Demanding Ransom Page 13

  Me: I know.

  Cora: So you met Ran’s dad? That’s a huge step.

  Me: I guess, but not one that he’ll remember.

  Cora: And I’m the insensitive one? ;)

  Me: It’s true though.

  Cora: Ok, let’s talk about a less controversial subject. Or wait, maybe it’s MORE controversial. Tell me about the hottest kiss-that-wasn’t-a-kiss in existence. THAT I want to hear more about.

  Me: That’s just it—it wasn’t a kiss.

  Cora: But it kinda, sorta was.

  Me: I don’t know. I just know it was crazy intense and I really wanted more.

  Cora: BRB…but don’t lose that train of thought.

  Me: K.

  Cora: Seriously, you better pick right up where you left off…

  Me: :)

  The man on the widescreen has been shouting over-excitedly about some stain remover for the past ten minutes, but I’ve rummaged through the couch cushions three times and cannot for the life of me locate the AWOL remote. After two more testimonies on laundry miracles, I can’t take it anymore and decide to walk to the television to shut if off manually. The moment the volume from the surround sound cuts out, I hear my phone vibrate across the leather cushion and I yank it into my grip.

  So, what did you think?

  Me: That I didn’t want it to stop. That I wondered how those lips would taste and how I probably won’t wash my neck for at least a week.

  Really? You wanted to know how they tasted?

  Me: Um, yeah. It was beyond intense. Like one moment I wanted to scream, then the next moment I didn’t have any air in my lungs.

  Your breath was literally taken away :)

  Me: And that was all without actually kissing.

  Just imagine how amazing THAT will be.

  Me: Uhhh, BELIEVE me, it’s all I’ve been thinking about for the past 24 hours. Hold on, I gotta pee.

  K.

  I toss the phone to the table and head to the bathroom. When I get back, a new message appears on my screen.

  Cora: Sorry about that. Ok—tell me ALL about it. Don’t leave any details out.

  Me: I just did.

  Cora: No, you didn’t.

  I pause, completely confused.

  Me: Cora, I just told you how intense and amazing it was and how I don’t plan to scrub my neck for a week.

  Cora: First off—ewww, wash your neck. Second, I didn’t get any of that.

  I stare at the typed letters on my screen, wondering what Cora’s deal is and how she missed all of my—

  Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no.

  My fingers race across the screen hyperactively like I have no control over them.

  A new text pops into view.

  Ran: I’d hate for you to have to spend another 24 hours just thinking about it when you could actually be experiencing it.

  Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no!

  My stomach rolls the contents of my lunch like those cages they use to call out Bingo numbers. What did I just do? What just happened?

  Ran: Maggie? You there?

  I stare blankly at the phone between my fingers, but can’t focus on the words written across it because it rattles back and forth like it’s sitting on the dryer rather than in the palm of my hand.

  Ran: Maggie?

  Me: I gotta go.

  I dig my finger into the OFF switch and the phone goes black.

  ***

  I’m not sure where I’m running, I just run, the pavement meeting each foot with alternating pressure. The rhythm against the rubber tread echoes in my legs and I try to ignore my right one, pretending it’s just as capable as the left. I don’t favor it like Ran says I always do—I treat it just like the other, hoping if I pretend it’s just the same, that it will actually work the way it should. Like I can trick it into being completely healed.

  Sucking in my breath, I focus on the things in the world around me that make sense. The little girl swinging in the yard I’m running past that laughs as her daddy pushes her higher. The black lab that retrieves the ball his owner lobs down the block. The older couple on the sidewalk across from me holding hands and smiling at one another, reminiscing about some story as they speak with hushed volume. I focus on all of the normal, daily interactions that go the way they should. The interactions that produce emotions that you would expect to see and feel.

  I swing down the block, hugging the curve, and stay on the inside strip of pavement, close to the row of manicured front yards. I’m tired. That should be expected. That’s normal. My head rattles as I jog down the block. That always happens. That’s good. All of this feels familiar.

  I hear the low rumble edging up behind me and my heart beats rapidly to match the sound. It’s the last thing I anticipated feeling, the last sensation I expected to encounter on my run that was meant to distract and center me.

  The ground pulses and even when the motorcycle eases up to the curb, I keep my eyes fixed forward. I need to be in control, and this run was supposed to do that. To help me feel normal, not the jumbled mix of hormones and irrational sensations I’ve been since first laying eyes on Ran two months ago.

  “You come here often?” Ran pushes the visor to his helmet up and I catch the smirk I know his lips make just from the slight squint in his eyes.

  I stare straight ahead. I will not talk to him. I will not mortify myself even more (if that’s possible.) I will not talk. I will not talk.

  “Maggie, I liked those texts.” Ran’s bike crawls across the pavement just two feet from me, and he balances a foot on either side, walking his motorcycle underneath him. “You can send me dirty texts anytime you want.”

  “They weren’t dirty,” I spit, betraying my oath to stay silent.

  “I think the part about not washing your neck was completely dirty, am I right?”

  “Those weren’t meant for you.”

  Ran hangs his head low. “Dang it, Maggie? There’s another guy you’re sending dirty texts to? I have competition?”

  I quicken my pace. “You don’t have competition.”

  “Good,” he smiles. “Because he would lose, and that would be very sad for him.”

  I ignore him completely. “Those texts were for Cora.”

  “Cora?”

  I hadn’t wanted them to, but my eyes pull his direction. “Cora, my roommate. Remember her? The girl that rode on the back of your bike after our awful sushi interrogation?”

  Recognition flits across Ran’s face and his helmet bobs up and down in a nod. “Oh, you mean Claws.”

  “Claws?”

  “Yeah, I think she might have left a permanent scar from grabbing on so hard to keep from falling off.”

  I laugh, but turn it into a cough as I continue my jog, Ran still doing his annoying walk-balance thing beside me. “Cora wasn’t worried about falling off, Ran. She was manhandling you.”

  My right leg gives slightly, and I lean into it to keep from tumbling. I know Ran notices.

  “I can drive you the rest of the way.”

  Sinking teeth marks into my lips I reply, “No, I have to do this. I have to prove it’s strong enough.”

  The motor had still been running during our exchange, but I’ve slowed my pace so much that Ran’s now able to kill it and still drag his bike at the same rate I move forward. “Want company then?”

  “Not really,” I huff. Which is completely the opposite of what I want. I want more than his company walking beside me as I jog at a snail’s pace. Though I’ve been trying to distract myself, the only thing I’ve been able to fill my mind with are all the ways I want him. His mouth on mine, his smart comments, his help in showing me how to forgive. I want him. I want Ran. I want it all.

  “So I have this idea.” He ignores my attempt to shake him off. “Operation Forgiving Mom is now underway.”

  “That’s the cheesiest title I’ve ever heard. Almost as bad as your Hallmark card line the other day.” The prolonged talking while running is becoming difficult, mostly because it ad
ds to the checklist of other tasks I have to focus on: make sure my right leg doesn’t give out from under me, make sure I don’t hold too much eye contact with Ran and give him any indication that I literally can’t keep my eyes off of him, make sure my voice remains calm and controlled when it actually sounds like a blubbering, squeaky school girl’s. It’s like walking and chewing gum while rubbing my belly and patting my head. I’m failing at all of it.

  “Do you have a better suggestion?”

  “Yeah, how about Operation Try-Not-to-Completely-Hate-My-Mother-and-Work-on-the-Forgiveness-Thing-Later?”

  I can almost hear the wheels rotating under Ran’s sleek, black helmet. “Okay, Operation TNTCHMMAWOTFTL commences now.” He counts out each letter on a finger and he doesn’t hide the haughty smirk that goes along with it. “Operation TNT for short.”

  “Do I get to blow her up?” I mock excitedly, my pace nothing more than a brisk stride now. I’ve seen elderly women speed walk faster than this so-called run of mine.

  “Yeah, her phone,” Ran answers. “You’re sending her a text today.”

  My feet set underneath me. The momentum from the weight of Ran’s bike pulls him forward a foot or two ahead of me, and he cocks his head over his shoulder once he notices I’m no longer moving.

  “I have nothing to say to her.”

  Like usual, Ran ignores my excuses and swings his leg over the side of his motorcycle, bounces up and down on the kicker, and it rumbles noisily to life. “Find something,” he instructs, and with a gloved hand he slams the visor shut, gives me a head-to-toe scan that weakens my knees, and then speeds down the stretch of asphalt, leaving me speechless. Just like always.

  ***

  Ran: Did you follow through with your assignment?

  I blink the bleary haze from my eyes. It’s 3:30 a.m. Of course it is.

  Me: Yes.

  Ran: And that was?

  Me: I told her Mikey was not dead. Last time we talked I said I would let her know if he died.

  I hear the rattle of the garage door and the squeal of the hinges as it settles back into the frame. Dad’s recognizable footsteps tread down the hall toward his bedroom. He has got to be tired of working the graveyard shift, but I think it’s all he’s ever known. At some point, you must just adapt.

  The phone buzzes again and lights up my bedroom, stretching light into the dark corners and pockets of empty space.

  Ran: Ok. How did she respond?

  My eyelids hang heavy over my eyes, encasing them with tired bags that make it difficult to see the screen. I blink three or four times, and by the last one, they pull nearly all the way closed.

  Me: She said that was god.

  Ran: Sounds like she’s giving credit where credit is due, you know, to God and all. I’d say that’s a win.

  Me: Oops, typo. Supposed to say good, not god. I’m tired…

  Ran: Well, that demotes it a little, going from God status to Good, but we’ll take it.

  Me: I can’t keep my eyes open. Soooo sleepy…

  Ran: Still losing sleep thinking about that near-kiss?

  Me: No.

  Ran: You sure? Because I’m pretty certain you have to be thinking about it now that I mentioned it :)

  Me: I want to sleep. With you let me please?

  Ran: ???

  My eyes drag across the screen to re-read my previous text.

  Oh, crap.

  Me: That was supposed to say WILL not WITH

  Ran: Sure, Maggie ;)

  Me: WILL you let me.

  Ran: Yes.

  I slump my head onto the pillow and have to prop my phone up in front of my face to stay focused on it. Every ounce of me begs for the surrender to sleep right now.

  Me: Yes?

  Ran: Yes, I will let you sleep (with me;)

  Me: Shut it, Ran.

  Ran: Night, Maggie. Sweet dreams.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Something came in the mail for you today, Mags.” Dad flicks an envelope against the back of his hand, not looking up at me, as he peruses the remaining stack of junk mail and bills in the other. “From the insurance company.”

  “Nice, Mags! You can finally get a new set of wheels!” Mikey hollers over the back of the couch, his arm draped across Sadie’s shoulders. They’ve been planted in front of the television for hours watching some football game, and I’m impressed with Sadie’s ability to appear engaged and interested for as long as she has. I would have thought she’d tune out five touchdowns ago.

  Without hesitation, I take the envelope from Dad and shred it open, yanking out the piece of paper inside. A check. A $2,376 check. The numbers stare up at me like they’re big, red flashing lights, but I just gaze down at them blankly.

  “Hoping for more?” Dad infers from my perceptible pause.

  “No.” I shake my head and run my fingers over the total written on the parchment. “No. It’s just weird to see everything that happened with the accident summed up in one figure on a piece of paper.”

  At first Dad looks at me with empathy, then something crosses over his face that resembles anger. “Maggie Girl, I’m just so grateful this is all that’s left of it.” He takes the check from my hands and waves it like a paper flag in front of my face and I feel the breeze it creates, chilling my skin. “I’m grateful your injuries were minimal. I’m grateful we don’t have to spend hours at the courthouse pleading your case. I’m grateful for all the witnesses that were there and that it was open and shut—”

  “That’s because he died, Dad.” It’s the first time I’ve said it, the first time I’ve acknowledged it, really, but physically pushing the words out of me feels like vomiting. “The case was easy because the drunk who hit me died.”

  Dad’s mouth straightens. “He ran a red light, Maggie. He slammed into your car, you flipped, and then he careened into four other vehicles before wrapping himself around a pole. He didn’t stand a chance.”

  But he did have a chance. For a month he occupied a hospital bed and machines did his breathing for him. He very nearly survived. Then something happened—some kind of issue with his heart—and the man that brought Ran and I together ceased to exist. Just like that. He was gone. And now all that is left is this payment from my insurance company. Some sort of morbid consolation prize.

  “I don’t know.” I pull the check from his hands. “Something about this feels wrong. Like I’m benefiting from it somehow.”

  “That’s not what this is. This is getting what you’re due. Don’t look at it as blood money, Mags. You can’t look at it that way.” Dad tosses the rest of the mail into the trashcan under the sink and walks back around the breakfast bar toward me, placing his rough-skinned hands on my shoulders. “You don’t have to spend it if you don’t want to, but I really think your life would be easier if you had a reliable mode of transportation.”

  I nod because he’s right. It would be nice to have a car again. It might not necessarily make my life easier, but maybe more manageable. I just don’t know if I’ll physically be able to spend this check that dangles between my fingers.

  “I don’t want to go car shopping,” I offer weakly as an out. Mikey leaps from the couch, practically tosses Sadie to the ground, and rips the money out of my hands. “Let me do it! I’m a great haggler. I can get you a sweet deal on a new ride.”

  “Fair enough.” I take the check back, grab a pen from a cup of pens and pencils near the telephone, and flip the paper over to scribble my autograph on the back. “Just don’t get me some old convertible or anything totally impractical.”

  “Got it.” Mikey bounces on the balls of his feet like a giddy child, tugging at each corner of the check so it slacks and then tightens over and over in between his hands. “No motorcycles, either?”

  Dad’s eyes go wide. “Maggie would never ride a motorcycle, Mikey.”

  “Yeah, but her boyfriend does.”

  As if Dad’s eyes weren’t big enough already, they nearly pop from their sockets with that one. �
�Maggie? A boyfriend?”

  I fire the harshest glare I can engineer toward Mikey, hoping he literally feels the switchblades I intended to shoot from my eyes. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “No, you just want to lick him or something gross.” He turns toward Dad. “It’s that paramedic, Ran. The one that brought her to the hospital and the guy that took me last time. They’re hot and heavy or something.”

  Dad raises both hands up and backs away from us. “I don’t think I want to hear any more.”

  “Just go get me a car, will you Mikey?” I shove him in the chest, but he doesn’t flinch, though he’s still losing weight at a consistent rate from his chemo treatments. “And the sooner the better.”

  ***

  “I like, I like.” Cora nods approvingly, running her hands across the tailgate of the royal blue 1998 Ford Ranger pickup parked next to her car just outside our dorm. “Mikey did good.”

  “Yeah,” I say, tugging the handle on the driver’s side door. “I don’t know. I didn’t think I was much of a truck girl and it’s kinda old, but it works.”