alternating between past and present. My mind keeps telling me he’s not the same boy I once knew, while my heart is crying out in some desperate attempt to right all the wrongs of the last few years.
I ignore my heart.
There’s no going back.
Only forward.
So I take a step toward him, my carry-on bag held tightly against my chest like a protective shield. I can feel his eyes on me, everywhere. They run across my face and down my neck. My body tingles with awareness as they sweep across my body, finally making their way to my feet.
Then, they travel back up again.
By the time I’m standing in front of him, I’m slightly out of breath and feel as if his eyes were a physical caress to my entire body. I glance up into his startling dark brown eyes. They look…tired, yet elated. He tries to mask his features. I’m not sure which one he was trying to hide, but I saw them. Both of them.