Page 54 of Desperate Haste

“Marshall seems like a good guy,” Ophelia says with her head on my exposed chest.

When we were safely inside her front door, I couldn’t stop myself from having her any longer and by the way she let me do as I wanted to her, I knew she felt the same. I’d stuck to our agreement of keeping things exclusive, and after being apart for so many weeks, I was desperate to have her again. We crashed into one another, biting and pulling and kissing anything we could reach. We were both stripped out of our clothes by the time we hit her bedroom and it wasn’t long after that that we both fell over the edge together. Her, twice, because I’m a gentleman. Now we’re lying next to each other in the high that happens after experiencing that much ecstasy.

“He’s a great guy. He’s helped me in more ways than I can count or begin to thank him for. I don’t know what I would have done without him. And the guys, of course, them too.”

“He said something to me that I found interesting…”

I tuck my chin into my chest to look down at her. My hand is running through her hair and she keeps her cheek firmly planted into my pec. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“He said you have an aversion to sick people, hospitals too. When I told him you took care of me when I had food poisoning, he seemed surprised.” She pushes herself up on her elbow and looks at me. “For a big strong guy like you who has thousands of dollars permanently inked into his skin, I find that interesting.” Her words come out as more of a question. We hold one another’s gaze and I decide to tell her the truth—I had promised to always be honest with her.

“People getting sick and hospitals are painful reminders of who I used to be. I used to be high so much to the point where, when I wasn’t, I would get physically sick from withdrawal. There were more than a few times where I thought something was seriously wrong so I checked myself into the hospital. But as soon as they gave me any kind of hard painkiller or sedative, I’d feel better. My body finally got its fix and no longer felt the need to convince me that I was dying.”

Her eyes fall to the hand that is holding her up and a sense of sadness fills the room. Like she pities me, but also feels bad for me at the same time.

“What made you use in the first place?” she asks before taking her lip in between her teeth. “You know what, that’s way too personal, you don’t have to answer that.”

I reach a hand towards her and frame her supple cheek. “It’s not too personal, I want you to know. I want to be honest with you about that part of my past. It’s made me who I am and I think it’s important you know about it.” A look of guilt forms on her face and her eyes flit around the room. I wait for her to bring her eyes back to me to make sure she’s okay with me sharing this part of my story with her. When she does, I continue.

“It started my junior year of college. I was going to school to become an architect, something my parents were more excited about than I was,” I try to joke. “Anyway, I had dicked around one week and had a big paper due the next day which would count for the better part of my final grade. My roommate had a legitimate prescription for Adderall and offered to give me a few to help me get my paper done. I didn’t see the harm in just a few, just one time. Well, three years later and multiple close calls, I knew I needed help. I’ll never forgive myself for putting my friends through what I did. Kolbi and Conrad found me one day, passed out on the floor of my apartment too high to know what day of the week it was. They took me to the hospital, had my stomach pumped, and I checked into a rehab program shortly after. Once I was done with my program, part of my release terms were to go to N.A. meetings, Narcotics Anonymous, and that’s where I met Marshall. The rest is history.”

A wash of relief comes over me as I bear the ugliest parts of myself to her. As I speak, her eyes never leave mine. She listens, holds my hand as I share, and doesn’t seem as ashamed of me as I feel whenever I tell someone my story or think about it for too long.

“Malcolm,” she starts, sitting up and crossing her legs underneath her. A worried look takes over her face and mixes with what I can only guess is fear. I feel my stomach do a flip and worry she’s about to tell me to get the hell out because she doesn’t want to be with a junkie in recovery. “I have to tell you something.”

I almost make a joke but decide against it when I hear how her voice catches in her throat. I squeeze her hand in mine and lean over to place a kiss on her cheek. “You can tell me anything, I hope you know that’s always true.”

She takes a breath before speaking. “My name isn’t Ophelia Sommers, it’s Ophelia Mathews. And I didn’t just ‘come to Charleston’ like I told you before. I ran away to Charleston, that’s why I changed my name, because I—I was afraid—” She chokes back tears as she tries to get the words out. Her shoulders hunch and she drops her eyes to the top of the bed, as if the weight of her confession is too much to bear. When a single tear falls down her cheek, I use my thumb to wipe it away.

“Breathe, you’re okay, just breathe. You’re safe with me.” I pull her into my chest and wrap my arms around her as if to shield her from whatever demons from her past are still tormenting her. I feel her body start to shake as more tears come and hold her close as she sobs. I’m not sure what she is afraid of, but I make a vow to myself to protect her from it at all costs.

I caress her hair, giving her the time and space she needs. After a few minutes, her sobs slow and she gently pulls away from me. “I came here, to Charleston, to start over. My parents, I told you before, are very devout people, and I used to be too. But their faith blinded them from seeing what was happening to me. What he was doing to me.” When she bites her top lip at the mention of a ‘he,’ I feel an onslaught of rage build inside of me. I don’t know who ‘he’ is or what he did, but I know it had to be bad to cause the strongest, most confident woman I’ve ever met to act like she is now.

“I was engaged…almost married. His name is Jarrett and he…he hurt me. He had a drinking problem and when he drank he got mean. He got violent.” Her eyes squeeze shut again as two twin tears drip down her cheeks. She brings her gaze to the ceiling and swallows hard. “I tried to get help, to tell my parents what he was doing to me but they didn’t listen. They couldn’t hear what I was saying to them.”

“Why the hell not?” I snap more harshly than I intend. Hearing that someone had laid anything but a finger on her makes my insides explode with rage.

“They’re good people, just traditional. They’ve lived in the Bible Belt their entire lives and are from a rural town in the middle of nowhere Georgia. My fiancé—ex-fiancé—was the local pastor’s son. They were ecstatic that we were engaged, that we got together in the first place. We were high school sweethearts, a match literally made in Heaven in their eyes. But Heaven turned to Hell when Jarrett found alcohol.” Her chin drops and I can feel her shame. I reach for her and bring my hand to her neck, caressing her face with my fingers.

“Nothing of what happened to you is your fault, you know that, right?” I stare at her fiercely and wait for her to reply. If she doesn’t believe it now, she will one day. No matter what I have to do to convince her.

“I know.” She takes a breath. “It’s part of the reason I don’t want to get married or generally don’tdorelationships. Relationships hurt and marriage…well marriage is a painful reminder of my past that I don’t want to carry with me any longer.”

We sit and look at each other for a few beats before she starts to laugh softly, almost in disbelief.

“I left him the night before our wedding.” Her mouth is pursed together as if she’s tasted something sour and is gently bobbing her head up and down. “He came home drunk from his bachelor party with the boys.” An eye roll. “He got mad and threw me down the stairs and that’s when I knew I had to leave before one day he hit me so hard I never got up again. So once he passed out, I took the kitchen scissors to my dress and got the hell outta dodge. Cleaned out my bank account on the way out of town and never looked back.”

When her chestnut brown eyes meet mine, I see it. The inner fire she has that attracted me to her in the first place. The wild fire that she carries with her after she shed herself of her past and became someone new. Like a phoenix, rising from the ashes, Ophelia stepped out of a story she didn’t want to live in and started to write her own. On her own terms, in her own way, never letting anything or anyone hold her back from what she wants.

And I fucking love her for it.

28

MALCOLM

I just got to Kolb’s place. If we don’t go too late, can I come over?

Isend the message off as I skip up the front porch steps, ready to spend the night with my friends and catch up after two weeks off. We took the first week off of the year because New Year’s landed on our normal game day, then Conrad had some sort of client thing for work last week. We hounded him relentlessly for being the one to cancel D and D night seeing as how he’s always on us—well, me—about being here on time and with a smile on our face.

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