Beauty and the Reaper (Reapers of Sorrow MC), page 26
“I’ve been speaking with Elder Eyring,” her father said suddenly. He sounded unusually chipper. “Do you remember Brother Frederick?”
Chloe snapped back to reality. “Frederick? You mean Freddy?” If memory served, Little Freddy Eyring had been the playground terror of her childhood years. He’d run around teasing the heavy kids, and had been especially cruel to Gwen when news of her father’s “scandalous” marriage had found its way to Provo.
“He’s just returned from a mission. Kenya.” Something in the way her father said this filled Chloe with dread. And sure enough: “He’s grown into a very pious young man. An English teacher at the high school.”
This information was hard to reconcile with her memory. Freddy had been about as un-scholarly when they were kids as he’d been mean.
“That’s nice, father,” Chloe said, hoping this would end the conversation. But alas.
“I’ve arranged for the two of you to spend some time together,” Elder Johannes concluded. “Maybe on another skating trip. Or you could go to that milkshake place you like so much.” There was the edge of a teasing quality in his voice. She knew that, in his way, this was her father trying. But something about being set up on a blind date made her throat start to close up. She thought of the whole-milk man. The perfect Mormon life of her daydreams. If she didn’t do or say something, this life would just happen to her. It would wash over her like a tide, leaving her too heavy to swim for shore.
Another kind of father might have said, “Just think about it,” but Chloe knew her Dad well enough to recognize his commands. Her heart felt like a cold, hard stone in her chest. “Fine,” she said, tonelessly. If she couldn’t have Ryder, perhaps it just made the most sense to drown.
Chapter Sixteen
Ryder hunched against the wind, drawing the fleece collar of his bomber jacket up to his chin. He fumbled with his match-book, snapping numb fingers to spark warmth. After three, four failed attempts, he successfully brought flame to the end of a freshly-rolled joint. He inhaled deeply, then coughed a plume of smoke out onto the city street.
The city street in question was St. Mark’s Place—the original haven for New York City punkers and artists. It had been a surprisingly tough adjustment, returning to the clamor of metropolitan life after so many quiet weeks spent in Provo. He’d thought of New York as a place where he’d always feel welcome, but much had changed over the years. After all, he hadn’t really walked these streets since he was eighteen.
He was startled out of reverie by a light tap on his shoulder. Ryder turned, and saw Mirabel—the moon-faced hippie goddess who had just taught his yoga class.
“Nice work up there,” she said, her high voice coming out coy. Ryder assessed. “Any chance I can take a hit of that?”
Smirking, Ryder passed her the joint. She took it in her narrow fingers, and inhaled deeply. Grinned. Mirabel was certainly pretty, even if she was the embodiment of everything he’d once made fun of as a Navy SEAL. She was the wealthy daughter of obscure New York millionaires, but in lieu of doing something useful with her privilege, she taught a gentle yoga class and made derivative sculptures out of Barbie dolls. He had to keep reminding himself that it was cruel to pigeon-hole other people. So maybe Mirabel didn’t read books, or care about her family, like a certain Mormon princess he tried not to think about anymore. She’d been kind to him, a stranger, and only completely encouraging of his “road to recovery.”
Exactly twelve weeks ago, after he’d walked himself to a Greyhound station and fought with a hostile cashier over the veracity of his VA card, Ryder had begun the painful trek back East. He’d had an epiphany somewhere in the desert. Before combat, he’d known exactly how to nurse a broken heart: booze, fights, weed, late nights full of sin. Taking his fury out on his undeserving Aunt Tilde, who’d born each one of his evil moods with a smile. But after Provo, after Chloe, after John—he knew he couldn’t step backward. He’d showed up at his bemused Aunt’s door, all apologies. He’d immediately gotten to work on the dozens of small upkeep tasks her ancient apartment in Bed-Stuy had required, in attempt to make up for his long, unforgivable silence. Though he’d sent word for his one living relative right after being discharged, he hadn’t really faced her since before going to Aleppo. It was too hard. Lucky for Ryder, she wasn’t the type to hold grudges.
“I understand you better than you think you know,” she’d told him, over a recent breakfast. “The whole Strong clan is made of runaways. We get hurt? Off we run. Your uncle, your father...it’s in our blood.”
“You know, I didn’t run away from Utah, auntie,” Ryder had snapped back. What he didn’t say was, I was banished.
Tilde had merely raised her eyebrows, in a disbelieving way. Ryder had resolved then and there: he wouldn’t run away, not ever again. Nothing was going to drive him from this new and final chance at life.
Also off his aunt’s encouragement, he’d started exercising again—but not toward re-building muscle mass. He just wanted to feel better. He ran in the mornings, lapping a local park, and went to Mirabel’s yoga class every other afternoon. The final cherry on this self-improvement sundae were his weekly meetings with Dr. Janet Nabby, a VA-recommended psychiatrist who specialized in counseling trauma survivors. To his shock, it had felt great to open up about the war—even to a civilian. Nabby didn’t judge even his darkest confessions, and didn’t pretend like things were going to be instantly alright now that he’d finally decided to face his problems head-on. “It will be a long road,” she was fond of saying. “But I’ll be with you every step of the way. If you let me.”
His days had been mostly spent in solitude—except for yoga class. Mirabel passed the joint back, a lazy grin spreading across her face.
“You want to go somewhere and talk, Soldier Boy?” she asked him. Her words were unadorned, un-sexual. Ryder considered.
The hardest part of his recuperation so far had been being around women. Turns out, there were lots of women in New York City—and blonde hair, an anxious frown, an old song sung in a soulful-but-amateur voice...all these things could remind him of her. He volleyed between feeling stupid about how he and Chloe had been discovered in Provo (and subsequently, feeling stupid that he’d ever allowed their relationship to become sexual) and feeling wistful that he hadn’t fought harder to save it. At the time, Chloe’s silence as he left her family’s house had felt like a woman picking sides. When she hadn’t run after him, it had seemed to him that she’d chosen her family over him. And why shouldn’t she? Hadn’t he done enough? Hadn’t he ruined their lives sufficiently?
“Anybody home?” Mirabel waved her pale fingers in front of his face, a gentle mocking. She didn’t remind him of Chloe exactly, which was nice. He appreciated her easygoing manner. If she was coming on to him, it seemed equally likely that she wouldn’t make a big deal out of things if he expressed disinterest. He was thinking way too much.
“Talking sounds great,” he said, finally, thinking of Nabby. “Coffee?”
“Only if I’m buying.”
She pinched out the joint in her fingers, and grabbed him around the wrist. Her grip was bony but firm. “I know a great spot,” she assured him.
He let himself follow, like a puppy.
Mirabel proved pretty good at coffee conversation. She laughed with her whole body as his meager jokes, throwing her head back so he could see all the teeth in her mouth. She also spoke at length about her own theories and opinions—ranging from her childhood in Manhattan to her plans for the future.
Like his therapist, Mirabel also didn’t make him feel freaky when he spoke about the war. She listened, calmly, then responded with her own zany interjections. Like:
“What about love stuff?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s just—I mean, you’re a handsome, single guy. Getting back on your feet. Any ladies on the horizon?”
Just what he’d been afraid of. His yoga instructor batted her pale lashes, and he couldn’t tell if she was joking or flirting or what. But he decided to be honest. That was his new policy.
“There was a girl,” he told her, taking a sip of his black brew. “In Provo.”
“Provo? Like Mormontown, USA, Provo?”
“The same.” He smiled. Mirabel didn’t seem put off, so he kept going. “She was really something.”
“In like a virginal, ice-queen, creepy way?” Mirabel threw her head back and laughed. “I’m sorry, but you fell in love with a Mormon girl?”
The old him would have joined in with the ribbing, but here in the coffee shop all Ryder could think of was something Johnny had once told him, in their bunk: “Mormons have actually been persecuted in America for as long as they’ve existed. You can call it weird, man, but we’ve struggled. And overcome. Just like everyone.”
This was what resonated, not the joke. He didn’t even allow Mirabel a smile. “Yeah, a Mormon girl. So what?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m insensitive like that sometimes. Tell me more about her.”
Her eyes were sincere. Ryder stirred his drink, for something to do with his hands. He thought of Chloe’s radiant eyes, and pale skin. Her firm, articulate ‘nos.’ Her greedy, loving ‘yeses.’
“She was just really weird and wonderful,” he said, after a lengthy pause. “I’ve never met anyone like that before.” Mirabel nodded. “She kind of saved me, a little.”
“So where is your lady?” His new friend leaned forward, so her knobby elbows hit the table. “If she’s so perfect, why’d you leave her out West?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Doesn’t sound complicated.” She stared at him meaningfully, forcing his gaze to meet her own. Ryder could think of nothing to say to this, so after a beat Mirabel re-directed the conversation.
“I just had my heart-broken, too,” she said, sounding almost proud. “My ex. Katy. Bitch almost destroyed me.”
“Katy?” Ryder sat up a little straighter. “Katy, like a lady, Katy?”
“Yes,” Mirabel said, cutting her eyes. But in another moment, clarity broke over her face. “Wait. You didn’t think I was hitting on you, did you?”
“Umm...”
This time, her laughter was so loud as to be disconcerting. Ryder watched her with mounting satisfaction—her toned frame, the bawdy sound of her voice. Was it possible that he, Ryder Strong, Navy SEAL, Corporal Badass, had just made a platonic woman friend? His seventeen-year-old self was rolling in his time machine.
Though Mirabel proceeded to dismantle Katy’s character at length, Ryder had a hard time listening to the rest of what she said. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but rather that her words from earlier had fallen like an ultimatum on the table, not to mention the revelation that it was possible to be kind to someone without coming on to them. Maybe it wasn’t complicated, after all. He thought of his favorite books. Elaborate stories all, in which the lovers never quite got things together, most often because society had it in for them. Mirabel apparently lived in a world where society’s rules didn’t mean diddly: one could love whomever, do whatever with their days, counsel whatever to new, sexy, marine friends. Could it be possible that he and Chloe belonged to this new world, where things like decorum and legacy had less pull on matters of the heart?
“You want another?”
“Huh?”
“Okay, space cadet. Just wanted to see if you needed a re-up.” She tapped her empty mug. Ryder nodded, bemused.
Chapter Seventeen
“...and that was my favoritest day in the country,” Freddy Eyring concluded, clearing his throat for punctuation. It took a surreal amount of energy to smile, as if this forty-five minute anecdote had been in the least entertaining. But Chloe mustered, twisting the ends of her lips.
“More water?” Freddy asked. But before she could respond, he was filling her glass. Which about explained Freddy, in a nutshell. Perfectly decent on paper, albeit not a great listener. At least he wasn’t still tormenting fat kids on the playground. That was something.
“So,” he said, after an awkward lull. “What do you like to do? In your free time?”
All of my time is free.
Pine for a boy.
Plot my escape.
“I did Geography and Languages in colleges, so...that, I guess. And I like reading.” Freddy nodded. Chloe hated how lame this sounded even as the words entered the restaurant’s air. Elder Eyring had clearly been hoping she’d say something fun and sporty and game. I like traveling. I like skiing. I like tennis. I like massaging my good Mormon husband’s shoulders before I cook him a fatty feast.
“What do you like to read?”
Nothing you’d have heard of, jockboy. But no—Chloe had made a decision in the car with her father the other day. If she was going to submit to this part of herself, the cowardly, home-loving part that feared change more than it craved newness—she was going to do it right. She’d said yes to the date with Freddy, and in a tacit way this meant she’d said yes to all her father implied. Besides. Ryder wasn’t coming back for her. What was so wrong with a second-place life?
She took Freddy in, as if for the first time. His fork was poised over a small pillow of mashed potatoes. He’d gotten handsome since grade school. He had sandy hair and avid green eyes. He was on the thin side, but tall. His jaw was firm and set, but the skin of his face was pocked with some acne scars he’d acquired in high-school. His teeth were blindingly white, and when he smiled she was reminded of a Ken doll. And when he’d picked her up in his reasonable Prius, her father had grinned like a kid on Christmas.
“Novels, mostly,” she said, trying her best to sound sincere. “Classics. I like Woolf, and Flaubert. Dickens. The Russians are okay—I think Kafka’s my favorite? If I had to choose over like, Dostoevsky and those guys. I like Yates, for the twentieth century. And God, of course the Brontes. George Eliot. Jane Austen. Some Italians...”
Freddy’s fork continued to quiver over the potatoes. His smile remained fixed.
“Oh my God, that was so dorky. I’m sorry.” Chloe felt her face turn its trademark tomato.
“No, no! I think that’s so neat,” her date continued. “I haven’t read a fiction book since high-school. But I think it’s groovy that you like that. Makes you different from most of the dummies in this town.”
There it was: the fine edge of cruelty. A little vestige from his days on the playground, perhaps. She could tell that Freddy wanted her to lean in conspiratorially and make some mean remark about the dummies in Provo, but she couldn’t muster the energy. Besides, who were they to make fun of their families? Their homes? It wasn’t like either of them had gone very far from their parents. To the rest of the world, they looked exactly like the next Mormon couple on a parent-arranged first date.
“I’m sorry,” Freddy blurted. “That wasn’t nice. I love this town, obviously. I’m just a little nervous.”
“Nervous? Why?”
He finally set his fork down, and placed his beefy hands on the table as if to steady himself.
“You, silly!”
“Me? Why do I make you nervous?”
Ken-doll rolled his eyes and smoothed back his hair. He was relaxing into the evening, and Chloe was surprised to realize she was doing the same.
“You’re like the smartest girl I know,” he began. “You only ever talk to your sisters or your brother or that girl Gwen. Even when we were kids, there was something sort of stand-offish and too-cool about you. You knew who you were and what you wanted in a way the rest of us didn’t. It was...freaky.” Freddy’s eyebrows turned into one another, making him look for an instant like a caricature of a sad clown. For a weird flash of a second, Chloe wondered what it would be like to be naked with this man. His slightly concave chest. His freckly arms. She shook the thought away.
“You have no idea how wrong that is,” she said instead, sounding more sad than she meant to. “I don’t have anything figured out. I mean—I didn’t. Not back then.”
“Well, you sure fooled this town.” This time, when Freddy sought her gaze, Chloe didn’t turn away. She kept her hand on the table, inches from his own. She tried with all of her might not to think about Ryder, and what he might be doing at this very moment. Who he might be out to dinner with.
“That’s sweet,” she said, sincerely. She smiled.
When Freddy dropped her off (at a reasonable hour, like the perfect gentleman), Chloe watched Celeste and Marie dart away from the front window, where they’d clearly been spying. She tried not to let this bother her. Her sisters were younger and in some ways flightier than she had been at their age (she’d once compared them to Kitty and Lydia in Pride and Prejudice), but even so—their readiness to see Chloe fixed up with a milquetoast Mormon of their father’s choosing was a little disappointing. They’d never exactly had a girl’s pow-wow about Ryder’s leaving—in fact, no one in the family had so much as uttered his name since that horrible morning—but Chloe thought she could tell that the twins had opinions on the matter. Perhaps because they were still in school, where modern girls were supposed to be learning how to think for themselves, a part of her had hoped that they’d offer their encouragement to the dangerous marine who’d set their young hearts atwitter. But Chloe also knew she couldn’t exactly fault them for forgetting about Ryder. It was possible, she admitted, that they only wanted to see their big sister happy.
“Those two must keep your mother on her toes,” Freddy said, gesturing toward the window. He Ken-doll smiled again.
“Oh, Celeste and Marie? Yeah, they’re a hoot. Very...energetic.”
“They’re gonna make some BYU boys very happy,” her date continued. This led to a confused silence. “Not that I...that’s....oh, man. Another foot in your mouth, Elder Eyring.”
