Christmas With the Convict (Bringing Home Trouble)

Chapter 7

WENDY

My father refuses to tell me where he’s hidden my car keys.

I can still hear him up there, cursing and howling. He stomps around like a madman, sometimes sending dust swirling down in the basement.

I cried myself to sleep and it was dark when I woke up.

Chase’s vest keeps me warm.

I can just make out his earthy scent blended with the leather.

His journal is on the end table. I still haven’t worked up the courage to read it. If I do, my tears will stain the pages.

Someone opens the door.

Their soft, tentative footsteps come down the stairs.

I don’t care who it is. My father acted insane and they all stood by. They did nothing because they’re more afraid of him than any criminal boogie-man he’s created.

“Honey?”

I gasp and look up from the pillow. “Mom?”

She’s standing there—no drink in her hand—bundled up but still shivering.

“It’s freezing down here,” she says.

I lie back down and hug the vest close. “It’s not so bad.”

She comes around and fingers the books on my shelf, smiling and laughing softly. “You were always so obsessed once you started one of these. We couldn’t pull you away until you’d finished.”

“Like you and the bottle lately. Huh, mom?”

Through the years, I’ve forgotten what her scorn could look like. She snaps her gaze to me, ice in her words. “We all have our escapes. ”

“Chase isn’t an escape.” I’m on my feet, vest still bunched up in my hand. “You don’t fucking get it.”

“No, I don’t.”

Her features submit to some hidden sadness in her heart. For a moment, I think she’s going to cry. But she sighs and shakes her head, laughing like she’s foolish for feeling anything at all.

“Your father never looked at me the way that boy looks at you,” she says. “These days, he barely looks at me at all.”

“Mom…”

“No.” She holds up a hand. “I don’t deserve your pity, nor do I need it. I locked myself in my own prison, Wendy. Your father… he provides.” She gestures to everything lurking above us. “But that’s all.”

My mother has never spoken to me like this. It’s like she’s punctured her heart and is letting it spill all over the floor for me to see.

“That boy, Chase ,” she says dreamily with a smile. “He hasn’t got two dollars to rub together. He’s as wayward as they come… But he loves you. And you…”

I nod, tears streaming down my face.

My mother smiles. “I thought so.”

She gives my shoulder a squeeze before reaching into her pocket. My keys jingle softly as she plops them into my hand.

I don’t even know what to say, and she doesn’t give me the chance. She scurries off up the stairs, heading to the kitchen to pour herself a drink. To escape.

Chase’s journal radiates like fire.

By the light of my plastic candles, I start to read.

It’s Christmas and the roads are empty.

Occasionally, a pair of headlights will fly by like stars in the night.

Chase’s words, the messy scratches in his journal, run continuously through my mind.

I’ve never written before. I don’t know how. I don’t know if I should write to myself or this stupid notebook. But since you’re the reason I’m writing, I think I’ll write to you. Wendy Bettencourt. The only real light I’ve seen in years. I get time in the yard. Sure. But I forgot what warmth was until I saw you that day in the hall…

He wrote it all for me.

There are no more tears for me to cry. No more rage to spew.

It was midnight when I finally crept out of the house. I packed a single bag with clothes, money, a few books, and Chase’s journal inside. I started my car and drove knowing that I’d never come back.

I won’t end up like my mother, surrendered to a comfortable life without love.

I won’t bend to my father’s will, the man who must have everything his way.

I’ll miss my cousin, my sister, Uncle Rick… But I’m not ready to forgive them for the part they played. For the actions they refused to take. My poor nephews… I hope Lillian learns what I know now. My father has no business being around those children.

I was a wild kid. School was boring, and no one really cared if I went anyway. My dad drank. He hit me sometimes. But he taught me how to fix an engine. He taught me how to work with what I had, how to keep old, broken things running long after they should have died. I wonder what your childhood was like. When I look at you, I picture you growing up in a castle somewhere. I don’t remember my mom…

The hours drag.

It feels like I might drive forever down these dark highways.

I would if it meant that someday, even a million years from now, I could see him again.

At night, I think of you. Only you. You with your bright smile. You with your skirts and pretty heels. Your laugh. At night, I can’t help the thoughts I have of you. Wendy, I chant your name in my head. I cry because I’ll never have you. I stroke myself to the thought of everything I’d do to you if I did…

My father is a fool.

He thought Chase’s crime would scare me away. It reinforced my love for him. This man, my man, found a way to be gentle and tender. He dug himself out of the pits of pain and blunted his razor edges enough to hold me close without hurting me. To make love to me so perfectly that it feels impossible that those hands have ever taken a life.

He pulled a knife after I hit him. He slashed down my jaw. Cut me wide open. Almost cut my throat. I tasted my own blood. I saw red everywhere. I screamed without sound. I took the knife. I stabbed him. I kept stabbing him. It’s so fuzzy it feels like a dream. It haunts me, that look on his face. The death in his eyes. My blood pouring into his open chest. It scares the hell out of me. When it does, I think of you…

The sun is rising when I exit Highway 50.

I pass the yellow sign— Do not pick up hitchhikers —and pull into a nearly empty parking lot. A squat building sits in the twilight of dawn, warm lights calling to me. In one of the windows, Chase Oliver sits in a booth.

His journal is sitting in my passenger seat, open to his last entry.

This isn’t going to end well, Wendy. After today, I know your father is hunting for a reason to get rid of me. He’ll find it. I don’t want your family to be torn apart. I don’t want you to lose them. But, I’m selfish. I refuse to lose you without a fight. When it happens, when your father wins, I’ll tell you to read this journal. I’ll let you see me, all of me, no matter how ashamed I am. And if you’re reading this, if you’ve reached this page and still want to be with me, I’ll be waiting for you. There’s a diner right off Highway 50. By the prison. I’ll get myself there. I’ll wait for you.

I love you, Wendy.

He’s sitting there with a cup of coffee, fingers wrapped around the mug.

For a while, I just watch him. It’s like before, but different. He’s not caged anymore. He’s free to go wherever he wishes and do as he pleases. It’s Christmas, and he’s waiting for me in a lonely diner drinking shit coffee at sunrise.

I don’t make him wait a moment longer.

I lay on the horn and Chase comes running out of the diner.

He rips me out of the car and into his arms, twirling me around the damp, gray parking lot. In his arms, it feels like the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. The faded, blinking lights of the diner’s sign are warmer than any fire, more beautiful than any Christmas tree I’ve ever seen.

“How did you get here?” I ask.

“Truck drivers.” He shrugs.

Before Chase can kiss me, I slap him across the face.

“Asshole!” I cry, and then I take the kiss with much more force. “Why didn’t you just tell me you would be here?”

Chase smiles and sets me down on the hood of my car. “You had to know everything first. Everything in that journal. You had to really know me before you made your decision.”

“And what if I hadn’t read it?”

“Are you kidding?” he laughs. “You’ve been eying that thing since the day you picked me up.” To my surprise, he actually blushes. “I hope my handwriting wasn’t too messy. I took the last part very slowly. I had to be sure you could read it. And I know I’m not a great speller. I just—“

“It was beautiful,” I say, holding his rough face in my hands, running my fingers over the scar, and feeling his story in the healed tissue. “Chase, your writing is beautiful.”

“Only because I wrote it for you.”

“It’s not just that. It’s real. I could feel you on the pages. Your life… How could I not love you after reading all of that? I think you could really turn that journal into something amazing. Once we fix all the spelling and grammatical errors and—”

“Don’t change the subject.” Chase puts his hands playfully over my lips. “Did you just say you love me?”

With my legs around his waist and my arms over his shoulders, I press my nose against his and lose myself in those perfect hazel eyes. “Baby, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

We say I love you with our lips, our tongues, our hands.

My skirt rides up my legs—I wore it just for him.

And just when I think we’re about to jump into the backseat and steam up the windows, someone calls out from the diner.

“Hey! Are you going to pay for that coffee?”

An old waitress is standing at the door, rubbing her arms against the cold.

Chase growls before turning and throwing a hand up. “Sorry! We’re coming back in.” He turns to me and shrugs. “Breakfast?”

“ Starving. ”

“I gotta warn you.” He sets me on the ground and takes my hand. “If the food is anything like the coffee, it’ll be shit. But, a diner half a mile from the penitentiary is the last place your dad would look for us.”

“We’ll make the best of it,” I say. “My treat.”

“Actually, I got this one.” Chase flashes a wad of cash. “Uncle Rick didn’t let me leave empty-handed.”

I guess my mother wasn’t the only one feeling guilty…

We take a seat in the empty diner, give our orders to the grumpy waitress working Christmas morning, and laugh over how awful the coffee is. Still, we leave her a nice tip.

Back in the car, out on the open road, we leave the prison, Aspen, and everything else behind us. We’re heading to my apartment in Denver to grab a few things. After that, it’s a blank page.

It’s Christmas break, and we’ve got nowhere to be but in each other’s arms.